#stupid little bits of fic

[oneangstymotherfucker]

Sebastian Taking Ciel's Soul...

Sebastian caught the tips of his glove between his teeth, slipping it off before setting Ciel gently down to slip off the other.

Ciel took a deep sigh. It was okay. Sebastian's slowness put him a little at ease. Ciel wasn't nervous-

But maybe he was.

The demon looked deep into his eyes, hands delicately cupping his face.

"Bocchan," he said softly.

Ciel blinked at him, both naked eyes looking into his butlers, the person he had depended on, the person who had given him everything, the person he was ready to die for-

squish.

Sebastian's hands gently squished Ciel's cheeks. Patted them. Squished them again. Wiggled his ears. Squished his cheeks again.

This went on for some minutes.

"...Sebastian."

"Ah,"

"Don't play with your food."

Sebastian smiled a slow evil little smile.

"Bocchan," he repeated, more serious than the last, "are you ready?"

"Yes." Ciel said, with much more confidence than he felt.

"Well then," Sebastian said, leaning a little closer. Ciel took a deep breath.

Squish.

"Sebastian!"

"Apologies, young master," Sebastian said, hands visibly restraining themselves from going again, "you are nearly too pretty to eat."

He was going to miss Ciel's cheeks more than anything else, Ciel mused with annoyance.

Then a cool finger slid under Ciel's chin.

"I would like to kiss you. Is that all right?"

Ciel was taken aback by the question. He knew his turn was over and he was Sebastian's to toy with now, but this didn't make any sense!

"Wha-what? Why?" He stammered, hoping his hot cheeks weren't too obvious.

"Is it not what humans do, when they feel this way?" Sebastian asked, that terreible look of innocent sincerity on his perfect face.

"What way Sebastian?" Ciel demanded, palms sweating against the hems of his trousers he'd been gripping.

"Ciel," he whispered, his name sounding like sugary poison on his breath.

Ciel's heart was pounding. His face was hotter than hell and his hands grabbed Sebastian's wrists.

He could kill this bloody demon!!!!

"How long?!?!" He blurted.

"Since what?" Sebastian blinked.

"How long have you- have you-"

"Loved you?" Sebastian asked, the finger under his chin joined by a thumb barely brushing Ciel's lip. It was good Sebastian had finished the sentance, because there was no more air in Ciel's lungs with which to speak.

"Several months now," he said simply.

"Fuck you," Ciel said, tears falling from his eyes despite him trying his hardest not to let them.

Months?!?! Months. Months of Sebastian's silence in the face of Ciel's agony, only now to be broken when he had maybe minutes left???

"Bocchan," he whispered, even closer and gentler despite Ciel's rage.

"Fuck you," Ciel repeated, more broken than before, leaning in to close the distance, suprising his demon butler as their lips finally met.

It was hot, it was too much, it was so much more than Ciel had imagined it (and oh, he had imagined it so many times!)- maybe this was how Sebastian was to eat his soul, for surely it had left his body! Left him hot and hollow and full of feeling, a beating heart and a boiling pool of blood!

Sebastians hands ran soothingly down Ciel's body even as he cried and kissed him more hungrily than the demon himself.

"Bocchan," he whispered, so lovingly, so gently, every time Ciel was forced to break for air.

"Fuck you," Ciel groaned back each time, tears rolling freely down his face. Suddenly he pulled away, done with the pain of Sebastian's teasing.

"Do it then," he all but begged, his pounding heart broken in his chest.

"Do what?" Sebastian blinked.

"Take it. My soul. If we can't- if it must be, let it be over. Please. I can't anymore."

Sebastian's face flickered evilly but rested into a gentle smile, his thumb tracing Ciel's jaw.

"Oh bocchan," he said, softer than gossamer- "your soul has been mine for a very long time. Hasn't it?"

Ciel fell forward onto Sebastian's chest, finally letting it all out, overwhelmed with all his feelings.

How dare he!! How dare he do this to him, put him through so much, make him hurt so exquisetely!! How dare he defeat him!! How dare he make it feel so good to be defeated!!!

Sebastian ran his hands over his back, letting him take his time before Ciel nodded-

"yes," he practically whined, "so long-", leaning up to kiss Sebastian's neck, his jaw, anything he could reach-

"Very well then, Bocchan. Shall we return to the manor?"

Ciel pulled away from the little trail of marks he was leaving on Sebastian's skin.

"The contract-" he said, coming to his senses a bit, finally.

"I am rather fond of the markings," said the demon, a thumb gently running under Ciel's eye.

"But my so-"

"Do you wish to be mine?"

Ciel blinked.

"Yes."

"Say it."

Sebastian's eyes were red, his pupils slits like when they first met.

"I am yours." Ciel said, without hesitation.

"Mine," Sebastian said, that horrible, beautiful, evil, comforting little grin coming to his lips. He leaned forward and laid a tiny little kiss on Ciel's forehead.

"It is complete. Would you like to keep the markings?"

Ciel finally understood, finally trusted it.

"Yes," he said, thumb running over Sebastian's hand.

"So back to the manor it is then?"

"We are late for tea," Ciel mused. Perhaps he could still win this game.

Sebastian grinned.

"Then we must hurry. A Phantomhive butler who is late for tea is not worth his salt."

"No he is not," Ciel agreed, already thinking up several different strategies as to how to make him even more late.

[triglycercule]

alright,,,,,is this newyears gift,,,,,, i dont no. but maybe it's late enough that i'll be able to forget that i drew this 😁😁😁😁 mttpoly doodles. whoever sees this sees this

[solargeist]

I’m okay with mpreg… don’t like to read it but I like to read and view stuff after the kid is born cuz I think it’s cuter.. like where’s the baby??

thats fair, i also just want to read abt them being dumb parents together wahhhhh

[eddiemunsonbignaturals]

just a pinch

summer ends way too fast; you and Eddie surprise each other.

includes smut, as in 18+ 6k words somehow lmao? most of it fluff  best friends to lovers, and it gets a little gross in an arguably unsexy but very intimate way. you're not supposed to put anyone's mouth on your new piercing until at least two weeks out don't be dumb listen to your piercer

content: boob fondling, dry humping, jean nutting, some mild threats of violence, mentions of piercings but not piercing play to my understanding

reader is described as fat, dark skinned, and referred to gender neutrally, mostly (tough guy, man, angel, sweetheart).

comments (yes, even short ones,) reblogs all v much appreciated, take care :*

So, the heatwave had been a fake-out. 

You had both expected more swim-days. Just a few more sweaty, sticky nights— sat too close and tangled together sharing a bowl of Moose Tracks by moonlight, in as little fabric as you could manage and with as much ice as one freezer bucket could hold.

But alas, the fall sneaks in one cloudy morning and makes you regret ever even thinking the word “winter.” 

You’re shivering as you shock awake and roll clumsily to the nightstand. Reaching blind for the blaring landline, your hand cringes away from too-cold plastic, and you groan long and low in mourning— it's definitely over.  While you were asleep, Summer had packed up her bag and ducked off in the dark before you could send her off properly. Goodbye, dog days.

Hello, caller. You know it’s Eddie before you pick up; he knows it's you before you speak.

“Can you believe this? Shit fuckin’ sucks,” he croaks, right off the bat and into the receiver.

“And blows—“ you sigh back, punching one satin-covered pillow and your headscarf off the bed. “We couldn’t even get, a like, temperate couple of days? It had to go straight to freeze-my-dick-off immediately?”

“ha! Please. The end is nigh, sweetheart. You know it better than I,” he almost sings. His sleepy lilt catches on the pet name, and that gravelly morning timbre gees up your morning wood like nothing else can. You kiss your teeth, honestly annoyed at how he affects you this early, and when Ed’s answering chuckle rumbles through your ears and down your jaw, it's like you can feel his breath through the phone. 

