#anise is curled up on his stomach

[blockofhoney]

so i made c!fundbomb fankids,,,,

(@wiiwarechronicles hi)

[ikeromantic]

Another request coming in! Ikevamp Mozart with 4, 1 and 2.

Oho! Mozart with the themes of Water, Calliope - harmony, and Rowan - travel! Approx. 400 words with our favorite vampire composer.

The ship rolled under his feet and Mozart’s stomach did a flip in sympathy. If carriage were the devil’s invention, then boats were from an even lower echelon of hell. He dabbed sweat from his pale forehead and swallowed, trying to look unbothered by the movements of the deck under his feet.

“Care for a drink, sir?” A passing waiter held out a tray of gently sloshing champagne glasses. 

“N-no,” he managed, biting down on his lip.

“I’ll have one, please.” His love reached for a glass, smiling. “And if you don’t mind, could we also get a ginger tea? If you have that?”

The waiter nodded and scurried off.

“I don’t need anything,” Mozart hissed. He felt shaky, nauseous, anxiety crawling across his skin like ants. “I’ll be fine once I get off this infernal boat.”

She patted his arm affectionately. “It will settle your stomach. Just trust me, ok?”

He wanted to snap at her, but the sweetness of her nature left him without his usual weaponry. Instead, Mozart sulked in silence until the waiter returned. 

“Sorry, miss. We didn’t have any ginger tea, but the chef sent this.” He held out a dark green bottle, no label to indicate the contents. 

“What is it?”

The waiter shrugged. “Not sure, but Bonzi swears it will settle the nerves and ease the belly. And it’s on the house.” He grinned and left them with the bottle.

Mozart pulled the cork and took a sniff. Whatever was in there smelled like strong herbs. Anise and ginger and rosemary, to name a few. “I don’t think I can drink this,” he murmured, but then paused as he realized just the smell had quelled the hot spit in his mouth. “Well, perhaps a small glass . . .”

“I’ll have some too!” 

They poured it into her empty champagne flute and shared the glass. Whatever it was tasted sharp and a little bitter, and burned going down. But it got better the more he drank. By the time the bottle was half empty, Mozart had forgotten the rush of the water beneath them, the rolling waves, and his existential fear of sinking. 

He stood, bottle clasped in one hand, and grabbed his love with the other. “Let’s dance, meine liebe. You and I, under the stars.”

She giggled, her cheeks rosy, eyes glassy. “There’s no music, silly.”

“Then we will have to sing. Come along then.” He rested the bottle on her hip and pulled her close. “Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot, prête-moi ta plume: Pour écrire un mot - come, sing with me!” 

She did her best to remember the words to French children’s song. 

As they sang, voices harmonizing naturally, Mozart waltzed with her across the ship’s deck. His lips curled up at the ends and his eyes were merry.

[prettynxsty]

Acridity II

Sub!Namjoon x Domme!Reader

Warnings: Futa/Girlcock, Joon has a pussy, fingering, gratuitous nipple play, size kink (small top/ big bottom), creampie,

Summary: Sometimes you just need a good romp in the comfort of your home.

AN: This is part 2 of Salinity, go read that first for some context. Enjoy the bedroom hair esque pic. :))))

You push yourself back onto your knees, pushing your own shorts down your hips to fish out your cock. It twitched in your hand as you gave it a few strokes, you wanted to to fuck him slow and deep.

He glances down at you from over the bridge of his nose, his eyes were soft. A wordless request to feel you again, your warmth felt so much better than his.

Your breath jumps in your throat, you can feel your cock jump in your loose grip. He just didn’t understand how easily he was just able to do this to you.

Releasing your dick, you plant your hands around his hips and lay back against him. He seizes up for a second, head curling backward with a silent whimper. Your dick was thick enough to press between his folds and spread them open. Nestling between his fat Venusian tongues, you lean forward and press your nose against the base of his neck.

Anise and almond. You’d never regret purchasing this cologne from the roadshop for him. Herbaceous and aromatic, your drag the tip of your nose up the column of his throat. Hypnotized, your fingers come to gently curl around the base of his neck. His sigh is cool against the shell of your ear.

Nutty, toasty, warm. He smelt like the pits of a home, well loved, the kind that remains a fond memory.

It reminds you of the dampened earth squishing under your bare feet as a child. Rain. One that chooses to create and destroy within its prior breath, nourishing green that has yet to flourish.

Your lips seal around the juncture of where his shoulder meets his neck, suckling on it. The taste is so uniquely him. Acridity. The tip of your tongue undulates over the small sliver of skin. It tastes fresh and powdery, salty, yet acerbic.

His flavor bites back at you. His fingers curl into the bottom of your shirt, holding you against him as if you would drift away. You imagine you can taste the plums he loved to eat in the summer. Your teeth graze his skin just as he would to the plump flesh of fruit.

You climb further up his neck, equidistant to the previous mark which began to flush already. It’d ripen completely later.

“Baby,” he is neither begging nor pleading this time. Rather, beckoning.

You dot the rest of his flesh with hickies before you reach his mouth. He consumes you before you do him. His lips wrap around yours, smacking gently against your upper lip. You suck his tongue in between your lips, running your own along beside it. It’s a gentle exchange back and forth.

He gains his foothold, slipping his hands up the back of your shirt. His fingertips leave behind stinging trails that spread their fire over the rest of your body. He could surely feel your cock jumping against his cunt, you could almost feel the confidence swelling in his chest. You were just as trapped to him as he to you.

“Let me fuck you,” your whisper was breathless against his lower lip. His heart skips forward, his softened eyes boring straight into you.

You lean backward and sit back on your haunches. Your eyes never leave his as you clumsily reach for the nightstand. The drawer closes with a thump that you nearly missed as you pop open the cap on the K.Y Jelly.

You squeeze it over the base of your cock, piping a line all the way to the fat pink tip. You grip it with a trembling hand and begin to massage it over your length.

You didn’t neglect the rest of your responsibilities, watching him shift toward you and tilt his hips toward you. Your mouth runs dry as you watch his adonis belt ripple and stretch, blending down toward the pussy nestled between the swell of his inner thighs.

You squeeze a generous dollop on your fingers before carefully tossing it onto the nightstand again. You lean forward, slipping your fingers past his thick folds and smear it around his hole. You pepper soft kisses against his mouth as you press the tips of your fingers around the velvety entrance.

You resist the urge to groan, you couldn’t wait to feel him stretch and open up around you. His head lolls to the side with a mewl that sends blood rushing straight to your dick. His hand comes to rest on your forearm, gripping it.

You work your fingers in, curling them in and out for a short moment. You could hardly wait, pulling your fingers away eventually. You position yourself between his thighs, his legs coming to rest around your thighs easily.

You grip your cock with your left hand, dragging it in between his meaty folds. You waste no time, pressing into him before dropping your hand to rest on the other side of his waist. He raises his arms, wrapping them around your upper back to guide you to lay against him.

You sighed, pressing your nose in between his pecs as you slowly work your way in him.

“Fuck, you’re stretching me, babe.” He breathes into the air.

A sharp breath squeezes through your lips, your hips jerked forward as his cunt greedily swallows in more of you.

It made him feel so sexy when you were like this, the prey holds the predator on a leash. His hips tilt forward, opening him up to take you even deeper. Right there, he shifts his thighs and locks them around your hips, bordering on your waist.

Your growl is muffled between his tits, Namjoon keens beautifully in response. You carefully shift your weight onto your elbows, planting them deeply in the mattress before rearing back.

There it is, that feeling that made his toes curl. Your skin claps against his gently as you plunge in deep. His moans are slurred, drunk from the pleasure.

He doesn’t need to ask for more, you just understand when he starts lifting his hips to receive more of you. Your teeth set tightly in your jaw as you take it, flesh rebounding from his noisily. He whines breathily as thanks.

Your need to consume him only grows, a clumsy hand gripping some of his shirt and pushing it upward. He releases his grip around your shoulders, allowing you to scrunch his shirt up to his collarbone. Then you see it, his pecs bouncing lightly with each thrust.

“Oh my god, Joon,” you hiss as you snap your hips against his with more force. His beautiful lips spread into a smile before parting in a wail that makes you burn.

You tilt your head, allowing your tongue to fall from your lips and dangle over his right nipple. The hardened nub flicks back and forth against the tip of your tongue. You can feel him nearly glaring at you, you spoiled him by playing with them so often.

You never failed to suckle on them, pinch them, twist, and rub them whenever you made out with him. He at first found it strange, until it became something that he needed.

You couldn’t only tease him for so long and engage. He makes a choked noise as you suck it into your mouth and roll your tongue right over the center.

Your eyes squeeze shut, rolling your head back slightly and tugging his nipple with it. Your moan sends tingles across the expanse of his chest, it drove you crazy when he bucked back against you.

“Sto-” he squeals as you roll his nipple between your teeth. You release it with a harsh suckle and smack of your lips, diving back in.

Your hips move of their own accord, fucking him harder and faster. You can see the shadow of the headboard rocking in the corner of your eye. His other nipple calls your attention, bouncing right along with the rest of his chest.

You shift sides, occupying his right nipple with your finger tips. His back arches off of the bed as you squeeze it between your fingers, tugging until he whined.

You could feel the tension building in your stomach, your head was beyond thought. Blips of static twinkle in place of what would be your inner voice.

You flex your tongue, dragging it over his breast flesh like some dirty beast. He was your pretty maiden, preening and singing for you.

“Fuck, I-” your breath stutters as you hammer in and mold your body against his for the final stroke. His pussy responds noisily, his cum smeared over your length some time ago.

His head thumps against the headboard with a mewl, his cum caked up around the base of your cock. Neither of you mind making a mess on the sheets.

You lean in and press gentle kisses in the seam of his pecs and collarbone. You could always clean later, you always loved to bask in the warmth of after. His arms come up loosely, wrapping around your waist and a large hand strokes your upper back.

[shutupandshipit]

Sharpen Your Blades - Ch.13

Summary: “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The thinning of Aizawa’s patience was evident in the twitching of his brow. “If you stop asking questions, maybe I could finish explaining.

”With a huff and roll of his eyes, Katsuki glanced away from their coach.

“City Hall and the SC want us to give them more variety. We are a team solely made up of single skaters. Every year, we dominate the rankings for single skate while Shinketsu dominates the pairs, so this year both cities are being required to split their skaters evenly between singles and pairs with at least one pair coming from out top five.” There was a collective intake of breath, but no one commented, choosing instead to remain silent. “Unfortunately, for us, it’s a lot easier to switch from pairs to singles. With our male to female ratio, alpha/beta/omega ratio, and those of you actually experienced with pair skating, we’re at a disadvantage. So, I’ve decided to choose your partners for you.”

…..

Or where Katsuki and Izuku are forced to be partners so they can continue to compete, but the blood in the water may be thicker than anyone realized.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T

Chapter: 13/20

Previously <- Chapter 12: Parents and questions they shouldn’t ask

Chapter 14: Fighting -> Next

Chapter 13: The Innocence of Children

The crowd hushed as Izuku stepped out onto the ice. He was thirteen, newly healed, hungry to prove himself again.

Everyone knew what had happened to him, how badly he’d been injured. They’d announced it when he’d been warming-up, but even if they hadn’t, they still would have known. He’d gotten letters wondering where he’d been, wishing him well, hoping to see him back on the ice as soon as he was healed. Izuku hadn’t been the one to tell his story, but someone had and they hadn’t spared any of the details.

The alpha, his previous partner, had left the team. Izuku didn’t care, hadn’t cared since the moment he’d woken in the hospital. It had taken him a very long time to start caring about things besides his pain and his inadequacies, but that had never been one of them. The alpha hadn’t even taken the time to come see him in the hospital. He wouldn’t have wanted to see him, to see the look of disgust or pity or whatever else he may have worn, but the gesture may very well have been appreciated…

Or not.

He’d really had no desire to see the other alpha, still didn’t. He knew if he did, he’d try to placate him, to make him feel better for letting Izuku get so badly injured, for acting like anything other than an alpha. And Izuku was bound and determined never to do that again after spending his first year after presenting doing just that.

Standing on center ice and staring out over the shadowed crowd, it felt like a turning point.

He’d spent nearly a year in training. Toshinori Yagi, the figure skater he’d always looked up to the most, had taught him how to deal with the pain he still felt while on the ice. Aizawa Shouta, an amazing skater in his own right that people often overlooked because he wasn’t as flashy, had taught him how to mitigate the strain on his tender joints and minutely adjust his movements to get the most out of his tricks. Kacchan, like always, had silently taught him how to keep going even though he felt like he was falling apart. There had been so many people who helped him to get back on the ice, and to repay them, he wanted desperately to win gold.

He could do it. He knew he could.

But he still doubted. He would always doubt.

When the music started, it was like an electric shock to his system. He started moving on autopilot, his body playing out the movements he’d practiced over and over and over again until they were simply second nature. When pain twinged up his thigh from his knee to his hip, he pretended as if he hadn’t felt it. When he over-rotated and stumbled just the slightest bit, he smiled wider than before. When he came to a stop, chest heaving and mouth tingling with the urge to vomit, he bowed deeply.