God, he sounds good. You hum into a long sigh as he talks. It warms you, everywhere, hearing his voice first thing, and if your non-phone hand drags down your chest and reaches lower to rearrange the pillow between your legs, he doesn’t need to know.

You hear Eddie fidget, as he does, and he switches the phone to his other ear. Then, there’s the rattle of the earrings against plastic– a few chunky hoops he got at your suggestion, and one with your first initial that he definitely plucked off of your desk, though he had lazily denied it. You feel a smile fight its way to your face, suddenly giddy about him, about his call. 

A snapshot of him talking himself awake is as clear in your head as the grey in the sky: a grumpy Munson, emerging from the mess of gifted homemade blankets and ancient, flat pillows. Just a pair of doe eyes, framed by a cluster of chocolate curls and a scowl. Picture-perfect.

You’ve been nursing this damn crush forever, and with the effort of punching it off the bed and out of sight with that headscarf, you’re long past exhaustion. But, in the safety of your chilly room, and with the comfort of his voice in your ear, maybe you’ve enough strength for now to entertain a butterfly, or ten.

You had worn his ring to bed— a little bat hugging your ring finger the way it had been hugging his before you’d snatched it off as payment for a dare gone unfulfilled–and you’re twirling it now, like some lovesick sap. You’re written all over each other, and you’ve been itching to do something about it. But, that’s not the issue right now.

Right now,

“I know, life is over, the globe is warming, there are only a few summers left, et cetera. We’ll still have fun.”

(the dare? you had challenged him to snatch some Hawkins PD pig or another’s goofy little ranger hat as he had passed the two of you on the street. Eddie had suggested maybe he couldn’t float past an arrest on boyish charm this deep into his twenties, and acquiesced without a word when you had held out your hand for his own. 

You’d pretended not to notice the blush creeping up his neck; he had let you hold his hand a bit longer than necessary. It had been an even trade, as always.)

Across the line, Eddie’s still snickering at you, voice fathoms deep– all crackly– when he speaks again. 

“Hold on to your dick, angel, I'm pretty sure there’s options. Like, uh, maybe clothes? Clothes usually work for me.”

“Don’t get cute! I'm fat, you clown, I sweat-- I don’t need clothes. And, I belong in the water, Munson. Its beyond fun, its—“

He cuts you off completely, ignores your scoff, and finishes for you.

“—fulfilling, healing, its what and where you were in every past life, the brain sludge is already building back up as we speak, and ‘I’ll die, I'll just about fuckin’ die, Munson,’ once it drops below 40, I know, stop bitching,” he laughs. His tone? Pure fond; your stomach somersaults. 

You hear the smile widen when he goes on to remind you, “but I guess it's fall now. IE, your favourite.”

“Say ‘bitch’ to me again, I’ll shave your peanut head.”

He takes it back, giggling something about his favourite tough guy, but you know he’s got you there. You definitely are bitching, and—

Halloween month, cider season, big soft sweater weather, rain? It is the best, but it's never too early to argue. 

“You’ll love it, angel.”

You give up, melting again at his affection verbalized. You’re humming assent as he keeps the ball rolling, asking what you’d like to do today instead of going for a swim. Come over and take turns reading the new discount novel he found? Start that mead recipe you made last year? Drive over to Stobin’s—see who can sneak in and scare the shit out of them first? 

All great ideas, you assure him, but you decided long ago that the End of Swim also marked the beginning of piercing season. Your safety moratorium on body mods of all kinds has been lifted, now that you can’t dip your fresh wounds into scummy lake water. 

You've been planning a particular pair for some time. You also decided that it would be a surprise. Your Eddie is observant, dialed in, and sure, maybe you like to play the odd game here and there. He notices you, and you notice right back.  How long, do you think, will it take for him to note a new set of nipple piercings if you don’t warn him first? You figure it’s time to test it.

So, you break his heart a little, and decline to hang out today after all. You’ll see him on your next day off, you promise, and make plans for “four days hence, Munson, quit bitching. I just remembered something else I need to do,” before hanging up on his protests and pulling on your first pair of sweats in 4 months. 

ID, water bottle, and a sweet breakfast in tow, you head for the best (note: only) tat shop you know, braced and ready for a world of pain, going boldly into the cold.

—---------

And there had been almost no pain, at first. You had yelped girlishly before the first needle went in, then felt embarrassed about how easy and quick it had been. Before you had even realized, it was over, and you grinned big at the unique beads framing each pert, dark nipple. You loved them. You loved the piercings, and more than ever, loved your tits. Couldn’t wait to go home and check them out from every angle, actually. 

Then, a malicious towel snag, a careless door-jamb bump, and a hateful sweater-thread later, you were fearing for your life. Over the last few days, you had taken to crouching around them a bit, arms wrapped loose around your stomach as a reminder and for protection. Your nipples were insanely sensitive, now more than ever, and you had never understood ‘til now how often you simply walked through and into things instead of just around.  

But, they were calming down, and with each prescribed saltwater soak you breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of visible irritation. The standard piercing boogers notwithstanding, they looked hot, you felt hot, but found yourself nervous for the big reveal. You thought you would hide them well, your mission made easier by the cool weather and baggier shirts it allowed. 

You’re in his room now. Eddie’s ideas had been good, but you had both decided on the usual– you, rocking up to his trailer and spending the day with him throwing food and trading theories, hours whiled away in artistic pursuits and cat-naps, never too far from one another. It’s been a good day– you’re doing such a good job with the piercings, you forget to hide how entranced you are by Eddie's hands. 

“Aren’t you hot?” 

You count the veins and tendons as they flip pencils and drum against whatever surface they encounter, try to guess how long he can go before he bites that right pinky nail too short again, wonder if he’s running hot today. He’s tactile, your Eddie, but you’re sitting on the floor, legs sprawled, and yeah, a little too warm in the hoodie you came in as he lounges on the bed– too far for his idle touches to distract you into admitting anything. 

You love those hands. You want to taste them one day. He’s looking at you.

Fuck, wait, he’s looking, and you haven’t answered him. You cut your eyes away, to the floor, to your nails, like an idiot. That wasn’t at all suspicious, sure. You’re reasonably sure Eddie hadn’t noticed the piercings themselves yet until, as you snack and he chats again about his sketch, he suddenly drops the pink eraser you’ve been watching his square fingers systematically tear apart.

“N...Noooooo.” He takes in your belated answer and eyes you for a second, then starts talking again. You tug your hands gingerly into the hoodie you’re in and slide the thing over your unwrapped cloud of hair without snagging anything, then toss it away, wiping the light sheen of sweat you realize is cooling on your nose.

 Fuck, here we go. You hadn’t considered you’d have to hide in conversation, just that you had to keep him from seeing. You try to keep your cool, but answer too quickly. This wouldn’t last long.

“Have you been eating weird shit again?” Eddie asks, cutting himself off from explaining the lore of his latest campaign villain. He’s sitting up more since you last looked at him– leaning back on one elbow as the other arm drapes comfy across his belly– and watching you fidget in that weird posture you’ve adopted since the piercings. 

“Eat– We–, me? Weird? What’s– What?” Nailed it. Smooth, like butter. Too player. You thank God or Dolly or whoever’s watching that your blush isn’t visible, because you can already feel your face heating up.

He stares, eyes squinted. You watch your plate, then look back at his lovely hands, fingers pale and impatient, thr-r-r-rumming in sequence against his now-closed notebook.

“What’s with the air-head act? And why are you clutching your tummy and moving like you fell down the stairs?” Okay, that one’s easy.

“Cramps.” Your reply is stiff, but reflexive. The pink in his fingertips as he drums is entrancing. Maybe you’ve saved it– you think you sound sure. He’s silent for beat, and you pick up a cracker and look out the window. Maybe you’re a genius. The fuck’s he gonna do? Argue?

“Hm. Bullshit?” You look up to challenge that, and catch him peering behind you to the stuffed possum you had gifted him when his favourite, real, live, wild possum friend stopped her brief shuffle through the fire pit behind his trailer one drizzly day. 

(Eddie had called it the best week of his life, then declared that he’d never love again.)

After another beat, as if the scruffy thing has read the room and confirmed its answer, Eddie nods once, curls bouncing, then swings his neck dramatically back to you to assert, “bullshit.” 

It's panic creeping up your throat now, because he’s going to see you,  see them, this isn’t– well– it is– but you didn’t think it through, and you aren’t a good enough liar to dodge the impending question. You hem for another moment, hands hovering over your torso, and he looks between them and your face before snapping his bulk upright so fast that the bits of pink littering his lap and thin muscle shirt fly up in the flurry.

“What’re you hiding?”

A frown tugs your lips down before you can stop it. You watch Eddie toss the notebook and, with a loud thump, collapse off the bed boneless into your nest of blankets and towards you like a mad slinky before you can finish saying, “nothing! I’m not– hiding–, wait a second!” 

In that second, Eddie has slithered the 4 feet between him and you, kind of flinging himself on top, landing more gently than you expected in a straddle and pinning your now-closed thighs under his seat before you can wiggle back and away in time. 

“Did you get a tattoo without me? You fucking did, didn’t you?” He might be verging on genuinely hurt, by the sound of it. You’d promised after he’d started his stick-n-poke journey that he’d be your first, (tattooer, that is), once he got some training together. Had swore to him–

“Le’me see– what, is it that shitty? Who the hell did you go to? You can’t be–”

“Ow, Eddie, stop!” Your screeching protest belies real pain this time, curling in on yourself and to the side as much as possible. He bumped a piercing in the shuffle, the pain expected but still shocking, and he backs off a bit and coos in sympathy, all his next words coming out in a frantic rush.

“Fuck, oh no, I’m sorry. I’msosorry, Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, breathing deep through the stinging. As it subsides, he ducks his head to meet your eyeline, his paint-stained palms up, promising no contact. He’s still straddling you, most of his weight on his heels. Still locking you under him, where its very warm.

If you looked down and saw your heart itself beating its way out of your chest, you wouldn’t be shocked. You’re almost choking on it, and plotting how to get him off you without knocking the new piercings again. Its enough to spin your head, to think you’ve been found out this soon, that the bravado in your spirit has fled so quickly at the reality, not just the idea, the real life prospect of showing Munson your tits. 

But it's thrilling, him on top of you. It's always thrilling, a dream fulfilling itself, isn't it? Even if the context is off. This isn't the first time a bout of “weird” from one of you or the other has ended up in a fact-finding mission– sometimes wrestling match, or pillow fight, or wild, short chase through the woods. 

But every time he gets this close, it's like the path between your head brain to the other brain is cleared– heat is flooding the thin cotton that separates you from his well-worn denim faster than ever. He has to get up, right now. You have to keep him there forever. 

You relax as the sting subsides, uncurling and groaning a bit as those strong, clever hands fall to bracket your head on either side. Eddie leans down, sounding the creak of floor beneath you,  and scowls, bathing you in his radiating heat. Studying you, taking in your full lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, your brows turned up where they’d meet, betraying distress. 

“What is going on in there, man?" He's really worried now. When did you start keeping secrets?

“It’s…not a tattoo?” You purse your lips and scrunch your nose, and the sweet smile that flows like syrup across his face seems involuntary.

“Then what else– huh?” Eddie is trying to keep eye contact, but the wheels are turning, and his lovely smile drops. He glances at your arms crossed over your chest, and his jaw falls open, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“Not a tattoo. Not ‘a’ anything, actually. Two things.”

“No, you didn’t. No way, not a chance.” Eddie seizes your wrists and ignores your protests, pinning each arm by your ears where his once were, and tries to x-ray inspect you through your shirt. It's dark, but not thick enough to weather this kind of scrutiny. Those telltale bumps are right there in front of him, the middle of each trio hardening as he inspects. So, you give up trying to argue, and shrug, suppressing a smile. 

“With— wha?” Eddie’s looney-tunes double-take makes you hoot a laugh as he swings his head and bouncy curls up and down, looking at you, glancing back at your chest, and up again as he processes what he’s hearing. What the fuck is he hearing? 

Your eyes stay low but your brows arch together as you scoff at him, dork. “You’re really telling me you hadn’t seen them?”

“I’ve– not–wha– I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean–”

But, you had been talking shit. He couldn’t have seen anything in the dark shirt you had been wearing all day unless he’d been staring when you weren’t looking– had he been staring at your tits anyway?

 Did he do that often? Your jaw doesn’t drop so much as glide mischievously open. Surprise dawns and Eddie realizes he has, in fact, given himself away too quickly. Coolest dudes in Hawkins, you two.

He changes tack, slapping the floor by your head, still a little shocked.

“You got your nipples pierced? I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you! You’re full of shit.” His voice is almost petulant in its disbelief, high and tinny.

Your eyeroll is audible, “I mean. I can prove it, Munson.” 

“When?” He gasps, indignant, and slaps the floor with the other hand. 

“You barely have your ears pierced-“ he exaggerates. “Who the hell did ‘em? Was it a guy? You let some guy–”

“Please, some professional? Can you be serious?”

“You can’t take the pain, angel, not without my moral support, there’s no way. You’d have been whining about them being sore all fuckin’ week if you’d gotten your—“ 

He looks at your tits again, jaw slack, but in his shifting sends them undulating with the movement. His whole body goes still, except to inhale very slowly.

You’ve maybe never been this self conscious in your life, but his distraction emboldens you.  

“The idea was ‘surprise’, not ‘ambush’. But,” you drawl, smirking as you twist a wrist easily out of his now slack grip and push yourself up onto your elbows. 

“Do you—well.” Your eyes falter when your voice does. You want to offer proof. You’re not that bold yet, but you’re working up to it. 

He gives you room to sit up completely, hovering over your calves, back almost on his haunches. His heat leeches into your legs, swells in your chest and behind your eyes.

You want to touch him, like you always do. Eddie's deep brown eyes are wider, his mouth slack. His breathing is a little harder too, and you wonder for a second— do you want to un-ring this bell while there’s time?

“No,” he answers. “I mean, yeah, I—“ He rolls his plush lips into his mouth and then parts them, trying to work out how to ask. It’s not a dare anymore, and you feel a shyness completely unfamiliar, laid out in front of your best friend in the world. 

You wilt a little; Eddie finds his courage.

He swallows, and you watch his throat work while he figures out what to say, maybe as nervous as you are.

“Can I see?” He sounds hopeful, gentle, but to soothe you or himself, you can’t tell.

You dont quite answer with, “I’ll have you know, they didn’t hurt. At all, actually. It was...cold. Uncomfy, totally, but not painful— just a bit of a pinch? The last week has been worse than the actual needles were.” 

Eddie seems to realize he’s really staring, and cuts his eyes to the left, almost shy, and he seems to wipe sweat from his palms down the length of his strong thighs.

Your own hands pick at the hem of your shirt, and his gaze is split between your mouth and chest. Then, he shifts his weight, leans back like he’s about to give you space, when you reach for his warm, toned tricep, his skin shifting over muscle as he fidgets, and you’re ready to tell him the rest of the story. You can’t bear to miss his warmth on top of you, you realize. Now or never, you think. 

“I…” you croak, “I thought of you.”

 You hear him choke, like actually choke on his spit, then watch him shake his head like he’s rattling himself out of a haze. Eddie’s locked in on your eyes, searching for even the hint of a joke as you lift the shirt up just your stomach, exposing all the graceful cresting hills of your soft middle to his hungry gaze.

“When I picked them out, I mean.”