The crowd roared their approval, standing in their seats and throwing different items onto the ice as if they were at the Olympics. The show of support brought tears to Izuku’s eyes, and he couldn’t stop himself from sinking to the ice as the tears blossomed from him.

Star anise and sugar and cinnamon filled his nose in the next moment, and he lifted his face from his legs to see Katsuki coming out towards him in his glittering crimson costume. His face was impassive, but his scent told another story that Izuku found hard to believe. There was so much pride in his scent yet so much indifference on his face.

‘He’s just the next one up, that’s why he’s come out to get me,’ Izuku told himself as he allowed Katsuki strong hands to grip his arms and pull him to his feet.

He was passed off to Toshinori and Aizawa, pulled into solid, strong, familiar bodies as he was ushered away.

Sitting in the kiss-n-cry waiting for his score, he could feel his mood souring. That old blackness creeping in along the edges of his exuberance. He dug his fingers into his thighs until he drew blood to stave it off.

When they called out his score, he knew he’d won. That was only solidified when Katsuki’s score was called, just a bare point off from his.

Standing on the podium, medal weighing down his neck and flowers sitting in the crook of his arm, the strangely proud scent remained. The scent, the feeling, the lights, he wanted to commit it all to memory.

…..

November Week 3

Things got… well, Izuku was hesitant to label things as good, but they were. Things had gotten good, and for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to getting up every morning. Knowing that Katsuki might have wanted him as much as he’d always wanted the alpha brought a new type of light to the world. Colors seemed brighter. Singing and dancing around his living room became common pastimes. He was more motivated than ever. In the mornings, he started finding himself waking before his alarm ever sounded instead of snoozing it seven or fifteen times. He would rise early, make his bed, savor a cup of the tea Katsuki had gifted him, and then head off to meet the alpha at the rink before practice started. Izuku purposefully didn’t eat breakfast to save room for the food Katsuki inevitably had on hand to share with him.

Over the days, he didn’t even feel the ever present need to take his suppressants though he still continued to. His stash dwindled little by little, and even the panic that rose in his chest every morning at the sight couldn’t ruin his good mood.

The only thing that still seemed to be able to get to him was the fact that they hadn’t managed to complete a lift since starting to properly train together. As he stood at middle ice that morning, watching Katsuki perform his ever evolving and complex warm-up routine, he vowed that the week would not end without making it into the air.

He could do it.

They could do it. They had before, and they could again.

And they would be better than ever before.

Katsuki returned to where Izuku stood, breathing steadily and deeply, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “Ready?”

Izuku didn’t immediately respond, simply staring at Katsuki as he tested the feelings in his chest.

Did he trust his childhood friend? Yes, he always had, and always would.

Did he want to remember the feeling of Katsuki lifting him like when they were younger? Also yes. He’d craved that feeling of flying that Katsuki had given him, so different from the butterflies he always sent swirling through Izuku’s belly. No one else had been able to make Izuku feel like that.

Did he trust him enough to put the safety of his body in his hands again? Something small and nearly non-existent squirmed in his belly, but besides that, a calmness settled over him. He could imagine it. Imagine Katsuki’s hands on his waist or thigh of stomach.

The thing in his belly twisted harder at the thought of the ground below him, how high up he would be, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been at the beginning of training. Nowhere near as bad as after Katsuki had had to catch him when he fell from Todoroki’s grasp.

“I want to try actual lifts again,” he said instead of answering Katsuki’s question.

Some of the color in Katsuki’s face immediately faded. He stared back at Izuku for just as long as Izuku had stared at him before saying, “Okay. During practice when the coaches are here. I’m not lifting you without spotters.”

Disappointment settled over him, but he knew it was a reasonable decision. Katsuki was looking out for his safety, and that was the most he could ever ask for from a partner. He nodded.

…..

Katsuki was frustrated to say the least, and there was no one to blame except for himself. Despite all the days spent together and all the practice and all of the pining, he still hadn’t been able to allow himself to lift Izuku. The feeling only grew in his chest, insidious and scorching, with each botched attempt and the increasingly concerned look on the omega’s face.

It didn’t help that he could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on him as well. Judging him. ‘Oh, how far he’s fallen,’ they silently lamented.

“Okay, that’s it,” Aizawa finally called across the ice, “You’re not going to get anywhere today. Don’t forget to stop by and put your orders in for your costumes. That has to be done today or I’m going to be the one making your costume decisions.” With that, he turned and left Katsuki and Izuku alone on the ice.

The rest of the team followed after him, the shuffling and loud conversations slowly dissipating while Katsuki simply stood there. 

Repressing a snarl, Katsuki spun towards the rink opening and curled his hands into tight fists. ‘Coward! You’re such a fucking coward! Just like with everything else!’ he berated himself as he threw himself onto a bench. He needed to get out of there, put space between him and the rink.

Rarely did he ever as desperately need to see his students as in that moment. That happened sometimes. Sometimes it helped just to be reminded of where he had been and where he was in that moment, of how far he’d come and still had to go. Sometimes he needed to be reminded of how figure skating could be enjoyed without an agenda, of the innocence that came from being childishly happy over completing a new jump or just having fun.

He needed that now.

He felt more than saw Izuku slowly sink on to the bench beside him. “Do you want to go to the shop right now?” he asked, voice as tentative as his scent.

“Can’t,” Katsuki snarled, and stopped himself from continuing at the hurt that crept into Izuku’s scent. Sighing, he rubbed at his forehead. In a calmer tone, he said, “I have a class to teach. Just go on ahead. You have the designs anyway.”

There was a beat of silence before Izuku asked, “Can I just come along? I’ve never met your students before.”

Katsuki glanced sideways at him, at the tiny hopeful smile on his lips. “Sure, whatever. Fair warning though, they’re all little bastards.”

Izuku laughed, head tilting back as his smile exploded across his face. “I would expect nothing less from your students.”

They sat close on the train, Izuku pressing into his side anytime an alpha sent him a sidelong glance while he talked animatedly to Katsuki about their costume design. By the time their stop arrived, he was a hair’s breadth from being in Katsuki lap all together. They were plastered side to side, one long line from shoulder to calf. As they stood to push off the crowded train, Katsuki closely shadowed Izuku to act as a barrier for anyone who thought they would get any bright ideas.

Izuku was quiet as they made their way down one block and then another, eyes bright and smile nostalgic as he looked around at the increasingly dilapidated buildings. “This reminds me of the neighborhood we grew up in, a little. I knew you coached kids, but I didn’t know you did it over here. I’m a little surprised.”

“Why?” Katsuki asked, question sharp around the edges, “Because they’re not well-off like the kids who get taught at our rink? You think I think I’m better than them or something?”

Izuku raised an eyebrow, seemingly unaffected by Katsuki defensiveness. “No, I’m more surprised that you coach kids at all. I think one of the big reasons you would teach them would be because they don’t have a lot of money.”

That had actually been the biggest reason Katsuki had started coaching. He didn’t particularly like kids, but he enjoyed their enthusiasm for the sport and how much heart they put into everything he was teaching them. The fact that he was providing them with an escape from the trials of their lives that they otherwise might not have had was the most fulfilling part of the job.

“I’m just surprised that you come all the way out here multiple times a week to teach.” Izuku’s eyes crinkled at the corners with the force of his smile. “It’s really admirable and amazing, Kacchan. I’m glad you do this for them.”

Glancing away, Katsuki muttered an embarrassed, “Whatever.”

It was chaos as soon as they stepped into the rink. Katsuki’s flock of students surrounded them along with their parents standing a little further back, all talking at warp speed at the same time.

“Are you really Midoriya Izuku?”

“How long did it take you to get better after you got hurt?”

“Are you going to teach us today?”

"What's your highest score in competition?

“Why did you come with Mr. Bakugou?”

And then one little girl said, “I really like your hair, Mr. Midoriya. Does Mr. Bakugou touch it all the time?”

The chatter quieted down, all attention hyper focussing in on Izuku as he pulled his ponytail over his shoulder. It was a self-conscious gesture, but Katsuki only knew that because he knew Izuku. To the kids, he must have looked self-assured.

“No, he doesn’t unless it gets in his face while we’re skating,” Izuku said with a smile, crouching to see the girl eye to eye. The kids immediately crowded closer, but he seemed unconcerned with that.

“Can I touch your hair?” she asked.

Jealousy spiked through Katsuki’s chest as he watched his student reach out to stroke Izuku’s curls without fear. He directed his eyes towards the ceiling, trying to get the feeling under control. After another moment as the rest of the kids took their turns, Katsuki felt a tug on his sleeve and allowed himself to be pulled down for the newly presented alpha boy to stage whisper in his ear, “You and Mr. Midoriya are a pair, does that mean he's your boyfriend?”

“Yeah! Is he your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?”

“You’re together? That’s so awesome!”

“Are you going to get married and have pups?”

“Really? No way!”

The chatter continued again until Izuku’s voice broke through. “Not yet, no.”

Again, the students quieted until one had the bravery to ask, “But one day?”

Izuku caught Katsuki’s eye as he answered, “I sure hope so.”

Heat exploded in Katsuki’s core. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep the smile off his face. “Alright, you little twerps, get your asses to practice! You’re on my time now! It’s jumps all day today, get going, do your warm-ups!”

“But Mr. Bakugou!” they all cried in unison, a chorus of loud, high pitched voices.

“But nothing! The exhibition is coming up, and I thought you guys wanted to show off what you could do when they opened the ice. Can’t do anything unless you practice.”

“Fine,” they chroused again. As they all spun away, they pulled Izuku along behind them.

When Izuku’s back was finally to him, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Katsuki jumped as a woman spoke at his shoulder.

“So, the blanket worked?”

Spinning, Katsuki looked at the woman who had given him the nesting blanket. He shrugged.

She laughed. “Don’t worry. It worked. Good luck!” She turned and walked back with the rest of the parents to the stands.

…..

Stepping into the recording studio hours after he and Katsuki had returned back to their apartment building, Izuku's greeting died on his tongue as he saw Mirio smiling wolfishly while Katsuki sat across the table from him. "K-Kacchan! What are you doing here?" he stammered as he glared holes into his co-host.

Mirio seemed completely unaffected as Katsuki turned to raise an eyebrow at him. "Doing an interview for a podcast. What are you doing here?"

"I-"

Mirio cut in smoothly. "Deku, my man, come and sit! We're just about to begin. Tamaki was just about to bring in a microphone for Bakugou and Nejire is checking levels before we start! Sit down! Sit down!”

Dropping his bag with Nejire and greeting the others, he rounded the table. He dragged his hand across the back of Katsuki’s chair before taking a seat in his own. He systematically started his pre-recording procedures. Even as he did that though, he shot Mirio a foul look.

“What’s that look for?” Still, Mirio was smiling like a fool.

“You know exactly what this look is for.”

“I really don’t,” but the tone of his voice clearly said he was lying.

“Ah, don’t be like that, Deku. This is going to be great!”

“That’s what you said about the last time you surprised me like this. Asshole.”

Katsuki snorted. “You’re one of the hosts, then. Why the hell didn’t you tell me, nerd?”

Izuku raised an eyebrow in response which spoke more towards his irritation than anything else. "You didn't ask, Kacchan."

Katsuki raised an eyebrow right back at him.

"Whoo! It’s a little hot in here!" Mirio fanned himself with his talking points theatrically. "Man, I love you guys!" He turned to catch Tamaki's eye out the recording booth window. "We almost ready to go?"

Izuku tore his eyes away from Katsuki to glance at the window.

Tamaki, looking downtrodden as always, nodded.

Nejire's voice came over the speaker system. "Alright you three, I'm going to count you down!"

"Awesome!" Mirio responded.

"3… 2… 1…" The red On-Aire sign flicked on.

Immediately by habit, Izuku and Mirio dove headlong into their introduction. When it was all done, Izuku gave Mirio a tight smile knowing exactly what was coming next.

?Now, listen, my many many friends, we've got an extremely special guest with us today! Deku, do you want to introduce him?”

“No,” Izuku replied sweetly, “Why don't you since you seem to have developed a penchant for not briefing me before we record anymore?”

“Don't be like that, Deku!”

Katsuki folded his arms on the edge of the table, leaning into the mic that had been set up in front of him. “Yeah, don’t be like that, Deku. It sounds suspiciously like you're not happy to have me here, nerd.”

Izuku leveled Katsuki with an unimpressed look. “I hate surprises, and Mirio knows that very well. Do you want to tell the class what happened the last time you surprised me?”

Mirio grinned. “Deku, my man, we don't have enough money in the budget to replace another broken window.”

“And yet, it seems you still haven't learned your lesson.” Outside the booth, Izuku could see Nejire absolutely losing her shit laughing while Tamaki simply looked aggrieved. “What do you have on the docket for us today, Mirio?”

“I have a very special Q&A lined up for our very special guest, Bakugou Katsuki. I'm just going to run through his bio here right quick for any of you who may not be in the know, but honestly, if you're listening to this podcast, how could you not already know”' Izuku sat back, and jumped slightly as he felt a foot slip between his calves. “Bakugou is a multiple gold medal winner in the single men's skate throughout the skating world and events. He skates for Yuuei's official team. The only event he hasn't won is in the Olympics for virtue of never being selected. Tell us, Bakugou, are the Olympics your ultimate goal in the end?”

“Of course they fucking are. What do you take me for? An armature?” Katsuki snapped, turning his eyes to Mirio even as he continued to press his leg between Izuku's.

“Absolutely not! So, my next question might be a little touchy, but now that you've paired up with Deku, are you planning on taking on the Olympics as a single or as a pair?” Despite the levity Mirio had begun the podcast with, his expression had lapsed into seriousness.

Silence stretched on as Katsuki continued to stare at Izuku’s co-host, his eyes flickering every few seconds as if he was doing his best not to look away.

“Kacchan?? Izuku started in a whisper.

Katsuki's eyes snapped to him before flicking back to Mirio. “Well, I guess that depends on whether I get picked up for singles or pairs.”

“Interesting answer. So do you plan on continuing pairs then?”

Katsuki's answer came quicker this time. “That’s what I started out skating as. It feels like home skating pairs again.”

“Well, then scrapping my next question, I'll ask this instead. If that's the case, what's kept you away from picking up another partner? I'm sure there are hundreds, even thousands, of skaters who would love to be your partner.”

This time, there was no pause between the question and Katsuki's answer. Izuku was sitting on the edge of his seat basically eating his mic in anticipation. “I've only ever had one partner, and I'm only ever going to have one partner. No one else could keep up with me.”

Surprise spread across Mirio's face, and something in Izuku's chest took flight. He felt like he was miles above the earth, lightheaded and grounded all at the same time.

The silence stretched on, and after a moment, the sign switched off long enough for Nejire to say, "Whoever is purring, could you, like, not? It's cute and all, but terrible for the audio."

Heat flooded Izuku's face as he realized he was the one purring.

Mirio cleared his throat as the sign flicked back on. “So, what took you so long to start skating together again?”

This time when Katsuki answered, he looked straight at Izuku. “It's hard to see a follow get dropped and severely injured. Something like that puts doubt into everyone who's there to witness it. It's harder when the follow is someone important to you. Things like that damage everyone involved, and I'm no exception. I just never wanted to admit it.”

Tears fell in a sudden torrent down Izuku’s face, and he pushed further away from his mic. He pointed to it and motioned from Nejire to cut it as the first sob burbled up in his chest. He did his best to stifle the sound, curling in on himself and pressing both hands over his mouth.

“Well, that's something I've never really thought of!” Despite the fact that Mirio was continuing, he kept sending Izuku concerned glances, half out of his seat as if he wanted to round the table to him. Katsuki mimicked his posture, unsure whether he could leave his mic or not. “Let's continue on with the questions and then maybe we'll play a game!”

The tears went as suddenly as they appeared, and Izuku was back on his mic after a moment. He was the one to press his leg between Katsuki’s this time, hooking his ankle around the alpha’s.

It was only when they were headed back to the rink for their night practice that Izuku said, "You don't have to worry. I trust you more than anyone else. I know you'd never let me drop or get hurt. I trust you."

Katsuki glanced over at him. "I trust you too, Deku."

…..

It happened unexpectedly. So unexpectedly that when Katsuki caught Izuku and set him back on the ice to continue with the routine, they didn’t even stop to think. Only when Izuku turned to him, hands poised on each other for the second lift, did they both seem to go still.

They glided to a slow stop, staring at each other in startled confusion.

The scent of Izuku’s exuberance hit him first, snowmelt on pine trees and strong sweet mint. Then Izuku was throwing himself into Katsuki’s arms, screaming in a way that made Katsuki worry about someone overhearing. They hit the ice, the padding of his training tights the only thing that saved his tailbone, though he was still going to come away from the experience with a bruise.

It was all worth it for the feel of Izuku’s arms around him and the laughter spilling from his mouth and the tears dampening his t-shirt.

Katsuki hugged him back tightly, burying his face in the mass of curls.

“Kacchan, we-”

“Yeah!”

“You-”

“And you-”

“It felt so good,” Izuku sighed, voice lowering as he nuzzled against Katsuki sternum, “I forgot it could feel like that... I missed it. I can still feel my blood racing, but in a good way. Ah, this feeling!” His volume jumped, and again, he was laughing. Helpless, ecstatic laughter that was starting to leak into Katsuki.

He smothered his own laughter against Izuku’s hair. He got it, understood so completely that even if Izuku hadn’t taken the time to explain, he would have understood. His blood was singing -no, screaming- with the accomplishment. It had felt better than anything in the world.

Izuku’s weight bearing down on him from above. The heat of his skin against his palm. Catching him in his arms. The simple yet so, so, so extensive trust that Izuku had given him in the moment, and he’d returned in kind.

Everything together created a wonderfully heady feeling in Katsuki's stomach.

He let Izuku go willing when the omega started to pull back. He didn't go far though, just enough to look into Katsuki's face.

Green eyes sparkling and smile wide as the sun, he was beautiful in a way that physically hurt Katsuki. "Let's do it again!"

Rolling his eyes, Katsuki pushed himself up to sit properly. "You know we shouldn't have done it to begin with. We're alone here without any spotters or even just someone to get help if something happens. It was reckless." Even as he said the words though, he wanted to just say yes and go until they were both too exhausted to walk back home.

Izuku just kept staring at him, blatantly waiting him out.

It didn't take long for him to cave. "Fine, but only one more time. We'll do the rest in the studio tomorrow before coming back to the ice."

"Yes!" Izuku cheered, clambering to his feet before helping Katsuki stand. "We could ask Mr. Toshinori and Mr. Aizawa to come stay late or come to morning practices. We're going to need all the time we can get to practice the lifts. We're already so close to the exhibition!"

Izuku prattled on as they got back into the flow, and Katsuki was only happier when Izuku was in the air above him again.

[salexectrian-heir]

Loki: Chapter 10*

Pairing: Solavellan Rating: E* Summary: Lavellan rescued a mischievious sphynx kitten outside her work who loves her dearly. But his destructive habits start to get out of hand when he steals her attractive neighbor’s underwear… repeatedly. [Previous Chapter]   [Start at the Beginning]  [Read on AO3]

Entering the laundry room, dirty basket in tow, she happened to look over at Solas’ apartment door. Her heart ached. She was past the point of denying that not seeing him, being with him, hurt. She hadn’t seen him in a week and half. He told her he could be delayed coming home, given the weather forecast. It had called for a storm. A big one. One that could potentially delay all flights until further notice, kind of storm. It hadn’t struck Haven yet, but it had started a path of devastation further North, where Arlathan lay yesterday morning. In the last text she received from him, he was waiting at the airport, unsure of what was going to happen to his flight. Glancing at the fitbit on her wrist, the time was ten past two am.  He should have been home six hours ago. 

She pushed away the worry that was eating at the edges of her mind. She propped the laundry door open with the rag that somehow all the tenants on her floor knew to use as the doorstop. No one knows where the rag came from, or who had it previously belonged to. Everyone just knew to use it.  A universal law of the laundry room.

It felt even more abandoned, with only Anise to occupy its machines. Loki was not with her tonight. He had passed out on her bed and was happily dreaming between her pillows when she left the apartment. He had been too cute to be disturbed. 

That left Anise alone with her thoughts and dirty scrubs. 

She loaded them in separately from the rest of her laundry in their own machine. The perks of doing your laundry in the wee hours of the morning was that all the machines were free. Usually she left the machines closest to the door available for Solas, who somehow always managed to arrive two minutes after she did, but tonight she took them all. She was loading her last batch when she heard stumbling footsteps echoing from the stairwell through the open door. 

Her heart jump started. There could only be one person coming home at this hour. 

She rushed through the settings on the machine, pressed start, and made it out of the laundry room just as Solas made it to the landing of their floor,dragging his suitcase and briefcase behind him. He looked exhausted, even more so than usual. There was a dreariness that clung to him that she could feel even from ten feet away. Her smile faltered as his tired eyes met hers. 

She rushed to him, and to her surprise, he dropped his belongings  and his arms opened to receive her immediately. He pulled her into a tight hug, his weight somewhat collapsing into the embrace. He nuzzled her temple before burying his face in her hair. 

“Rough week,” she asked quietly, returning his hug.

“Mmh,” he hummed, and it tickled her ear, “Unbearably so.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He made a dissenting noise, almost a groan. “Not tonight.”

She nipped at his jaw, eliciting a breathless chuckle. His arms tightened around her, as his lips trailed sleepy kisses along the crown of her head. He brought one hand up to cradle the back of her head, before resting his forehead against hers. 

His discomfort was tangible. And Anise hated feeling so helpless to ease it. 

“Let’s get you inside before you fall asleep on me,” she teased. And he just nodded against her face, which made her laugh. 

She stepped back, and his arms fell away. The sudden lack of his touch sent her nerve endings screaming to be returned to his arms.  She picked up his briefcase and set it atop his suitcase, as he fumbled with getting out his keys. One the second try, he managed to get the door open and himself through. She followed him inside, one hand on his cases, the other on his back.

He didn’t bother with the light, and headed straight to his bedroom. In the darkness, his apartment appeared much how she remembered it, save for the coffee table which was unusually bare. She dropped his suitcase in the hall and caught him just before he collapsed on the bed.

“You can’t sleep in your suit,” she gently chided, peeling him out of his jacket, “it’s dirty.”

He mumbled something barely coherent, and let her strip it off. In his closet, there were a line of suits in garment bags, a few sweaters, including the one she made for him, and a couple pairs of jeans. In the corner was his empty laundry basket. She’d recognize it anywhere. She hung up his jacket on an empty hanger and turned back. 

From the soft light in the closet, she could see that on his own he managed to get two of his shirt buttons undone. She covered her mouth to prevent a giggle from surfacing. He was so incredibly adorable when he was tired. It was almost like he was in another world entirely, completely unaware that he had spent the last thirty seconds on the same button. 

“Creators, just let me do it,” she snickered, stepping up to him and swatting his hands away. 

Her first mistake was making eye contact with him as she untucked his shirt from his pants. The outline of his face was washed in the faint glow from behind her, but even so she could make out his expression. 

Exhaustion, longing, and wonder stared back at her 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she returned her focus to the buttons. Somehow, it was so much harder under his gaze. Each one she undid revealed more of his chest, his stomach, the patch of skin just above his belt. Slowly, she pushed the fabric down his biceps. His breath caught when his shirt fell from his body to the floor, leaving him bare. 

A shiver ran down her spine when he ran a finger along her jaw, tipping her chin up to look at him. His palm slid against her cheek, cupping her face, while his thumb traced the shape of her lower lip. She reflexively leaned into his touch. How she had missed it, missed him. 

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his grip on her chin tightened, pulling her in for a kiss. 

His mouth was more inviting than she remembered, so soft, so warm, she practically melted into it. His lips worked slowly against hers, unhurried, yet with each kiss he laid upon her, their intensity seemed to grow. The hand that held her face moved to twist into her hair, pulling on it in such a way that sparked a fire in her stomach, and spread like wild through her core. Every inch of her was aching to be touched.

A soft moan escaped from her as she responded in kind, her hands drifting down his torso, enjoying the way his muscles tensed under her touch the lower she went. The belt buckle was cold in her hands as she worked it off him, a stark contrast to his tongue that dipped into her mouth. His pants joined his shirt, and shortly her own followed.   

She wound her arms around him, pressing her body against his own, and let him topple them onto the bed. It was just as heavenly as the first time she laid in it with him. A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the way his body had moved against hers, the electric sensation of sharing the most intimate parts of herself with the equally lonely soul she had found.

 She pushed him down against the pillows, breaking their kiss. The faint light from the closet cast shadows on half of his face, accenting the angles of his cheekbones and swollen lips. He studied her, trailing the knuckles of his right hand down the side of her body, roaming the expanse of her bare skin, before meeting her gaze. The answer to the unspoken question was smouldering in his half-lidded eyes. She moved to straddle him and one hand slipped between her thighs while the other maintained a grip on her hip. He traced the folds of sex, swirling in a steady motion before fixating on her clit. His movements started slow, a continuous tender touch that gradually increased in both speed and pressure. She curled her hands into the pillow on either side of his head when her need became too much. Reading the tension in her body, he ceased and positioned himself beneath the apex of her thighs.  

His fingers dug into her as she sank down, her walls throbbing around his hardened cock. She bit down on her lip to stifle a cry. The sensation of being filled so fully by him was one she thought she might never get used to, nor did she want to. Settling into a slow rhythm at first, she let herself adjust to the feel of him buried within.  The feel of him moving both inside and out was searing and yet soothing. 

He was straining beneath her, wanting to match the roll of her hips with thrusts of his own,  but holding back. His mouth was hot on her throat, nipping and sucking his way down to her collarbone, as if trying to make up for lost time. 

In that dim light, the desire and tension that had been rising between them came crashing down.

 “Come for me,” he said.