“Youf, you– fuc– You did this for me?” He sounds so absolutely incredulous, and breathless, all bravado bled out, or rushing to his reddening cheeks. It's like Eddie opened the next Discworld and found a dedication in his name, like the heavens have opened above him. For him? For him?

“Not for you, you clown, of course not. But like, maybe I wondered which ones you’d say I should get. And maybe... I thought you’d appreciate my pick.” Your crooked smile feels small, and you feel like offering something more substantial. 

So, you do.

“Appreciate..? I. Oh, god, Jesus, I.” You had been lifting your shirt so casually as you spoke, palms sliding up across your skin and dragging cotton with them, a caress so careless it seemed incidental. But you avoid hitting the new bars through each hardening nip, chills putting a mild tremble in your hands that he first catches, and is then distracted from. You watch Eddie’s short-circuit for a bit, feel his thighs tense around yours. You decide then that boldness is the only path forward. 

At the last rounding, you let them hem of the shirt catch on the underside of your bust, and just before its dangerous, lift them up by the hem and then drop them a bit, so they bounce for him, putting on a little show, posture straighter than before in presentation.

You’ve killed him. His plush lips try and fail to form a word, any word, as he lets out another shakey breath and leans back in to you by centimeters.  

“Eddie?” you prompt at his silence, voice quieter now. He’s still a little wide-eyed when he gasps out,

“What. Appreciate? Fuck, you’re beautiful. So, so beautiful. Jesus Christ, I never thought— Are those bats?” He’s moon-eyed and gaping like a dry fish, and you’re too keyed up to even tease him about it. You didn't just think of him, you conspired to match with him, to carry a little bit of him with you.

You know he wants to see you, more than just the piercings, and that teasing smirk is a distant memory, much like your patience. 

“So you hate them, huh?” He’s shocked into laughing before you can finish the question, restoring the quiet to something like normal as he raises his ringed hands to frame the low curve of your breasts. But he takes them in only with his eyes, flitting back and forth between them.

“They look, so so good, so good, god. The color you picked, even,” a warm gold that picks up the warmth in the soft creamy brown of your skin, “it glows, like, perfect. Gold’s your color, Sweetheart. It's all your color.” 

Bravado is fickle. You order him through barely parted lips, like you didn’t mean to say it out loud, then almost slur the hasty backtrack, “touch them. If-you-want, I-mean, if-you—.” 

In Eddie’s mind’s eye, gold falls from the sky; from his mouth tumbles a bewildered, “'If i want?' Are you insane?” 

As he reaches, you nod and sit up a bit straighter, feel heat rise in your cheeks, and take his confession with a crooked smile.

“I dreamt this.”

Here’s you, insufferably coy through a giggle: “Yeah? How’d it go?”

 His own knowing smirk is back, and you shiver, wanting fathoms deep as Eddie's hot hands envelope the heavy mounds of your breasts from below, cupped in the way he had threatened before you granted permission. Eddie seems to weigh them as he holds you, committing to memory how the plush fat of them sits in his palms, how they pebble across with gooseflesh at his very gentle fondling. 

You’re so soft, and warm, and he’s touching you; his mind splits in two. Some of him prays to any god for escalation, the rest could die happy right here.

On contact, you sigh together. Heavy, whispering things— you were both holding your breath— and inhale together, too. Your eyes flutter closed at the the drag of each body-warm ring as they poke into you. His calluses are almost sharp against you where they glide, some of the time ghosting over your skin, but mostly kneading you warmer.

It's your soft little hum of pleasure, how you arch, helpless, into his touch— the indiscreet rub of your knees together, and your thighs into his seat, the way you fight the smile back— these bring him back to himself,  and he checks your face again, watching the small smile grow as your eyes flick up to his. 

“Different,” Eddie intones, low and slow. “We’re out of order.”

You’re watching his pretty mouth again while he feigns serious, but as he moves just one hand to the floor behind you and leans in close, warm Cheez-It-breath tickling your face, setting alight every nerve that wasn’t already screaming for deeper contact. You meet his penetrating gaze and gasp at the pleasure-pain of that ringed thumb finally, finally, swiping up along one pert nipple. 

It's a shocked moan, not a gasp, that opens your mouth as he collides with it, timed perfectly with the upward jolt of your hips into his hardening cock. It's Eddie’s turn to gasp— his rushes out hot and quick, as if from a gut-punch. 

He's fighting for his life trying to steady his voice, act casual. “Usually, I get my mouth on your first.”

With that, he closes the gap again, but this time pulls away with a wet smack, a kiss so brief you’re compelled to chase him and get your licks in.

“Then, my hands,” he says, as he closes his fingers around as much of you as he can grasp with each hand to squeeze. Its at once electrifying and comforting, leaning into him and running from the cold. You want him pressed against you completely, but he's focused on the pillows of supple skin and heat in his hands.

“Promise,” he chokes, “ahhh, promise to tell me if it hurts, angel?”

“Eddie, touch me— I promise— touch me,” you positively beg, and your Eddie, egged on by your fingers now pulling deliciously at the hair on his sensitive nape, recovers fast. He’s on you before he can take his next breath in, and bites down around your bottom lip, pushing you with him gently as he leans forward, mashing your noses together.  

And you kiss Eddie back, hard, sucking his trembling lip between yours and earning yourself a groan that sends a lovely buzz through your jaw where you meet. That fucking noise, and his hand still on you, now not as gentle, sending little shocks of pleasure as he swipes gently along the outer dark ring crowning your nipple. The skin there is tightening, growing impossibly sensitive, and each brush and nudge shocks you between your clamped thighs, makes your body rock a little, sending kinetic energy across you that has him enthralled. So much evidence of his effect on you, the movement anchors him to reality.

"Good?"

"Really good, Eddie, yeah." You squirm under him as he massages one side, then both, then rests his forehead against yours to gaze down, intent on his project. 

“You feel good too, angel,” Eddie groans again, enjoying himself in earnest, crowding you gently together, then letting each breast roll in his hands, rough digits brushing in tandem against beads so taut it almost hurts, so intense its almost too much, but you need more.

“You know what’ll feel even better?” You ask him in a pant, breathless and focused– you need him between your legs too, and desperately, so you nudge one of his, asking to widen so you can rearrange. Eddie obliges, planting one solid knee right against your aching core and letting you fall back, propped up on both elbows. 

Neither of you wastes a second. This kiss is a hot, wet collision of sighs and spit, grinding sloppily into each other through just too many layers of sweet, stiff friction, whining into each other’s open mouths. 

While you nearly lift your hips off the floor, chasing the worn denim between your legs, tension in your lower gut building faster than it ever has alone, Eddie rides your linen-covered thigh just above your bent knee, murmuring between love-bites to your chin, the chubby apple of your grinning cheek, then the crook of your neck, where he finds and then latches onto a spot that makes you seize under his weight, clamping your thighs around the one at the very center of your focus. 

You clasp a hand at the back of his head again, scratching a bit at his neck and forcing a long shaky sigh out of his mouth as the rhythm of his swirling hips grows rough, devolves into a stuttering staccatto race to the finish, and he’s talking himself through it into your shoulder as you barrel him down.

Ed's heaving whines are gorgeous, ragged, as he sighs into your neck about how good you feel under him. He can’t finish a sentence as he groans into your shoulder, all about how good you smell, how he can’t believe you did this for him, how badly he wants to taste them. 

“Taste? I,” you cut yourself off with a near-panicked whine when his leg slinks heavily down, the relief of his wet but still straining crotch-tent another brief sliding kiss against your now soaking cunt, and you resist seizing him by the scalp, to keep him up with you, but only just. You’re both so close; he’s stalling?

No, tasting.

Through your horny fog, your mind starts to process his goal. Eddie works his body down yours urgently, never really breaking contact, and as he slips away all you can do is watch him watch you.