Anise did her best to quell the cry in her throat as she came undone, but it came out anyway as she buried her face in his shoulder. When he lost control, it reverberated through her core, the pleasant rush as he spent himself inside her, and his movements came to a sporadic stop. He grinded himself into her slowly, once, twice more as her writhing ceased on top of him. 

Her breath came in heavy on his neck. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to stay lingering in this moment for as long as she could, knowing it would be taken from her well before she was ready to let it go. His fingers were light on her back, drawing simple designs, as she caught her breath. The patterns became less steady, less intentional, and smaller as his breathing evened out. Eventually, they stopped, his hand finding a place to rest between the blades of her shoulders. A welcomed weight.

She lay there listening to his heart beat, strong, and constant beneath her head. She closed her eyes, and nearly let the lullaby of his body pull her under, when she shot up with a jolt. Her laundry. It most definitely ready to be switched over. There was a tug at her waist that pulled her back. 

“Vhenan, wait,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Her body went completely still, except for her heart, which kicked itself into overdrive.

“What did you just call me,” she whispered, ignoring the pounding in her ears. 

He pulled her swiftly back down, and hid his face in her neck, response muffled by her hair. 

“Oh no, you don’t get out of this that easily,” she laughed, trying to pry herself from his grip. It failed. His embrace was too strong. 

“You heard me,” he mumbled against her temple. 

She laughed again, peering down at him, “Damn, you’re not old fashioned, you’re ancie-”

Her voice was cut off by a fervent kiss, his fingers tangling back into her hair and pulling her flush to his chest. She allowed him this, as every teasing jab she could think of melted away with each press of his lips. Much sooner than she wanted, but longer than she had expected, they stopped making out, and he soon fell asleep. She carefully pried herself from his arms to clean off. 

She piled her hair on top of her head in a messy bun to avoid getting wet, and stepped into his shower to rinse herself off. Rolling her shoulders, she took a look around. The only contents inside were an unscented bar of soap, facial cleanser, and… she leaned out of the water to pick up a small bottle of shampoo nestled in the corner. It was a travel sized version of the brand she used. It was even the same scent.  

Suddenly, she found it hard to swallow again. 

Vhenan. 

She cradled the bottle to her chest and let the hot water run down her back. It was a simple gesture, really, but one that no one had ever done for her before. Perhaps she was reading into it too much… but… 

She turned the water off and replaced the shampoo back to its spot. She tucked a damp strand of hair that had fallen loose behind her ear, tugging its end as she made up her mind. 

My laundry will still be there in the morning. 

Gently, she climbed back into his bed and into his arms. His breathing was deep, and even. 

Sound asleep.

She laid her head next to his and lightly traced the shape of his jaw, mimicking what he had done to her earlier. 

“Vhenan,” she whispered, trying out the word on her tongue, and decided she liked the way it felt--but wasn’t about to admit that out loud. “On era’vun.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 6-Everyday

Hello everyone! Extra thanks to @duplicitywrites for coming up with the idea of a Groundhog Day! 

***

The worst part is that Harry never remembers him.

***

Tom is holding Harry's guts in.  Harry's in so much pain his eyes aren't tracking, and a bubble of blood forms at his lips. It pops and droplets flick onto Tom’s face. It doesn't matter. What's a little more blood?

“Go,” Harry wheezes, and Tom's genuinely impressed he made actual sound, with the state his diaphragm isn’t in. He lackadaisically waves one hand, before he realizes that it's missing and just. Stops. “We both know this doesn't matter.”

Tom nods.  It doesn't matter, not really. But it also does, to Tom, so Tom stops applying pressure with his hands and waits for that glow in Harry's eyes to die before he moves on.

***

Tom used to be terrified of dying. He's not anymore. He's done it so many times, so many different ways. How can you be afraid of something that happens every day?

***

“How did you get it to stop?” Tom asks, desperate, the first time he meets Harry.

Harry takes a deep breath, caps an Inferi over Tom’s shoulder. The way he moves is unreal. His voice is casual. “I got injured, real bad, but not enough to die right away. I passed out and the field medics got me. They bled me out, until it was red again.” Another burst of fire, another dropped horde of Inferi. Tom isn’t sure if he’s full of envy or dread.

“It hurt so bad I thought I died for real,” Harry laughs, cheerfully, and shoots another one.  

***

“We should fuck,” Tom states. He’s staring at the nape of Harry's neck, at the line of clean-looking skin at Harry's hairline where his sweat has pushed away the grime. He wants to lick it. Or bite it. He's not picky.

Harry glares at him out of the corner of his eye, still maintaining good coverage with his gun. It's pointless. There aren't any Inferi until they hit the second outbuilding, and Tom will kill those three.

“I’m going to go with no, Riddle. And I'm not even flattered.” Harry's voice is dry, but Tom knows him so well he can tell he's amused despite himself.

Tom shrugs, like he doesn't want this almost as bad as he wants the morrow. “We have before,” he lies.

Harry shakes his head, obviously exasperated. There's a smile on the corners of his lips. Tom loves that smile. “I don't believe you.”

Tom shouldn't be surprised. Tom is new to Harry every day, but he still hasn't managed to successfully lie to him even once. Every day, Harry just looks up from where Tom blows the Inferi off of him, says a small, ‘Oh, you too?’, and follows him off the battlefield. Just like that. Still, Tom’s offended, more than he should be.

“What, you don't think you would ever condescend to bed me? You're straight?” Tom snarls. “I'm not ‘your type’?”

“No.” Harry's smiling outright now, and it takes the edge of Tom's anger, just like that. “I think I've been waiting. I’ll keep waiting. I'll wait until it will motivate you the most,” he says, sly, eyes gleaming.

***

“Good luck today, Tom,” Harry wishes him, voice soft. Tom can't feel his body, can't move his legs. The Inferi are screaming for flesh, and Tom can hear it getting closer. They have one bullet. Harry puts the barrel of his service pistol to Tom’s forehead and pulls the trigger.

***

Dumbledore twinkles at him, the rat bastard, and tells him he’s needed on the front lines, to boost morale. Tom declines. That's not what he does. He's handsome and he knows it. His father had abandoned him, left him only a face, but it's a damn good one, and he's used it to stay invaluable and thus invulnerable, in the war. Tom does recruitment and public relations and social media relations. He does not fight.

Dumbledore twinkles and twinkles until he stops. Tom ends up in the front lines anyway.

***

Tom vomits after he kills his first Inferi. It's not because it looks almost human, despite being over pale with a strange triangle circle amalgamation on its brow. He's killed humans before—father. grandfather. grandmother—and he didn't puke then. He'd felt high, as close to believing in God that he'd ever been. It had felt addictive and heady and right and he'd decided right then he’d never do it again because otherwise he'd never stop.

No, Tom vomits because the creature explodes into viscous black sludge, splattering his nose and mouth, squirting on his tongue. The fluid tastes like anise and motor oil and Tom knows the instant he tastes it everything is wrong. He dies for the first time, fifteen minutes later, teeth still stained black.

***

He and Harry are in a tiny cabin. Tom plucks a shotgun from inside the pantry and some buckshot from a drawer in the bathroom. He hands both to Harry.

Harry smiles at him, wan. He’s tired, and Tom knows he’s in pain all up his side from being thrown by the Inferi. “Thanks, Tom.”

Tom kisses him, brief, his mouth scorching hot against his own. He's been cold, so very cold, ever since he started dying. He's not sure if it's psychological or because there is black sludge to replace the blood in his chest.

Harry’s smile brightens, his cheeks the tiniest bit red. “Thanks for that too.”

***

Dumbledore doesn't believe them about the Deathly Hallows. He calls Harry his boy and fixes Tom tea and listens as Tom drags up his whole life history from Gellert and his baby Aryan group to his poor sister and the hospice incidents.

He doesn't and doesn't and doesn't and doesn't, until Tom presses a kiss to Harry’s brow and pushes Harry's gun down and asks him not to shoot, that doesn’t work, please love. He’s not sure if he even means it. He's so sick of Dumbledore’s twinkle.

Dumbledore hands over the Deathstick Harry had confiscated from the Inferi. After that Tom remembers the goddamned combination.

***

The Resurrection Stone Tom knows by now to pry out of the forehead of that first Inferi he killed, and still kills. He has to be quick about it, because every day Harry's nearly half the field away, every day Harry's got an Inferi poised over his neck for Tom to punt off of him.

He gets very fast.

***

“I just don't know where the Cloak is,” Tom whispers. He and Harry are playing hooky today, pretending the lights in the sky are fireworks instead of mortar and heavy artillery fire.

Harry's head is heavy on Tom’s shoulder. He's crying, silent with it, eyes so swollen Tom can only see slits of green. It's so painful for him to sit here, Tom doesn't think he'll ever ask Harry to do this again, no matter how many more years this stretches.

He folds his arm around Harry, squeezes him tight. He presses a kiss to Harry's hair. It smells good for once, from their selfish shower. His brain doesn’t quite know how to reconcile it as Harry.  

***

The Cloak is in the Inferi’s Spawn Maw. Tom and Harry scope it out over the course of three days, and his stomach flips when he sees the pattern, or lack of one.

The few Inferi he and Harry kill at the Maw don't recycle. For the first time, since this never ending day began, something different is happening.

It’s only at the Maw, but that's enough. Time doesn't reset there. A fear he thought long dead—ha! rekindles in his belly.  

Harry gets it a good while after he does, when they retreat, after Tom zips him into a shared sleeping bag and curls up beside him, breathing in the scent of his filthy hair. He’s exhausted, bone deep, but he fights the urge to sleep, choosing instead to savor these last moments with Harry, before Tom goes to shoot himself and they cycle back around. His mind has honed and honed and honed itself, but his body is still the same as that first day, fit but not hardened with it.

Harry goes perfectly still. He takes Tom’s hand in between his, grip tight. Tom knows if he looked, he'd see Harry's fingers dimpling hard enough to blanch Tom's skin even paler white. “Promise me, Tom. Promise me you won't do it alone.”

Tom nuzzles deep into Harry's hair. It smells awful, like blood and burnt gunpowder and Harry’s drying fear sweat. He breathes in deeper and doesn't reply.

Harry always knows when he's lying, after all.

***

They’re back at the cabin. Tom leaves the shotgun and the buckshot where they are. He takes a step towards Harry instead.

“Please,” Tom whispers. He gently pulls the gun from Harry’s hands, then hooks his fingers into the curls of Harry’s belt loops.  He pulls Harry to him, gentle. “Please,” he repeats. In another time, another life, he'd have never said that word, never could have meant it. But this one day has become a new lifetime, and he means it now.

Harry melts to him, body going soft, pliant. He holds Tom’s face in his hands. They're gritty and acrid-smelling from gunpowder. Tom rubs his cheeks against them, presses kisses against the calluses on the inside of his palms.  

“Please, Harry, let me have you.” He whispers into Harry's skin. “Let me remember this for the both of us,” he pleads. He pulls Harry closer, grinds his hips, slow. “Let me.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. “Okay.” He kisses Tom back.

***

In the end, the Spawn Maw’s is just as horrific as he never could have imagined.

He does end up taking Harry, if only because he can’t fucking shake him after punting that Inferi off his almost-corpse, and he refuses to fix a future where Harry dies. He can’t shake Harry, so he also ends up taking a ragtag bunch of deserters he quite literally stumbled across about five years in todays ago instead of just stealing their Semtex. They’re crazy, and it takes less than fifteen minutes of convincing before they’re game.

“Groundhog Day!” The crazy curly haired woman who runs the group gleefully crows. She shot and killed him the first time, and Tom literally just saw her put a blasting cap in her mouth and bite down, so he thinks it’s understandable he misses her name. Stranger, maybe?

There are more Inferi in this maw than Tom could ever imagined, and half of the deserters are gone before they even get inside.

Inside holds a huge pool of black liquid, like the sludge Tom holds in his veins. It’s still, still, until one of the deserters trips as one of the Inferi tries to rip off his arms falls in. Then Inferi come pouring out, more bodies than that slick black morass could possibly hold.

The Cloak doesn’t turn out to be an object in quite the way the Stone and the Deathstick are, but more like a thick fur-like thing grown into a giant Inferi’s skin. It’s marked with the same bastardized circle triangle as that very first Inferi he killed and kills. He and Harry end up kneeling on the shrieking Inferi’s too many jointed limbs as Stranger-maybe laughs madly and flays it.

She’s barely ripped the last stretch of the Cloak free in a burst of anise and motor oil when even more Inferi pour in. She’s still laughing and holding it triumphantly aloft as she dies. Harry pulls the Cloak from her hands, and there’s no time.

“Riddle,” Harry stares at him with wide eyes. Tom hasn’t kissed his lips once today and he feels the lack like a split in his soul. Harry passes him the Cloak. “There’s no time.”

There are neatly packed blocks of Semtex in the backpack Stranger-maybe was carrying. Tom has the Stone and the Deathstick in his own, and the thick morass of the Cloak dripping in his hands.

Tom ignores the startled look in Harry’s eyes when he takes Harry’s hand for the boom.

***

Tom wakes up. His body is not sore and the sun is shining. It’s not today. Tom looks around, and some distant dim recognition supposes it might be yesterday. He’s not certain if this is better or worse, until he notices the people sort of milling about, stunned and aimless.

“The Inferi just keeled over and stopped moving,” one woman tells him, somewhat stunned. Tom lets her go, stunned himself.

His hand bleeds red when he cuts it. Tom could laugh in sheer joy.

It takes an interminable three hours to find him.

“Harry Potter.” Tom calls out, knowing better than to startle Harry. He can’t stop smiling and it feels unnatural on his face.

Harry jerks up from where he’s polishing his gun, looks Tom up and down. He smiles back. “Oh, you too?”

[onsand]

@mudwoven said:    'YOU KNOW SOME OF MY SECRETS. I KNOW SOME OF YOUR SECRETS.' from yelena belova.

    𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙼𝙴𝙻𝙻𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙾𝙽.  it’s strongest on his fingertips, the scent lingering even after a thorough washing of his hands.  will remembers with clarity the gentle sharpness of the fragrance in his kitchen, the way it had burst in the space when he’d drawn the herb out from the brown paper bag and started to tear the leaves from the stem.  they’d bruised between his fingers, the snapped-off edges leaving behind anise-scented residue that seeped into his skin.  will had barely finished eating when yelena had shown up at his doorstep, and the warmth of browned butter and herbs still lingers in the air, creeping into the living room from the back of the house.  it’s a surprisingly pleasant contrast to the bourbon in his hand, which he swirls absentmindedly, releasing more of its rich scent into the air.

    it’s something he’s picked up from hannibal—the nuance of fragrance.  he hadn’t been overly attuned to it before, only noticed it in a detached sort of way, in broad terms and general preferences.  but smell is important to hannibal, and so it has become important to will.  he who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.  and if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.  in his case, it is only by becoming one that he can fight them; he hunts the wolf by sewing himself into its skin.  he’d anticipated how easily it would fit.  how much he would like it.  it’s why he’s been careful to tether himself to society’s constraints, to keep that door inside himself shut and locked so nothing has the opportunity to slip out.

    now that it’s open, he’s finding it difficult to close it again.

    will takes a sip of the bourbon; it’s warm and sharp in his mouth, lighting a hot trail down his throat and into his stomach.  he doesn’t know if yelena likes bourbon—hadn’t shown her the decency of asking before he pulled out the bottle and two rocks glasses.  there are other things he could have offered her: the white wine in his refrigerator, whiskey, or gin, or even vodka.  a mixer, maybe.  but the bourbon had felt right.  appropriate.  and he isn’t overly interested in playing nice with acquaintances—or friends, for that matter, though will’s not sure who’s left to count among those ranks.  she’s interesting, though, or possesses the capacity to be; if she wasn’t, he would’ve left her out in the cold.

    he regards yelena openly, with detached calculation.  meets her gaze for only a moment before turning his focus to the room at large.  will isn’t wearing his glasses—he maintains his degree of separation in the brevity of their eye contact, lets her glimpse the shape of him beneath this constructed self, just as he catches sight of the shape of her in return.  it’s a subtle balance they’ve struck, the sort of accord that can tip to either side with the right kind of manipulation.  both of their fingers in the other’s pies, only just breaking the surface of the crust.

    “an eye for an eye,”    he agrees drily, lips tugging up sardonically.  he rests his bourbon on the seat of his chair, between his wide-splayed legs, encased safely within both his hands.  his fingers rub over the glass, sending up another curl of tarragon to blend with the aged wood and earthy vanilla radiating from the alcohol.  will looks back in yelena’s direction, gaze settling on the line of her collarbone.  “entanglement can become—messy, if there’s not an equal distribution of weight.”

    will lifts the bourbon to his lips and drinks. he doesn’t shift his gaze.

    “too many opportunities for loose ends.”

[thetruemek]

𝖄𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝕹𝖊𝖜 𝕭𝖔𝖘𝖘 𝕱𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝕳𝖊𝖑𝖑  has updated!!!

34. The Black Throne

You swirl the drink in your hand, a glass of diluted absinthe since this was pretty much the only thing you felt you could stomach right now, the anise and fennel notes calming your fried nerves. Blackhat, slumped in the armchair next to you, is starting to look more and more like his usual horrible self again with every new sip he takes from the disgusting purple liquor he poisoned you with before. The fire in the hearth is filling the room with a toasty heat, and you’re glad he called upon one of the hatbotlers to bring the drinks to your room, instead of risking the long way down to the lounge. He hadn’t said anything, but you could plainly see that he wasn’t even able to teleport anymore, let alone use his other powers most likely. He was still wounded. Not that you were fairing any better right now, but it took a lot of the usual tension away to know that he wouldn’t likely be able to crush you in a giant fist if you got cute with him. Provided you would somehow find your usual sass again under all this exhaustion and stupor.

You curl your bare toes under the blanket, feeling the life returning into your mangled body, and with it the pain and the realization of what had taken place not even an hour ago. By now it was the middle of the night but you couldn’t possibly sleep now, not like this. You doubt you are ever going to be able to sleep again!

   “Okay…” you finally break the silence, hoarse, earning an annoyed side glance from Blackhat which you ignore. “Are we finally gonna talk about this? What the fuck was that back there?!” Your voice grows louder despite your best efforts, the shock and terror still deeply rooted within your being. Blackhat growls something unintelligible but decidedly unfriendly and you scoff a laugh, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ, boss, you can’t keep me in the dark forever, not when I saw you reduced to a helpless blob of slimy innards for crying out loud! What did my SOUL do to you? You know I didn’t do it on purpose, it reacted on its own because your greedy ass,” you point an accusing finger at him, the blanket he had the hatbotler bring up as well slipping from your shoulder, “was about to snatch it! And Wingdings knew that this was going to happen, shit, he had planned it to happen from the start! Blackhat, I was this close to actually killing you, how many people managed to do that before me?!”

   “Will you shut it for one bloody minute, you’re giving me a proper migraine you church-bell*!” Blackhat suddenly barks at you, crushing the glass in his hand and looking down at the mess of spilled alcohol and shards in his lap with another furious snarl furling his lips. “Bah! Now look what you made me do!” You sink back with a groan and wrap the blanket around your head, muffling a frustrated scream in the soft, eiderdown quilt.

   “Made you do?! I just saved your life, you asshat!” you cry out with a dry laugh when you emerge again, downing your own drink and smashing the glass into the flames, causing a greenish flash to erupt from the fireplace. “I had your cursed existence in my hands, and I chose to spare it!” – “A horrible decision, really…” he grouses into the bottle of liquor, taking a mighty swig straight from it now.

   “Glad we can agree on something for once!” you hiss back, piercing him with an angry glare. The room falls quiet once more, only the crackling of the fire disturbing the brooding silence. “I just… what was he trying to accomplish by killing you?”

   “Topple my empire, destroy my Organization, take over my network of course, you simple-minded-" The piece of firewood you throw at him hits him square in the side of his face, almost knocking the hat straight off. Blackhat turns to you with a look of utter disbelief before his face distorts in rage and he jumps off the chair, long claws reaching for you. “Why you insolent, little-!”

   “So this is how you repay your debts? Some half-hour gentleman** you are.” You say calmly, steadily, raising your chin in haughty superiority. He stops and slowly sinks back into the armchair, talons scratching up the leather, undoubtedly imagining your skin beneath them. Then he eyes you a bit more thoughtful, the anger leaving him for a moment.

Keep Reading

[ariseresound]

[Text: from Anise to Sync]: ssssooo what is your plan to get Ion to talk to Luke? Lock them up in a closet or something?

Sync growled at seeing it was the little demon texting him. His kitten climbed on top of him and curled up on his stomach to sleep. Sighing, he ignored her message and looked around on his Instagram. 

Petting his kitten, he let the small thing sleep. He still needed a name for it actually...

[frost-feathers]

desperation / hope

“You want me to do what?” 

The asura grins smugly as he crosses his arms. “I want you to join the Pact.”

They’re sitting across from each other at a table in The Dead End. Besides a couple of too-drunk-to-function regulars and the bartender, the place is quiet and empty. A perfect place for a short meeting. Candlelight flickers over the human’s face as she looks him up and down, calculating just how sincere he is. When she realizes he is being completely serious, she snorts in both shock and denial. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“On the contrary, Miss Vass.” Demolitionist Tonn says, “I do believe you are a perfect candidate for my apprentice.” 

She leans back in her chair and props her feet up on the wooden table. “And what makes you say that?” 

“To be completely honest, I find the other Pact members to be... lacking with the explosive spark needed for this line of work. I could find some College of Dynamics student to work for me but well... you know how those upstart college students are. It’d be too much of a hassle. Then I read about your little stunt in the Krytan newspaper.” He pulls said newspaper out of his pack and unfolds it with a flourish. Reading aloud, “’Ex-bandit turned vigilante kills famed Two-Blade Pete in massive explosion.’ Now that’s why I call firepower.” 

Agrona chuckles. “Poor bastard didn’t see it coming. The Shining Blade has some really good explosives, but a little tinkering makes them all the more potent.”

“And that’s exactly why I want you.” His eyes are practically sparkling with admiration and wonder. “You go beyond what has already been made, and make it better. With our combined efforts, we can make bombs that can kill a dragon. The Pact has already gotten closer than anyone else to defeating Zhaitan. The Marshal and Commander already took down one of his strongest champions. You could seriously make a difference if you helped us.” 

The woman bites her lip and looks away. Can she really make that much of a difference? She’s just a street rat with a few flimsy gadgets; she’s no soldier. No technician. 

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else you can get? No charr or-” 

“Miss Vass,” Tonn interrupts. “You are a rare prodigy when it comes to demolition. With little education on how to build explosives, you managed to completely destroy the hiding place of one of the most wanted bandit leaders in Kryta. Taking out a good number of his followers too. That talent should not go to waste mulling around the streets of such a backwater city.” 

 Agrona clicks her tongue but doesn’t answer. 

Tonn waits a patient moment before sighing and getting up from his seat. “If it’s the fear of breaking your parole that’s stopping you, I can arrange for it to be taken away. You’re a hero, Agrona. That snake of a countess shouldn’t be keeping you on a leash because you did one bad thing in the name of good.” 

As he leaves, he slides a letter in front of her. “Just in case you change your mind.” 

Her nails dig into her arms as the doors shut behind him.

---

She can taste ash on her tongue and smoke in her lungs. She coughs to expel the dust from her throat and forces herself to get up. Get up, dammit, the battle’s not over yet. 

 A still burning pillar collapses near her and it shakes the ground. Once a secure base hidden in the caves near Divinity’s Reach, now rubble and flames after the explosion. Despite being prone on the ground, Agrona smirks at her victory. 

The victory is short-lived when a familiar figure pushes a broken crate off of himself. Two-Blade Pete stumbles to his feet, his bloodshot eyes immediately latching onto Agrona. His expression curls into one of rage.

“You little brat,” he spits. Agrona spurs into action, pushing herself up with her hands only to find she can’t move her foot. A quick look behind her shows her legs are trapped under fallen rocks. Her eyes dart back to Pete when she hears the click of the safety on his pistol. He was smirking now that his prey couldn’t escape. “I made a mistake letting you go so easily. I thought you were weak, a nuisance on the rest of the gang. I was relieved to see you go. Now I see I’ve underestimated you, Vass.” 

“You tried to kill him,” she growls back, “You tried to kill Quinn, you son of a bitch! Just for questioning your authority. You needed to be put down, and the Seraph didn’t have the guts.” 

Pete cackles, sauntering his way to her. “So you thought you’d do it for them? What a good little girl you are, such a patriotic citizen of Kryta. Did you forget why you hated them in the first place?” 

She shifts on the ground and feels something metal jab at her abdomen. Her eyes widen, immediately recognizing the feel of a gun at her hip. Careful not to draw his attention, she slowly inches her arm down while keeping her eyes on him. 

“When your parents died, they did nothing to help you. Cast you out onto the streets with little regard to your well-being. That’s why you joined us, Nona.”

“You don’t get to call me that, anymore.” She hisses as her fingers close around the weapon. 

“You’ve forgotten who you are. You’re one of them now.” Pete shakes his head and points the pistol directly between her eyes. “Say hello to your mother and father for me.” 

She whips out the pistol and fires. His body arches, head snapping back as the bullet enters his skull and dislodges through the back. Pete crumbles to the ground in a heap of twisted limbs and his eyes stare emptily up at the ceiling of the cave. Agrona wheezes, the realization of what she had done hitting her like centaur. She drops the pistol and collapses on her stomach again, trying to block out the ringing in her ears.

It takes only moments for the Seraph to arrive. The soldiers gawk at the scene, stunned into silence by the destruction of the area. One of the strongest bandit leaders is on the ground with blood pooling around his head and an ash-covered, messy-haired girl breathes heavily with her foot still caught under the rubble.  

Captain Thackeray pushes past the others and almost trips over himself in his effort to halt. He mutters a curse under his breath. His eyes dart between Agrona and Pete’s body before he rushes to get her out of there. A few soldiers join him and together they push the rocks off her legs. 