In a thrall, as he draws a scalding trail of open-mouth kisses down the heaving swell of your exposed breasts. The wet kisses cool fast in the chilly air of his room, and it feels so good you don’t care how needy your sighs sound, how obscene and high your breaths echo in your own ears. Then he pauses in his descent to admire you again, breaking eye contact for a few awe-struck moments, dropping a chaste peck just left of the left nip, then resting his forehead on your sternum. When he fully squishes your tits into his cheeks it makes you laugh out loud, and you feel his smile and then chuckle against your stomach.

He seems to paise there for a few moments, content to nuzzle, and your high whine-sigh takes even you off guard. Eddie looks up at the sound but stops himself saying whatevers on his mind. Instead, he double-takes between your mouth and chest once, and again, then and finally asks, “sweetheart?”

He’s got that look like he’s up to something, and you can’t say you mind it. 

Eddie drags his lovely nose across the wide valley between your bust, your shoulders cave a bit with the shiver, and he continues, “can I?”

Taste. Yes, “please, Eddie, yeah,” and he closes his hot mouth over one hard bead, swirling that devilish tongue around and over, knocking it roughly enough to pull a harsh hiss from between your clamped teeth. Your hands are both in his hair again, and in a little pain you pull at his sensitive scalp and feel the buzz of his moaning around you, closing the little pleasure circuit between you.

You feel every wet swipe of tongue like a brand, on your sensitive chest and melting, shocks of heat driving down in your sex, chasing the pressure and pushing your body into his chest where he lays against you. 

One of his hot hands mimics his mouth’s rhythm on the other tit, and the lewd sounds of his deep moans around you are only matched by the obscene slick of his hand finding the soaked core of you under his torso, his fingers tingling over the used cotton.

You nod assent before he can even ask, catching his eyes as he pulls away from your chest to check on you. He finds your open pant, you low lidded attention on only him, and smiles. Then, he grinds his own hips into your leg where he straddles it, lower than before, moaning again around your mound and sucking this time, a new kind of pressure that pulls the neediest cries from you yet. His fingers finally breach your underwear from the side, and the calloused contact jolts you to the precipice, climax just within reach now that your clit has direct, emphatic attention. 

His tongue swirls faster, and Eddie matches that pace with his slick fingers between your cunt lips, circling the trigger and nudging just the top of your gasping hole, pace quickening, just what you're begging him for. Your free leg hitches around his back and pulls him into you, then you clamp up and pull hard at the hair in your grasp, gasping his name over and over as you come shaking, curling around his head, pussy drooling on his rings and wrist, hips frantic in their desperate chase for friction. 

Eddie’s not far behind, rhythm incomprehensible as he’s distracted by his own big finish. He bites down almost too hard around your breast and fucks down onto your trapped leg, groans buzzing through you as he drools and sputters and comes a warm wet mess into the washed-out black. 

The grey light is blinding, you can’t open your eyes at first. But you start to collect yourself when you feel him pull off, sliding his hand slowly out of your panties. You open your eyes to him watching you again, eyes half closed, to him catching his breath, and with no regard for the mess on his hand he gathers your collar in his fist and hauls you forward for another kiss, other hand tucked in the soft folds of your waist, grasping, clutching, pulling you in.

“Ouch.” You say, with no heat at all. 

As he scoffs, Eddie slinks back down again to kiss it better, another gentle peck just to the side of the most sensitive bud of your breast where he sucked and nibbled hard enough to bruise. Just a pinch, indeed.

“Aw, I’m sorry, angel,” he promises, only a little sarcastic, and finally rounds his mouth around your right nipple, which he had neglected until now. 

Then, you hear the slightest crunch. Like crumbs rubbing together.

Eddie smacks his lips a couple times, tasting, considering.

"Salty," he says. No way.

Oh, god, no. No fucking way. He still licking you clean but you freeze, then he does, but Eddie, knowing exactly what he just set you up for, loses it. He buries the cackle in your tummy as it dawns on you, and you do some quick math– you last showered this morning, which means you last soaked your piercing this morning, maybe 10 hours ago.

Eddie crawls back up your body as you wail, “ohhh, my God, Munson, why would you—? I cannot–” and lands eye-level, with you spent and boneless on your back, him in a table-top pose, arms propped by your shoulders. 

He hadn't been neglecting your other side, he had been saving it.

10 hours. More than enough time for new “crusties” to form, so more than enough time to build your own nightmare from natural scratch. And he didn’t hesitate, or mention it at all, that your piercings were clearly crusted over as part of the usual healing process, he just sucked them off anyway like they were in the way.

“You– absolute– freak! Eddie what the fuck! Did you fucking eat it? Are you insane?”

“What? I helped! And it’s probably, like, I don’t know, nutritious somehow. Protein?” He shrugs, smirking in the face of your horror, your embarrassment. You hadn’t thought to look at your own tits when the idea of his eyes on you had been more than enough to deal with.

You punctuate every few words with sharp shoves, which barely register as nudges to him from your angle, still under him, fighting his weight and gravity itself. Little by little, he sinks against them, and you tire yourself out before his chest traps your arms between the two of you.

“You– sicko, I didn’t– give you permission– to snack on me.”

“You even said ‘please,’ sweet heart, no take backs. I believe they’re my boogers now.” His smile is just content now, mischief subsumed by all the love in his eyes. You were in his mouth; now you’re on your way through his system. He thinks its romantic.

He ate it. Like a weird pet left unattended too long, he saw something new and simply put his mouth on it. Your-- friend? hardly, you think-- Eddie Munson just ate the new piercing boogers off you, straight from the source as he came in his jeans. You don’t even know what to do, so bewildered you shove his shoulders and chest as rough as he’ll allow before he seizes your wrists and pins you again, only this time, your tits are still out. 

“Without full knowledge, that’s twisted– you’re sick.” Your smile betrays you. What a weirdo, sure, but who else would full-send like that? You can’t think of anyone you’ve dated– anyone you’ve let touch you– that has ever been so close, and you haven’t even seen his cock yet. 

God, what a freak– your freak, you think with a thrill.

“Yeah yeah, heard it before."

Its quiet for a bit as you stare at each other, smiles crooked and soft.

"Well. Cat’s out of the bag?”

“Seems that way.” So, there's your "what are we" convo' all sorted.

“Good. So you know— " Eddie ducks his head to tap his nose against yours, then pulls back again to hover a little closer than before, "clothes are no longer an option.”

“What. The hell are you saying.”

“I'm saying,” he whispers, suddenly against your ear, dragging out each syllable, and slides his thumb and it's cool bat ring now poking out of a soft fist across your collarbone and up your shoulder, just to see you shiver again, just to watch you shake.

“hu-.. what, Munson, spit it out!” Now, you grab him by both wrists, and the quick movement brings his eyes to your tits again, gold titanium winking in the gray light. The soft wave of your body warms his core. He's half-hard already just watching you move.

“Too late, ha.” You groan, still grossed out, and anticipating this, he groans with you, mocking. You feel it through your own chest, feel it down your pinned leg.

Then, Eddie’s voice is soft too, at once dreamy and deadly serious, when he says, “You,” drops a kiss on one shoulder, “were so, so right,” and another on the other, “you won't need clothes ever again.” 

—--------------—

Its only days later, your next day off, when your favorite metalhead greets you at your front door. You don’t even have time to say hello before he’s flashing you; Eddie yanks his shirt up, fast as he can, to show off two glinting barbells, twin gold angel wings framing each nipple, still red and a little swollen from the piercing.

He beams at you, proud of the shock written all over your face, and before you can recover, cradles your face with one ringed hand and swoops in to plant one on your open mouth, grinning all the while. 

[evorathesylvurr]

every single stoic “I have my shit together” character that gets flustered by attention is inherently cute. like that’s just a cute thing to do.