“What in Lyssa’s name did you do?” Logan asks frantically as he helps her up. 

“I did what you lot couldn’t.” Agrona murmurs, her vision beginning to swirl. Her knees buckle but Logan’s there to catch her. She feels herself beginning to pass out as he hoists her onto his back and orders the Seraph to search the wreckage. 

--- 

“You seriously want to just... let her go?!” 

“She’s a hero, Anise. She just took out one of the strongest bandits-” 

“And stole supplies from the Shining Blade to do it! This is a top secret organization; there’s no way she should’ve been able to--” 

“What difference does a few missing bombs make?!” 

“This is a matter of security! If some little street rat can get in, who’s to say someone even more dangerous can’t too?!” 

“You say that, but I think this is more about your bruised ego than “security.””

“Don’t you start with me, Logan Thackeray! I want her under watch, a week at minimum. I’ll send my own Blades to do it.” 

“Now you’re just exercising your control over her. I’ve had enough of this.” 

“We aren’t done here, Logan!” 

Logan pushes aside the curtain to Agrona’s room and closes it just as quickly. He waits until he can hear the clack of her heels fade away down the stairs. Taking a deep breath, he turns and smiles at the patient in the cot, whose face can only be described as... deadpan. 

It’s a sunny day outside and the light shines through the window and onto the captain as he takes a seat next to her bed. There are flowers and a few thank-you cards from the people of Divinity’s Reach for her on the nightstand. A newspaper clipping of her story too. Someone had drawn the scene of the wreckage, along with a small portrait of Agrona and Two-Blade Pete on the side. Her expression there mirrored the one on her face now. 

“Sounds like a marvelous conversation you had out there, Captain.” she says sarcastically. 

Logan chuckles. “Yeah, Countess Anise is very happy with your decision to steal their explosives.” 

Agrona shrugs. “They were kinda collecting dust down there. Plus I felt like they needed a few... upgrades.” 

“You know you could put those skills to better use as part of the Seraph.” Even though she presses her lips together and looks away from him, he continues, “We need people like you, strong individuals who do what needs to be done in order to protect Kryta.”  

“I didn’t do it for Kryta,” she hisses. “I did it for Quinn.” 

Logan’s expression doesn’t change and she hates it. Still ever so hopeful. He pats her on the shoulder as he stands up again. “Think about it, okay? I’ll see what I can do about Anise in the meantime.”

He walks out of the room and closes the curtain behind him. Agrona stares out the window as the thoughts begin to churn in her head. 

--- 

She’s been staring at the letter for ten minutes but still can’t bring herself to open it. The Pact’s seal is almost taunting her, begging her to rip it open and look inside. 

“What the fuck am I doing...?” She grumbles. Does she deserve this? This chance at a better life, away from Divinity’s Reach with its corrupt ministers and haughty nobles? To a place where she’ll be warm in her own bed with food in her stomach? This place is all she’s ever known; can she abandon it just like that? 

Does she allow herself that hope? 

Agrona grits her teeth and picks up the letter. Once it’s in her hands, a sense of relief washes over her.

Absolutely.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Since the Radford family is having another baby .... imagine Jamie and Claire having such a big family! I mean they're very sexually active so why not? ; )

This is not quite Radford Family big, but six is still a brood. :) Merry Christmas, anon. 🎄

Faith was crying.  Fat, hot tears positively bubbled out of her huge blue eyes.  The effect made Claire’s stomach clench, but also made her smile.  Their darling six-year-old with her penchant for reading chapter books again and again, the capacity to charm the grizzled ball of grey fur that Claire had named Adso into a drooling lover of a beast, and the warmest, most sensitive heart that a parent could hope for.

“He willna care if ye scratch it out, lass,” Jamie said evenly, inspecting the letter.  “Even Santa Claus kens that it’s no’ an easy task tae make an ‘F’ in cursive when ye’re just a wee thing.  And ye have two ‘F’s’ to make, no’ just one.”

This only made Faith cry harder, taking the card back from her father.  Claire pet down her daughter’s curls, smiling up at Jamie.  “Overtired,” she mouthed, reaching for the red glittered glue stick.  Jamie simply rolled his eyes.

The rest of their brood had long since fallen asleep.

Oliver, Samuel, and Evangeline, the post-IVF triplet surprise, had gone down early in their row of three identical cribs. It was the triplets’ first Christmas and their interests still dwelled on things that flashed when they caught the sun, their Da’s face appearing unexpectedly from behind his hands, and ripping out not insignificant chunks of their mother’s curly hair.  

After putting the finishing touches on cards for the triplets, five-year-old Brianna and three-year-old Henrietta had fallen asleep beneath the Christmas tree in the living room. A born storyteller like her Da, Brianna was babbling away with some Christmas story she claimed to have heard at her nursery school, but Jamie and Claire suspected was an amalgamation of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, The Mickey Mouse Christmas Carol from Netflix, and her own florid, roving imagination about the North Pole.  Staring up at the lights, chattering back and forth to one another, they had talked themselves to sleep.  

After a time, the “F” in “Faith” was formed into something more closely approximating what Faith had hoped and the “F” in “Fraser” was salvaged by Jamie’s able hand, Claire carried their eldest daughter up the stairs to her room.  Jamie gathered Bree and Henri up and slipped them into the beds in the room they shared and was standing at the kitchen pass through with two glasses in hand.

The entire house was spicy when Claire came down the stairs.  

Cloves.  Cinnamon.  Star anise.

“Six,” she said, a little exhausted.  “How in the hell did we end up with six kids?”

Jamie gave her the kind of smirk that made her roll her eyes, but also preceded a number of those six children.  She knew precisely how, if she was being honest with herself.  

“Mulled wine?” Jamie asked, indicating to a foggy clear mug with a cinnamon stick balanced on the edge.  She accepted it, a grateful smile passing over her lips.  

“What do you think the damage will be?”

“Weel, I told Bree that she wasna to put ‘puppy’ on her list three times, so I would wager that Bree’ll want a puppy, a horse, or a lion.”

Claire snorted.  “Stuffie it is, then.”

Jamie took the small stack of letters to Santa from the Christmas counter and followed his wife into the living room.  He sat first, beckoning her to sit next to him.  Without more invitation than that, Claire sat next to him, slipping her legs over his lap and resting her head against his shoulder.

“Who first?”

Smirking, Claire picked the extra glittery card out of the pile.  Bree had taken care of dumping half of a bottle of glue onto the card.  Not to be outdone, Henri had spilled enough glittery onto the card, the white paper barrier they’d put down to protect the table, and the dining room rug.  It was enough glitter that Claire was sure they’d still be finding it glistening on the bottoms of their feet when the girls were old enough not to believe in Santa any more.

“The triplets.  I’m quite interested to know what eight-month-olds want for Christmas.”

Snorting, Jamie took a long sip of his mulled wine as his wife read aloud.

“Dear Saint Nicholas, we have been rotten this year.”  Claire’s eyes bulged, her brow furrowing.  “Where in God’s name did your daughter learn the word ‘rotten’?”

Jamie, laughing openly before kissing her on the temple.  “It’s even spelled correctly, Sassenach.”

Claire continued, “We do not want any presents this year.  Bree and Henry –– she can spell ‘rotten’ but not her own sister’s name, Jamie! –– should have the presents.  Faith two, like the number.  Not t-o-o.”

“She’s six,” Jamie chuckled, folding the card.  “We’ll get a good laugh when we trot these out when they’re older.”

Claire snorted.  “Okay.  Henri’s turn.  Bree did most of the work, so I don’t expect it will be much more than ‘Bree deserves a pony.’”

Jamie’s hand found his wife’s thigh, running an absent-minded line from hip to knee over and over as Claire attempted to fight through the half dozen layers of scotch tape on the seal.  Eventually, she managed to extract a card covered with a green triangle tree drawn by Jamie and a series of black, red, and yellow scribbles from the envelope.

“Santa, my name is Faith Fraser.  I hope that you are having a nice holiday.  As you know, Christmas will be here soon.  My little sister is named Henrietta.  She is too small to write to you. She has some Christmas wishes.”

Claire’s eyes burned with tears as she read the card.  Jamie gave her a slight squeeze.  

“My Da and my Mama said we should each list three things.  Please tell your elves that Henrietta would like one of the following: 1. An Elmo doll. 2. A Barbie dream house. 3. A puppy.  Thank you very much.  Have a safe trip from the North Pole.  Very truly yours, Faith Fraser.”

Mopping her tears with the glitter-caked sleeve of her sweatshirt, Claire added the first two items to the shopping list.  “Okay.  Bree’s list.”

Jamie pulled the card from the envelope.  He immediately smirked, turning it over for Claire to see.  “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,” she ground out, rolling her eyes.  True to form, and predictable as death and taxes, Bree had listed: puppy (“1 of the 101 dalmayshuns” or “Golden Doodle”), horse, and tiger.  “This child completely skipped the terrible twos. What is it when you’re six and an absolute pill?”

“Ye ken that she’s you through and through, aye?” Jamie chuckled.  “It’s payback for what ye put yer puir Mam through all those years.”

Claire snorted, shoving the card back into the envelope.  “We can get her a stuffie and some other things.  Next year I’m sure she’ll wise up and note that she means a real live, breathing animal, but we can ward off a puppy at least until the triplets are mobile enough to wear the thing out.”

Making a quiet ‘hmmmm’ noise of agreement, Jamie held up the final card.  Claire’s heart soared at the letter.  With each Christmas, she felt herself a little more worried that the magic of the process of writing to Santa would be over.  That someday Faith would come home, drop her book bag on the front landing, and say that she no longer believed in Santa Clause.  The childish chub had faded from her fingers, her knees gotten knobbier, and her face slimmed down in the last six months.  Claire knew that it was only a matter of time until some kid brought the entire dream to an end.

“Dearest Santa Claus.  My name is Faith Fraser and I am six years old.  I live in a house with my mum and my da, my little sisters Henrietta, Brianna, and Evangeline. My little brothers Samuel and Oliver live here with us.  For Christmas, I am happy to spend my school holiday rehearsing in our church nativity and playing with my sisters and brothers.  For Christmas I would like some new chapter books or a pencil pouch.  Diary of a Wimpy Kid books are good, have you read them, Santa?  Also, I would not mind a puppy.”

Claire sighed against Jamie’s chest, hand absently tracing up his flank.  “Is this puppy thing a conspiracy?” he chuckled, taking another long sip of his mulled wine.  She pressed her lips over his breastbone.  “We’re far outmatched.”

“Do we do it?  A Dalmatian or a Golden Doodle?”

“I dinna ken what a Golden Doodle is exactly?” The emphasis he put on golden and doodle made Claire laugh.  Picking up on the slight teasing, he tickled her sides. “Can ye rescue a Golden Doodle?”

“I think it depends.  It’s not like they’re commonly showing up in shelters, I bet.  Maybe tomorrow you and I go look? We can keep it at my parents’ place for a bit? Just until we’re ready to ruin our lives on Christmas morning?”

Snorting, Jamie pressed his lips into her hair, turning off the table lamp. “I would guess so.  Henry and Julia will love us.”

“They’re used to it,” she mumbled against the fabric of his shirt, curling her fingers into his shirt.  “Brianna is me and I am Brianna through and through.  Seems like something she’ll do to us one day.”

After a time, Claire’s breathing evened out in the way that told him she was fast asleep.

Lifting a piece of her hair, he looked down at his slumbering wife.  The one who had made him a husband and a father six times over, and felt a feeling of love draw him tight.  They had created traditions and a home for an entire brood.  He could not have imagined a more perfect evening than making cards with their kids and enjoying the quiet review of them with his wife.

He kissed her, careful not to rouse her, and whispered, “I dinna ken what Christmas story Brianna was tellin’ Henri, but I like the idea of fallin’ asleep by this tree wi’ ye, Claire.”

She mumbled a quiet, sleepy noise against his chest.  Pulling a blanket from the back of the couch over their neatly joined bodies, he leaned back into the belly of the couch and drew her closer.

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Afterward (9/13)

Connor

19 January | ~ 15:00

Upon seeing Connor’s body, I realized things are worse than I thought. I believe that the body should  be destroyed and the whole hospital cleansed. I am currently in a locked in the morgue with April and Dr. Halstead, but not Connor. I don’t know where he is. My best guess, at this time, is that he is at the center of the current chaos. April I need you to read the first page of this quicky. I don’t have much time.

-

 April wheels Sarah into the room and up to the cold metal slab with Connor’s body on it. It’s rotting, but the room’s been filled with preservatives- as has his body- to try and protect them from the smell. She struggles to her feet and steadies herself on the edge of the table. The blood that covers Connor’s ghost has been wiped off his skin, and there’s a stapled but unhealed gash from his sternum to his lower stomach, presumably from the autopsy, and someone has taken the time to drape a sheet over his waist for modesty. It’s a nice gesture. A human one.

In terms of health and safety, Sarah should probably put gloves on before she touches a body, but in terms of her job, there’s no use. She needs her hands right now. Which also means letting go of the table. The second she tries, she begins to lose her balance, only for April’s hands to settle firmly on her waist and her chest to press into Sarah’s back.