[lunar-years]

I’ve already explored and seen other people explore the idea of Jamie texting/reaching out to Roy in the wake of the season one finale because he feels reasonable/guilty about Roy’s injury. But WHAT IF…Roy is super depressed one night and/or has had a few drinks in an attempt to drown his sorrows and then decides to text Jamie…to blame him. Now, I don’t think Roy in his right mind would *actually* blame Jamie for his injury, because that would be dumb and they were both just doing their jobs, which Roy fully knows. However, in a very distressed state I can absolutely see Roy launching at whomever he can blame. Particularly when that person is Jamie, a person he already hates.

[courfee]

due to unforeseen circumstances (sick) (no writing) the update for the next ritardando chapter will have to wait a little longer so instead i am finally offering you this James POV snippet instead. enjoy :)

Regulus’ lips are soft and warm and perfect against James’. An involuntary noise escapes him as he leans closer into the kiss. It’s uncomfortable, straining his neck as he balances himself where he’s sat too far away from Regulus, so he reaches out to hold himself up against Regulus, one hand next to his thigh, one on his shoulder.

A shudder goes through Regulus under James’ fingers and James would think it’s a sign for him to end this kiss, but then Regulus shifts, slides further up on the sofa and closer to James.

Theoretically James knows there exists no rational reason to continue the kiss. To make this more than a quick little peck on the lips. If someone asked him under truth serum if he’s kissed Regulus, he could with full confidence now say that yes, they’ve kissed. Unfortunately however, with Regulus’ lips on his the rational part of his brain is very much not accessible to him right now. So what he does instead, stupidly, selfishly, is gently nip at Regulus’ lower lip, a tentative request to deepen the kiss.

Regulus lets out a small breathy noise and parts his lips, meeting James with the same urgency. He is still not touching James, his hands still firmly planted in his lap, and James is getting a little desperate at the lack of touch. He wants – needs to feel Regulus everywhere, the contact of their lips making him get a little greedy for what he can’t have.

Slowly James runs the hand on Regulus shoulder up to his neck and again there is that shudder going through Regulus, accompanied by a small whine when James’ hand comes to rest on the nape of Regulus’ neck, his fingers gently twisting around the fine hairs growing there. The sounds give him new confidence, makes him a little heady and he slides his hand higher, properly burying it in Regulus’ hair. Regulus leans into the touch while simultaneously trying to push even closer against James, biting his lip, tugging slightly, dragging his tongue over the spot to soothe it. It takes everything in James not to let out a moan.

He knows he needs to end the kiss. Knows if he keeps kissing Regulus like this he will reveal things that Regulus does not want to know. Knows all of this is a terrible idea but he is anchored to Regulus, the little points of contact they share tying them together too firmly for James to break.

With every slide of his tongue or gentle tugs at Regulus’ hair there is a little breathy noise falling from Regulus’ mouth onto James’ tongue and it is the sweetest thing James has ever tasted, intoxicating and alluring, and he never wants to taste anything else again.

It’s the fact that Regulus is still not touching him that disorients James enough to make him think clearly again. That tethers him the slightest necessary part to reality. To a reality where this kiss is nothing more than a means to an end. Nothing to Regulus. Not the way it is to James. It is that which finally makes him pull back, every fibre of his being screaming at him that this is wrong, that kissing Regulus is the only thing he was ever made for.

Pulling his hand from Regulus’ hair, putting a distance between himself and those soft lips fitting so perfectly against his feels like an impossible task. He has to keep thinking of those hands balled into fists. The glare Regulus regarded him with. The get it over with already.

It takes him a moment to open his eyes again when he’s sat back. A moment to prepare himself again for that cold glare on Regulus’ face, or the indifferent expression.

When he does open his eyes he realises he should have taken one more possibility into consideration. The possibility of Regulus looking dazed and flushed, tousled hair, red bitten, swollen lips and glazed over eyes. The possibility of Regulus looking exactly as James feels. He should have prepared for it, because it takes him so completely off guard that he nearly leans forward again, pulling Regulus back into a kiss he only wanted to get over with.

James clears his throat and looks away. Anywhere but at Regulus. Anything to keep his head mildly clear. “Well,” he says and his voice comes out only a little croaky. “I think that should be good enough for our friends.”

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

I think ur the most normal about sonic 3

I am THANK YOU

[eastbluecrewed]

things you can't get back

aka i've been waiting so patiently to see kidd get his ass beat by shanks (affectionate)

[teemhaunts]

seal neptune because the voices

[mikalilys]

I absolutely HATE when people see their favourite character making a bad decision/messing up/having questionable morals in a fic and go

“that’s not my sweet little -name- they’re perfect and can’t do any wrong and this fic is now horrible because I don’t agree with how you wrote the characters”

like your right that’s not your sweet little -name- it’s theirs!! It’s the person who wrote the bloody fics characterisation and if you don’t like it then don’t read it omg

[copia]

Storm Warning — 2.3k, copia pov, dissociation, angst, premonition stuff inspired by the tour poster — more tags on ao3

A bath would have set the world to rights, he thought. Nothing like a stew in lukewarm water until one’s fingers prune to put the mind at ease. It was his whole intention, his top priority—but Copia sat on the edge of his bed, suited and booted with his paints crusting off, until the sun had long dipped below the mountains and the fire had sputtered into cinders.  One night as Frater Imperator.

part 2 of I Fiaschi

[mytimeisyours]

Any favorite gale fic recs? (currently sick in the head about bg3 too)

Oooooh bb I have several!!

These are all on AO3 (because I've been a sucker for AO3 for over 10 years lol)

if you're looking for angst, hurt/comfort, etc. might I suggest In The Wake of Your Departure ... it has consumed much of my brain, lately. I cried, I got angry, I felt *all of the things*.

Fluff/angst/slow burn, I recommend The Wizard and The Druid of Waterdeep (also on AO3) (it's a WIP, it may have been abandoned, but it definitely leads to inspiration for art/other fanfics, if you're looking for that!)

I've also been enjoying Hero! It starts at the beginning of the game and moves along with the storyline. (I will be honest, I haven't finished it yet!)

--------

Bonus content because I love to share and this Halsin one absolutely WRECKED ME and has been an absolute worm in my brain (pun intended lol): An Old Elven Adage

I'm also going to start reblogging/tagging some of my favs onto my page now that school is out and I'm not teaching over the summer (thank the gods lol) - I'll make an easy-to-find link, if you're interested! (:

[sabraeal]

Remedial Lessons, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kaedix as her birthday request...which was nearly three weeks ago now BUT in my defense...this is the most cursed time of the year when you have school going children 🤣Kimber has a gift for asking for amazing concepts as fic-- both this and the Ella Enchanted AU were previous birthday gifts for her-- and I'm always happy for an excuse to come back and add a little bit more!

For all the cloak-and-dagger Shidan had done to keep the professor’s location clandestine, like it’d be some career-ending scandal to get caught associating with this particular former colleague,  Forzeno sure slots into Lilias’s established faculty like a book on a shelf. Lands himself an office and everything with nothing more than the equipment on his back and his publishing history.

“Well, it would be different if it was Shibusen,” Shidan chokes, putting his back to them. Oh, he’s got his excuse— these data aren’t going to enter themselves, after all— but Obi hasn't hung around Professor Gazelt so long to get fooled by busywork. “Lilias is less…stringent about the background of its faculty.”

Suzu glances up from his screen, head cocked and curious. “Didn’t some teaching assistant there turn out to be a serial killer?”

“A witch.” Shirayuki says it all so casually, as if she wasn’t the one that Umihebi had tried to drown in the catacombs beneath the school. “And she was faculty.”

“The school nurse.” The kid turns a glare his way, like he’s undercutting the profession by mentioning it, and he shrugs. “And by the number of kids that ‘dropped out’ and were never heard from again while she was working there, can’t say serial killer is too far off.”

“And we vet our faculty less?” Yuzuri shakes her head. “That explains the weirdo they had teaching history my first year…”

Obi snorts. “Honestly, it does a good job explaining most of my classes since we got here.”

“But he really hasn’t talked to you since you guys came back?” Suzu leans back in his chair, a divot digging in right above his nose. “Like you just hauled half his lab three hours across—”

“Five total.” His thighs burn just thinking about it. Books might look light, but all that paper adds up. “With snow, uphill both ways. They’d already cleaned up dinner before we got back.”

That’d been the worst part. All those calories burned schlepping the professor’s precious research materials out from the hinterlands, and they wouldn’t even let him to top the whole thing off with some meat and potatoes. Oh, the kid might complain about all the rib-sticking entrées in the caf, longing for something with unwilted leafy greens and maybe a tomato or two, but Obi’s happy to have anything that can keep his belly full until bedtime. And his stomach had hit the hay decidedly rumbly that night.

“Right, so a whole day spent bringing him to civilization, and he hasn’t even sent you a note?” Suzu blew out a breath, nickering like he was some kind of horse. “Kind of a dick move, isn’t it?”

“No argument here,” Obi grumbles, lost under Shirayuki’s application for heaven: “I’m sure he has plenty of higher priorities right now.”

“Sounds like Lata to me,” Shidan mutters, glancing up at their glares. “What? I’m sure he hadn’t forgotten you. But Lata Forzeno doesn’t give away information for free. He’ll call on you guys when he wants something from you.”

“But my meister already—”

There’s no time to enumerate what concessions the kid has already made, not when Ryuu bounds around the corner, his pale eyes round. ��Obi. Shirayuki. Lata—”

He wheezes, collapsing over his knees, and there his weapon is, already on her feet, making a fuss. Not that Obi can say much; he’s hot on her heels, slapping a palm between Ryuu's small shoulders. “You okay there, buddy?”

“Yeah.” Ryuu winces, letting out another cough. “Just— one minute—”

“Catch your breath.” Shirayuki’s got a more gentle touch, rubbing a hand up and down his spine. “Were you in the library? Did you run all the way from there? You know, you really shouldn't exert yourself more than your body is used—”

“Lata,” he blurts out, “he wants to see you.” His eyes dart to where Obi stands. “Both of you.”

“Well, well,” Obi mutters, arms crossed over his chest. “Looks like the piper wants to be paid, huh?”

*

“I don’t mean to question your process, professor.” It’s trouble, the way his weapons’s stumpy little ponytail bounces against her neck, primly doing just that. “But isn’t there a better way to, er…assess our problem?”

“Is there?” With a flick of a switch, Training Room Two hums to life, every panel and floorboard turning from architecture to archenemy. The professor steps forward, narrowly missing the bladed pendulum that cuts behind his clasped hands, radiating both professional curiosity and super villainy. Ha, he would fit right in at Shibusen. "You may consider this the commentary period for this presentation, if you wish.”

“Well…” The kid’s voice strains over the whir of a passing saw blade. “Talking has always helped me to get to the meat of a problem…?”

Forzeno’s got the sort of face that would crack if it tried a smile, but as one corner of his mouth curls, baring the slightest glint of teeth, it manages a smirk just fine. “If talking were going to solve this problem of yours, you wouldn’t have had to come to me.”

“He’s got us there.”

Shirayuki spares him the most weary don’t-take-his-side glare, but he can’t help but notice there’s no plucky protest to follow or staunch little speech about the power of friendship. No, instead she just stares out over the classroom-turned-death trap and bites her cheek, like somehow this guy might have a point.

“I must admit, your situation is quite confounding.” Obi’s never seen someone looks so at ease standing in the eye of the storm, but Forzeno doesn’t even flinch as fire singes the air just to his left, missing him by inches. “If you were fundamentally incompatible, he would never have been able to wield you. And if skill was the issue, you would have never made it this far. Which can only mean that one of you is holding back.”

It’s an effort to keep his limbs relaxed, to keep his lean completely casual when his heart is already fluttering in his throat, each pound reminding him that he’s the problem here. That if he could just get his head under control then maybe—

“Holding back?” Shirayuki’s not a not a haughty head-toss type of girl like Kiki, but she doesn’t need to be, not when one wrinkle of her nose contains all the skepticism of a dozen sarcastic scoffs. “I understand how you might come around to that theory, Professor, but do you really think the training room is going to challenge us more than any of the kishin souls we’ve collected?”

“Of course not.” With an unholy shriek, a saw blade rips itself from the floor— followed by the pendulous edge of the swinging axe working free of its mount to brandish itself threateningly just at the edge of his sight. “That’s why I’ll be trying to kill you.”

*

There’s a moment of silence— long enough for a few blinks, maybe a breath— before Obi summons up a monumental amount of calm, considering, and says, “You know, I think he means it.”

Shirayuki’s got her mouth open, probably to say something to the tune of ‘duh, you think?’ only nicer, but there’s no time to talk, not when a support beam juts right up through the floor, sweeping her legs right out from underneath her. Or at least it would if his arm wasn’t already flung out, ready to receive her sleek, steely haft.

She falls into his hands with the ease of practice, warm and ready, like she’s meant to be there, and god, he needs to remember that this isn’t a permanent thing. This whole resonance stuff only matters because she’s got to be top of her game to play in the big leagues, which isn’t the level a meister like him is meant to be at, Death Scythe or not.

“Hey, old man!” Obi ducks under another free-range saw blade only to just barely deflect an arrow trap with Shirayuki’s blade. “I know this is a test and all, but” — an anvil drops right out of the rafters, shattering the floorboards next to him— “could you go a little easier on us, maybe?”

Forzeno chuckles, oddly loud for a room that’s belching more flames and whirring machines by the minute. “Terrible, just terrible. Is this the kind of students Shibusen puts out now?”

“What?” It’s embarrassing how much he’s panting, barely able to get a word out as he parries yet another poison dart, wincing at the kid’s muted oof. “The kind that don’t want to die?”

“No,” the professor scoffs, pride palpable even if Obi can’t get eyes on him, running around the room like this. “The kind that can’t keep up.”

A stream of fire blazes across Obi’s path, keeping him sandwiched between a rock— an actual, literal rock; falling so hard behind him he nearly flies off the floorboards— and a hard place. Or more like hot place, now that he eyes the scorch marks licking up the wall.

“How is he doing this?” he mutters, skirting around the charred hardwood only for an arrowhead to bury itself in the wall behind him. “It’s not like these are real weapons. There’s a reason they’re on switches!”

“I looked into him.” Of course you did. He nearly lets a laugh slip right out of him even as saw teeth nip at his heels— but Shirayuki’s reflection catches on her blade, hair shining just as bright as the gout of flame that nearly burns off his eyebrows, and Obi finds it hard enough not to trip over his own feet, let alone getting his tongue involved. “There’s no question, he’s the foremost researcher on resonance, but when it came to why he left Shibusen— well, it’s hard to figure out what’s reason and what’s rumor, but apparently he had some…far-fetched theories about what precisely was needed to resonate with a weapon.”

“What? Like their relationship?” Obi ducks around some debris, flinching as a knife embeds itself in the plaster behind him. “Thought everyone knew you had to match each other’s vibes or whatever. Have some sort of chemistry to start.”

“That’s the thing.” It’s a little hard to focus on theoreticals when she’s got that thoughtful look on, bare shoulder spanning across the curve of her blade, but the kid makes it easier when she says, “Lata Forzeno could match wavelengths with any weapon.”

“Any?” And here he is, not even managing the one. No wonder this guy’s so fucking smug. “Even you?”