“I’ve got you,” she says gently. And Sarah believes her.

She raises shaky hands to cup the body’s face, all waxy pallid skin that flakes at her touch. Later, when they’re not in such imminent danger, she thinks she might throw up about it. But not right now, when she needs to be strong. When she carefully lifts the face, blood begins dripping from the nose, bright red and thin, like it would from a living body. Not a decomposing one.

“What the fuck,” Will hisses.

Sarah ignores him.

Carefully, she lowers the head down again and steels herself for what she’s about to do next. One by one, she pries the staples out of the chest and pulls slightly at the skin to allow the incision to fall open. In spite of broken ribs from the autopsy- they were in the procedure report- everything seems to be in place. They’re not too badly damaged, seem all right, but then she realizes something is moving.

“Sarah,” April says behind her, voice high and slightly panicked. “Sarah, what’s going on?”

The movement, as it turns out, is the body’s heart. It’s still beating. It’s black, deoxygenated, but beating slow and steady. This, right here, is the literal heart of everything that’s been happening in the hospital. It needs to be destroyed, but first, it has to be removed from the body. Sarah really doesn’t want to. But she doesn’t have a choice, and forces herself not to vomit at the thought. She’s done this before. Not in a situation like this, not with people nearby, not with the first person she’s kissed in years standing behind her, but she’s done this before.

“Dr. Halstead-”

“You can call me Will now, I think,” Will interrupts. “Since my dead b- since my dead friend tried to kill you and all.”

The slip up rings in her ears. That could be what made Connor a target in the first place. “Will, I need you to get me a couple things, can you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Right. I need, a- a knife thing. Whatever they’re called. Something sharp and precise. And I need something I can close airtight, like a biohazard bag or something. Quickly.”

April shifts uneasily behind her. “What’re you going to do?”

“I need to get rid of the infestation.”

Thankfully, Will didn’t hear. That, or he’s choosing to ignore it as he searches for what she needs. April moves a hand from Sarah’s waist to spray the anise into the air again, which is a good idea considering what she’s about to try. It’s not a strong protector, but hopefully it’ll allow her to remove and contain the heart until it can be destroyed. But that means she definitely has to get out of this hospital. Cleanse all her tools, destroy it. And hopefully, that’ll clear the spirits haunting April too, which she should really be more concerned about than she is. April needs protecting.

“Okay, I’ve got the scalpel.” Will sets it on the edge of the table, careful not to touch the body. “Still looking for a biohazard bag.”

Sarah curls her hand around the tool and it feels so light. Her usuals are heavy with the weight of what they’ve done and the connected materials. This will have to do. She shuts her eyes and does her best to cleanse it. She doesn’t have real smoke, or any of her crystals, or anything else she’d normally use, but she focuses on making herself light and trying to extend that to the scalpel. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe not. But it isn’t like they have much time.

She braces one hand in the body’s chest, holding a lung out of the way as she starts cutting at one of the arteries near the heart. It oozes something that isn’t quite blood, but at the same time, screaming begins in the difference.

Will covers his ears. “Do you guys hear-”

The hospital PA system starts, then, talking about codes and making orders, and April runs from Sarah’s side to lock the door tightly. Sarah knows something is wrong, extremely wrong, but she can’t think about that. She keeps sawing through the artery, even as it begins to coat her hands in the not-blood and she can faintly hear April trying to keep Will from hyperventilating. Her legs are weak. It’s hard to tell how long she can stay standing up for this, but it doesn’t really matter right now.

At that moment, something cold and vaguely slimy wraps around her wrist.

She actually does come close to vomiting this time when she realizes it’s the body’s hand. Sarah refuses to call it Connor, because it isn’t him anymore. The spirit isn’t really either.  A sharp sound close to panic manages to escape as she drops the scalpel and starts trying to pull out of its grip. The body sits up, stares at her and bares its teeth as a gunshot echos in the building. Connor did something. He made someone do something. People are hurt because Sarah pissed everything off and now she’s struggling to get the body to let go of her.

“I need help,” she manages to say, and suddenly April and Will are at her side, both breathing way too heavily and frantically trying to pry fingers off her wrist. “It’s got my right hand. One of you keep trying to cut out the heart.”

“I’ve got it,” Will answers.

He picks up the scalpel and, with a sound not unlike a sob, picks up where Sarah left off. Except now, the body changes tactics entirely. It stops fighting and looks at Will with what’s left of his face. “Sunshine, why are you doing this to me?” It asks, and it sounds just like Connor. Its face flickers, and it looks like he does without the blood or decay. She sees through it, but Will probably can’t. “You’re hurting me!”

“I- I-”

Will stares at his hands, coated in the not-blood. It must look red to him.

“Will, listen to me, it’s not real. This thing isn’t Connor anymore,” Sarah says desperately. At that exact moment, the body lets go of her. This isn’t good. “It’s not Connor. Don’t listen.”

“Give me the scalpel,” it says. “You’re hurting me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Will whimpers.

And he gives it the scalpel.

Before Sarah can blink, the blade is in her stomach, slowly dragging up in a mock of the autopsy slice on the body. It hurts, but at the same time, she feels cold. There’s blood dripping everywhere. April’s holding her again, yelling at her, but Sarah doesn’t hear it. Something here just feels wrong. 

“Will, its heart,” she chokes out. Or at least she thinks she does. Blood drools down her chin and chest. Someone needs to cut the heart out, or do anything to make this thing stop before it hurts April too. “Will-”

April says something, and then she’s pulling Sarah over to lay in the corner. She can’t breathe, and the pressure being applied to her stomach makes her squirm. If she’s going to die, she needs a blessing, to be cleansed so she doesn’t linger, but she can’t say as much because nothing in her body is listening. 

“Book,” Sarah manages to say.

A moment later, her notebook is in her hands and she’s scribbling down notes as fast as she can. This book could help people, including April, because the funny thing is, Sarah knows she’s dying. She can feel it. Her handwriting is getting more and more sloppy.

She points to the last phrase in the notebook, smearing blood everywhere, and as April tries to decipher it and find the page which lists the dying blessing, Sarah watches Will cry keep pulling at the body’s heart. It isn’t coming out well, not without the scalpel, but he’s trying so hard and the resistance is what mattered because Connor is this thing’s host. And Connor, he loves Will a lot.

Another loud bang echoes in Sarah’s ears. This is a war zone, but of a different sort. April finds the right page and she’s reading it as the world starts to fade at the edges. Her hearing fades to a ringing noise that would ordinarily give Sarah the worst headache. 

She’s cold. But April’s here, and Will is working at the body’s heart, and at least everything will be okay. Everything’s going to be okay because she helped.

Her eyes flutter shut. 

There isn’t a light to walk toward, or the voice of a loved one beckoning her ever closer. It’s just dark and cold. Sarah isn’t scared of it. She made her peace with death years ago, before she became what she is now. This is the end, and she trusts that she’s done what she’s supposed to, and April will be okay.

Her chest stops hurting. 

Her heart finally gives up only ten minutes after they entered the morgue.

[whirlybirbs]

girl can you write some bittercoffee amazingness about the reader finding out it’s Bucky’s bday?

— BIRTHDAY BOY!

a little #bittercoffee realted drabble about the reader & bucky celebrating his birthday. this is tooth rotting fluff. i love bucky barnes so much. wtf.

You’d figured out the date in passing – Steve had mentioned it, talked about how old Bucky was when he joined the 107th, how old Steve himself had been. You’d made a quick note to write it down, to mark it in your phone, which had sparked a big grin on Steve’s part. 

“You really care about him, huh?”

“Duh,” you chided, “Don’t you?”

Steve had nodded, and when Bucky entered the room, the conversation shifted.

That was weeks ago, and now your personal planner was displaying a happy little red blip on the 10th of March – the reminder reads ‘Bucky’s Birthday!’ and you keep it on the down-low. Between classes and work at the Tower, you sneak off to the grocery store to get necessary dinner and cake ingredients. 

You don’t see him much that week; he leaves for a mission Monday and comes home tired and bruised on Wednesday. You’re happy to see him for a bit between nightly rounds on Thursday evening and he promises he’ll see you this weekend. 

You make plans for Saturday, suggesting a lowkey night – Bucky jumps at the idea, making a comment about how his back is starting to kill him from carrying his ‘people personality’ around. He likes being himself; he doesn’t have to worry about being too quiet or too standoffish with you. You get it. Tony doesn’t – Tony tells him to smile more.

Bucky hates it.

Saturday evening rolls around and you swear you never want to cook again.

You’d managed to make sarmale and mici and even a beef tripe soup that Bucky had raved about once when you asked him about food his mom used to cook – the Romanian dishes were no easy feat seeing as you were the type to live off leftovers and take-out for majority of the week. It only took you the whole day. Marissa, your flat-mate, had helped set the dinner table, insisting that it would be her contribution to his birthday before she skirted out, giving you both a little privacy. 

The cake was iced, albeit poorly, and was sitting on the bottom shelf of your fridge, waiting to be cut and served.

You felt pretty good about all of it. 

Bucky knocks on your apartment door, wringing cold fingers as his breath curls around his nose. It’s cold for March – he never remembers it being this cold.

He hates it. 

He knows the second you pull the door open that something is up.

You have this big grin on your face, eyes bright, and you – you smell like… cabbage? And… beef. Bucky takes a deep inhale, stomach growling at the fleeting memory of a small Brooklyn dinner table full of food, his sisters crammed around it. 

“You did not,” he starts, eyes narrowed, “You didn’t cook.”

“Oh, I cooked,” you grin as he steps through the door, “I mean, maybe not well, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Bucky’s face softens when he sees the small dinner table set for two. The tension in his shoulders nearly melts away as he peels off his jacket and ball cap. He bends down and kisses you firmly on the cheek, fingers pressing into your jaw as he does. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“But I did,” you say, “Anything for the Birthday Boy.”

Bucky’s face splits, eyes creasing in the corners and dimples digging in – he laughs and it’s a bark from his chest. He crams his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight from socked foot to foot. It’s bashful. His nose is rosy.

“Who told you?”

“Steve,” you shrug, hands finding his abdomen as you blink up at him, “He mentioned it while ago. I made a note in my phone – I’ve been trying to get this ready all week, so let’s hope I didn’t fuck up the recipes.”

He leans again, nose bumping yours as he steals a gentle kiss. It lingers. You don’t complain.

He loves it.

Bucky moves across the room, peaking into the pans on the stove before he groans in appreciation. A small blurb of Romanian spills from his lips and you grin – he sounds excited. It’s enough for you. 

“Go ahead,” you chide, swatting his behind with an oven mit, “Sit down.”

He does as he’s told and as the courses are plopped onto his plate, his smile grows. He looks boyish, even with his hair tugged back in a bun, jaw darkened with a trimmed beard. He’s 101 years old. His smile shaves about 90 years off him.

You grab wine and settle in across from him.

“The last time I had this,” he says, mouthful of miri and brows creased in contemplation, “I musta been fifteen years old.”

You spend the rest of dinner sunning yourself in his bright-eyed expressions, his stories and his everything. You forget how much you love him sometimes – then he burps, pardons himself, and smiles. It’s an easy reminder. He’s a dork. Half way through dinner, you grin into your wine glass and bat an eyelash.

“I have that Cosmos show queued up on my laptop,” you hum, “I thought after cake we could settle in and watch it. It’s the one –”

“– The space one?”

You grin. His excitement is palpable. “Mhm, the space one.”

He chews his food and beams with delight.

Sure enough, once you’re both feeling pretty heavy with cabbage rolls and beef rolls and beef soup, you settle on plopping candles into his cake. Bucky makes quick work of the dishes and is sure to pack up the leftovers, insisting this stuff is probably still good for another week and that he is definitely stopping by to snack at night. 

Once the dishwasher is running – it always takes him a few minutes to remember how to work it again – his hands slip around your waist and his lips drop to the curve of your shoulder. He kisses you there and noses against the fabric of your sweater.

“Happy 101st Birthday, Bucky,” he reads, “Sounds right. I feel that old most days.”

“Is it the disconnect from modern technology,” you jest, “or the ache in your bones?”

“Both,” he chuckles, “But mostly my achin’ bones.”

You laugh, fingers finding his and giving them a squeeze. 

“So am I going to sing to you? Or do you wanna make a wish, blow these candles out, eat some cake and open your present?” you say, “Because I might kill you with my singing.”

Bucky’s face goes a little soft and his smile gets a little quiet. Less like the sun, more like a warm breeze.

“I have everything I could ever wish for, you know. You’re the whole package.”

The words settle in your chest and you pout. Bucky’s hands skirt your jaw. He kisses your temple. “Stop that, you’re gunna make a girl cry.”

“No,” he sways you, “No crying – not at this party.”

“Hey, it’s my party –”

“– And you’ll cry if you want to?”

You grin, a little proud he gets the reference. He’s learning. 

You don’t sing to him, but he blows out the candles (after wishing for you and him to get married someday) and you hand him a gift wrapped in recycled Christmas wrap. Bucky likes the dogs on it and he laughs at the antlers taped to their heads. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.���

“But I did.”