“Reports say he managed my uncle.” It’s not an answer, not really, but it’s as good as he’s going to get when she’s got that focused gleam in her eyes. “But in his last paper he put forward that resonance wasn’t about a match of souls between weapon and wielder, but instead the ability of the meister to change their wavelength, no matter how close or how far it was from their original, er…rhythm, I guess.”

A piece of plaster crumbles onto his hair. “But it would still have to be sentient, wouldn’t it? Resonance requires soul.”

Her haft buzzes against his palms. “Does it?”

He stares down, fingers flexing against steel. “Are you trying to tell me he’s resonating with this whole training room?”

A circular saw whizzes over the scrap of ceiling he’s ducked behind, burying itself right beside the knife there, wiggling like a kid at the end of a leash. “Do you think there’s a better explanation?”

Saw teeth wiggle in the wall, like a little kid trying to push out one last tooth for the fairy, and he sighs. “You’ve got a point there.”

It might be just a theory, a bunch of citations strung together with coincidence and Shirayuki’s smarts, but if Forzeno’s really puppeteering this room of doom, then there’s plenty of better plans than running and hiding. Ones Obi’s about to suggest they try— right up until the chuck of ceiling at his back explodes into a shower of plaster.

“You two should have resonated by now.” It’s bad enough that the professor’s got them on the run, a line of arrows sprouting on Obi’s heels as he rolls out of the line of fire, but he’s got to sound disappointed too. Like they’re coming in under the curve on whatever little test this gauntlet is putting them through. “Not letting me chase you into a corner.”

“Didn’t we already tell you?” Obi yelps, Shirayuki’s spin deflecting the chunk of plaster hurtling toward them. “We can’t do that. That’s the whole reason you’re— shit!” He ducks another fountain of flame, grimacing at the smell of burnt hair. “Here!”

Forzeno must be running out of toys to play with; the blade buried in the wall trembles, sending a shower of paint and drywall crumbling to the floor. Still, it’s stuck in there deep, groaning and shivering as the professor tries to ease it out, and well — it’s not the best opening Obi’s seen, but it’s the first one the professor’s given them.

He may not have muscles like Mitsuhide, but what Obi lacks in strength he makes up for in speed and surprise, running up that clean corridor of classroom to take his swing. The kid puts her whole heft into it too; lighter in his hand but blade weighted to swing, turning a solid slash into one that could probably carve a car in half—

And Forzeno blocks it. Doesn’t even bother to look at them when he does it too, like they’re nothing more than flies buzzing in his ears. “You see? Sloppy. If I couldn’t sense how many souls you’re holding, I’d think you’d only just been assigned partners.”

It’s casual, the way the rubble careens toward them; an afterthought. Obi gets his guard up— gets Shirayuki up— but her spin only splits the thing, setting one piece sailing past, and another close enough to clip him. Pain spikes just above his eye, warmth blooming right at his hairline before it starts to wend its way down—

“Obi!” Shirayuki’s haft jumps in his hands, pleasantly cool turning to flesh-warm. “Are you—?”

“See, already the problems show themselves.” Forzeno’s sigh is Obi’s only warning before he takes a foot to the chest, skittering across the floor until his spine hits the paneling with a crunch. “A weapon should keep her focus on the fight. No wonder that witch sent your souls scattering to the four winds.”

“Oh!” The kid’s reflection flushes, pink curling far past the curve of her blade, and haah, that’s really some information he didn’t need right now when it’s taking all his attention to keep breathing. “I’m sorry, I should be—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grunts. “Fuck this guy anyway. He’s all talk. Just gotta…beat his ass. Then we’ll figure this out on our own.”

Forzeno snorts, his back already to them. “Not at the rate you’re going.”

His scythe shivers. “Obi, we don’t have to—”

“No.” He gets to his feet, sneezing out a bit of blood for good measure. “Let’s show this guy what we can do.”

If there’s one thing about Shirayuki, it’s that her soul’s not subtle; one deep breath and the rhythm of her soul is ringing in his head like a gong, as unmissable as it is unattainable. Oh, the first part always goes just fine, this slow dance and stretch, matching the whisper of his soul to her shout, the heat of his blending into hers, flames beginning to dance at the same beat—

And then that first whisper of physical touch sends his heart skittering, sending blood all the places he’d rather her not know about. But it’s impossible to keep it from her, not when she’ll be in his head like this— no, his heart, knowing every single skip and beat, his thoughts brushing against her own, shared, and—

A shove sends him stumbling back, tripping over his own feet, and Shirayuki tumbles into him. Not as a scythe, but a human girl, hair flying into his mouth as the weight of her has him over balance, his grip tugging, dragging—

And they land in a heap, just narrowly missing the jagged tooth of a saw blade sticking out from the floor.

“Well.” Lata approaches, hands on his hips. “That’s enough information for now.”

[adhd-merlin]

a lesson in manners

For @merlinmicrofic. Prompt: "Then go", Arthur/Merlin/Gwen, Established Relationship, Gen. Words: 500

“Well.” Merlin rises from his chair. “If there's nothing else.”

Guinevere turns to him – her disappointment clear in her eyes, even though she tries to keep it from her voice. “You’re leaving?”

“Sorry.” Merlin smiles apologetically. “I promised Gaius I would be back in time for supper.”

Which is fair enough. Merlin’s been dining with Arthur and Guinevere more often than not, lately. They have – perhaps selfishly – grown used to his presence.

“Hardly the first time you've kept him waiting,” Arthur observes. Just to be contrary.

“Precisely. He's starting to ask questions.”

“What sort of questions?” Guinevere asks.

Merlin looks at her with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “Ones I'd rather not answer.” Guinevere’s mouth curves into a faint smile. She closes her eyes when Merlin leans down to kiss her temple.

“I'll see you tomorrow. Good night.” Merlin nods at Arthur before going to the door.

Guinevere looks at him with a hint of sadness in her eyes – which, as a general rule, Arthur finds unacceptable. Guinevere should never look sad. Not in his presence. Not if he can help it.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls. Merlin stops, his hand on the handle. “Is that the way to take leave of your king?”

Merlin looks puzzled. “I'm sorry. Did I forget to bow?” he asks, and he does so, with a jester-like flourish.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes. Not that it matters. Come here.”

“Arthur…” Merlin protests, weakly, but he obeys his beckoning.

“Guinevere got a kiss. I was just wondering at the disparity of treatment,” Arthur explains – not because he cares, but just to keep Merlin there a little longer.

Merlin clicks his tongue. “She's nicer than you.”

Arthur just looks at him.

Merlin sighs, theatrically, and Guinevere giggles.

Good.

When Merlin bends down – no doubt to give Arthur a quick peck on the lips – Arthur grabs his ridiculous neckerchief and pulls. Merlin gasps, grasping one of Arthur’s arms as he tips over, and slamming his knee next to Arthur’s thigh to avoid smashing his face against the back of his chair.

“Arthur— ” The rest of his objection is rudely interrupted by Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur kisses Merlin until he’s breathless – maybe from the kiss, maybe from the cloth that’s pulled tight around his neck. Arthur doesn’t loosen his grasp. He knows Merlin likes it. 

When Arthur breaks their kiss, Merlin blinks at him vacantly. He moves his lips as if to shape a word, but seems to have forgotten what he wanted to say.

Then, he remembers. “Gaius is waiting,” he mumbles – eyes fixed on Arthur's mouth.

Arthur lets go of Merlin’s neckerchief and pats his chest. “Then go,” he says, amiably.

Merlin gets to his feet – a bit shakily. His ears are red. He walks to the door again, turns as if to say something, then frowns and closes his mouth. Wordlessly, he leaves.

Guinevere starts laughing.

Good.

“That was mean,” she says. 

Arthur takes her hand and kisses it. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it up to him.”

[bbutterflies]

life is insane so I’ve been thinking of this fic by @kasienda a lot. have a wip