He tears open the package and nearly falls over at gift inside – his eyes are wide and mouth upturned with happiness. Inside the box is a set of new socks, a much needed gift from a man who’s socks frequently look like hobo socks, and a small book. The front says THOUGHTS and inside list prompts. You wrote him a nice note on the front cover, imploring him to write – he’s good at it, you read his war journal after all – and expressing your gratitude for him being in your life.

He reads it and gets misty eyed.

He loves you.

He spends the rest of the night curled around you in bed, half pay attention to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s narration, half paying attention to the way you lean into the touch of his hand as his fingers ghost through your hair. Bucky think that maybe turning 101 years old isn’t so bad if it means he can spend it with you – after all you don’t treat him like he’s some ancient supersoldier. You kiss him like he’s normal, you laugh at his jokes. You kiss his metal fingertips like they’re flesh. You love him for who he is – he’s not perfect, you know that.

Stubble tickles the back of your neck and you hum, eyes squeezing shut as he buries his face there. He breathes softly, fingers tightening in your hair for a moment as he cradles you and listens to your heartbeat. Bucky has to remind himself you’re real sometimes, and not just some fever dream he’ll wake up from. 

Your fingers find his. You roll a little, blinking back at him.

The kiss you share is lazy and lovely.

“Happy Birthday, Buck.”

He kisses you again, settling on enjoying the best gift he’s ever been given: you.

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[angryzilla]

We'll find how to make it with the rain; this rage will lead us through the burning plains | | Thesivaldence asked by @archadianskies

“Thes?”

A soft voice.

My heart broken by the blight.

“Theseus?”

Silver seeds tearing the soil.

It murmurs a little for a while.

A kiss on his forehead; different hands at once on his cheeks (rough and calloused; thinner and irregular with welt bumps).

“I know you’re awake.”

Theseus opens his eyes and settles his emerald gaze upon the face peering down at him— lanky fingers curling in the deepening sheets, shadows blue with the cloudy, purplish day in London; and the windows grow thick with fog.

Having them here and disobeying the trace of his injuries; remembering home and soft lights and candles crackling in the night. Rain is falling (spilling) and memories keep flooding but they’re not unkind, for once— almost gentle with shades of affectionate kisses and murmured I love you’s spreading through the spicy air (pumpkin butter and star anise).

“Feeling any better today?” Credence asks quietly as he moves back down and buries his face in the crook of Theseus’ neck, hot and welcoming; almost molded to receive Percival and him there.

“Hmm,” Theseus mumbles with his nose in his lover’s dark curls (he loves the faint scent of pine and lemon he can find) while Percival’s hand works the knots in his stomach by tracing soft arabesques and golden letters all over his flesh. “Think so.” Credence’s head perks up suddenly, giving him a worried look, his magic creating little spikes of aurum-coloured greens. “Baby, I’m definitely feeling better than yesterday evening, don’t you worry.”

A smile so hesitant at first (is he happy enough? Am I doing it right?) but making edelweisses bloom on the spot once it gets there.

The rain-filled darkness of the day before— the interrogation room; the blood of his Aurors and the severed hand sent as a proof; and the horror, really—

He shakes his head.

Slight quirk of the lips, slight tilt of the head.

The curtains seem to breathe through the copper rain and slowly— slowly, the smiles of ivory-white skulls grow bearable in the low morning light.

How out of the darkness leapt a pale hand that ended up curling in his red curls and caressed his forehead; how love gave him back to himself, not unremembering of the horrors painted in large gasoline and crimson strokes; how the disorderly parts of himself went back to something near a state of equalization, of balance returned.

Don’t sever me from reality, take me back, take me back, take me back to the start.

“You know that you are allowed to ask for help,” Credence sighs softly, his breath a gentle summer breeze brushing upon green-veined flesh and stitched up arteries.

“He won’t ever ask for help,” Percival butts in, sarcasm heavy on his tongue and rolling off in, electrically charged with thoughts of another time. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Our hands tied and bombs falling like snow and blue roses all over while things tear away at us, at us, at us; tiny opalescent gems of hatred.

It’s a moment fused into crystalline rocks and frozen grass— ice spreading upon a pond, licking at old wounds; colour of sand and sea and sky merged as the tide comes in and washes over his fingers buried in the sand.

A needle pushing in a vein— it pulses green and blue and scarlet bleeds out and drips—

Drips—

A few skips, an ellipse, the wind and pined wrists.

“Shh, Director, shhhh. Calm down, let us take care of you.”

Theseus tries to rise and wipe the crusted blood off his nose, off the corner of his lips; apprehends the rough bumps of it, of these valleys; his cheek burning with a blossoming purple.

“Where’s that little— lit— little shit, Septima?” and he grunts, feral. “You g—gave me a bloody d—do—dose, you— you bunch of corny id—diots.”

“It’s for your own good, for fuck’s sake,” Septima Bragge says, staring into the blood pits of his eyes made wild in the flesh and stench of himself.

That voice, smooth, a rougher whisper. She tightens her hold on his arm  particularly harshly, and Theseus does not yelp— he’s too gone for that with the drug injected.

“You’re bloody fucking lu—lucky you’re— you’re my Head Auror and that—” breathe, breathe, fucking breathe, fucking breathe Scamander “—that I trust y—you with my bl—oody fucking life, Bragge.”

Oh, he looks like some creature torn to shreds, harsh and snarling, sinking deep beneath her veins. And it’s not about her, it isn’t, he’s a nebula of anger and distorted anxiety.

“Don’t fight it, Director, please. Have a nice trip to Wonderland.”

And air hits that patch of irregular lips, flattens down—

Until it all goes quiet, just rumbles hitting against the Director’s lungs.

Everyone else just stands there, waiting.

“What— what happened to Mr. Scamander?” one of the junior Aurors asks in a concerned voice as she watches him fall into deep slumber.

Theseus’ head member of his Auror team settles her smooth, silver-polished steel of a stare on the junior Auror. “An asshole happened to our team and he took charge.”

She trembles a little as realisation blooms on her face.

“Yeah,” Septima mumbles, “you don’t want Theseus Scamander coming after you when you’ve injured someone he cares about.”

That cruel breathing that forces him to fold back his arms on his stomach.

“Escaping Scamander is your best chance at still being alive in the evening,” she tells her—  the way his long throat moves, the flutter that passes through as magic sizzles on his fingers.

How scary he is to other people, even his own team, when rage fills him up and chokes his throat.

”You are basically fleeing the fury of a hurricane. Would you stand in front of one and think, ”I can take it down myself?””

She shakes her head, left to right, a stretch of skin.

”There you go. Don’t ever piss him off if you value your life.”

“I don’t need help, my darlings, I need kisses.”

Credence snorts at that, feeling some of the tension leave his body since he knows there’s a playful air to his partner; and the tightness in his wrists loosens; he still sends him a pointed look.

“From you, very obviously, baby,” Theseus is quick to add, smirking intently; Credence pinches his side, making him squeak.

“Thes,” the younger man groans.

His clear eyebrows shoot up. “What did I do again? Don’t you believe me? You’re the only two people I want to kiss, I swear to Merlin and all higher magical deities—” Theseus asks, ignoring his baby’s scowl.

“Theseus,” Percival cuts in, stern and sharp. “Don’t play that game.”

He’s on his way to saying, a game? What game? But there’s no use in hiding anything to his other halves who know him as well as the back of their hands; he can feel his head start to pound. Theseus doesn’t know if he flinches or if Percival has scanned his magic, but he figures he shouldn’t bury his emotions under too-familiar hills of blurry smoke and liquid humour.

“Fine,” he sighs heavily, the leaves of his ribcage arching above his heart in curling blades of frost. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Another pointed look. The red-haired man sighs in defeat. With trembling fingers, he picks up Credence’s hand, traces the splatter of brown freckles hiding between and behind his fingers— his heart that stumbles against his muscles.

“... I’m okay. It’ll— get better, once I know Wilhelmina is out of danger.”

True, this time, this quiet onslaught of light where all pretenses dissolve and Theseus shows himself; hurt and vulnerable, lingering, crumbling, thoughts soaring.

“Let us take care of you, okay?”

Theseus gulps, then nods, steeling himself, the curve creased around his face in his pillow littered with strands of his reddish-gold hair; Credence brings up his hand and pushes back his curls, tucking them behind an ear and brushing his cheek in the process.

“Damn it, Thes, you look like a fucking scared deer. It’s just us, hey.”

A romance like his tea— warm and proper; steady and strong; spice racks and sweaters after work, hands curling around one another, lips brushing and touching and tasting. Getting ready for summer nights with the slight apprehension of never being good enough.

“Hmm. You’re a scary bear with your growing beard,” Theseus mutters, blood rushing in his ears.

“It’s fucking stubble, Theseus,” and Percival rolls his eyes; reaches a hand up to touch his cheek. “Tell us,” he murmurs very carefully, “whatever feels right under our fingers and lips.”

Credence runs the tips of his fingers over his neck and chin and Theseus tips his head back again, closing his eyes in anticipation.

Tense, so tense, always, ever so tense.

The smell is spicy and comforting— gingerbread cookies and gentle, crackling fire; the flash of his lovers’ combined magic in the darkness that surrounds as it spills across his closed eyelids like honey.

And—

Percival sucks a particularly fervent kiss into Theseus’ throat while Credence is nipping softly at the tendon, his bright, sorrel gaze never wavering as he licks, bites, presses sunsets into Theseus’ skin; grasping his wrist, encircling it, and Theseus feels the known-weight of old welts, these bumps, their meaning lost to loving touches, idle gold, idle silver. How could these pinched and narrow fingers have known violence when they’re nothing but light?

They slip into the delirious coils of moans and whimpers as their bodies press Theseus into the mattress, heavy and hot and his legs pumping his heart out—

Steadying.

Like wind in the leaves of autumn trees, reddening, flushing, blushing, rushing, and Credence and the conquering of his tongue— the moans that escape his lips and fall into the world, into the open air. They’re unlatched stars.

“Oh, you like that,” Percival chuckles; Credence continues to murmur encouraging, soft words of praise in the crook of Theseus’ neck where ginger constellations spread like ink; scrape of sharp teeth against the sensitive flesh and hands that hold him down with a bruising grip. “Well, let us show you more, my darling.”

Thighs rub together, lightning bolts fluorescent— and they’re bent forward and heaving, and arms fold him against a broad, warm chest.

Theseus, Theseus, Theseus;

A litany.

The waves come up to them, restless— ripples of light that Theseus passes his fingers through.

The echoes of love sigh.

| | Notes

Short and sweet? What? Did you mean: hurt/comfort? With a dash of smut?

No?

Oops.

[salexectrian-heir]

Loki: Chapter 11

Pairing: Solavellan Rating: E* 

Summary: Lavellan rescued a mischievious sphynx kitten outside her work who loves her dearly. But his destructive habits start to get out of hand when he steals her attractive neighbor’s underwear… repeatedly. 

 [Previous Chapter]  [Start at the Beginning]  [Read on AO3]

Chapter 11

Anise awoke the next morning to find Solas curled around her body with his face buried in her hair. How he was breathing she wasn’t quite sure. She rolled to face him. She untangled herself from his limbs as gently as she could. Apparently she didn’t need to have done so, he literally didn’t budge or notice at all. Out of curiosity, she picked up his arm and let it flop back down. Nothing. She couldn’t stop the smile that formed, nor the quiet bout of laughter that followed. He was dead to the world. She dressed herself, placed a chaste kiss on his forehead, and snuck out the front door--leaving it unlocked so she could get back in later.

No one had bothered her clothes in the laundry room, thankfully. Added to her luck, no one was using any of the machines. The snow must have had everyone taking a day off. She was able to switch everything over into two machines, leaving the others available in case someone did feel like doing chores too. Her stomach grumbled as she shut the last machine door shut.

If she was hungry, then her kitten most definitely was. Poor Loki. She was sure he was used to her being gone for periods of time by now, with her chaotic schedule. But it still stung she hadn’t even said goodbye.

And most likely her lover who lay unconscious and softly snoring where she left him would be hungry too--whenever he decided to return to the waking world.  She decided she wanted donuts and coffee but that would mean braving the snow outside. Which meant warmer clothes were called for.

Loki was excited to see her, needless to say.  When she cracked open the door to her apartment, his little face was right there. Nose pressing in the slight crack she had made, sniffing loudly and mewling to be let through.

“Silly boy, the door opens inwards.”

She stuck her foot through the crack to block off his point of exit. If he got out, he most surely would get the zoomies and tear up and down the hall, and take up more of her time catching him. She kept him at bay with her foot until she was inside and had the door secured behind her. His little paws immediately found purchase on her pants. He stretched, clutching the fabric and sliding along the floor as she waddled deeper into her apartment. When she got to the kitchen he finally let go, only to weave between her feet demanding to be held. After a few solid minutes of affection, playful bites, and incredibly loud purrs, she set him down to feed him. While he was distracted, she began to bundle up for her trek to the cafe down the street. Adding extra layers on top of her pajamas, a pair of extra thick socks, hat, earmuffs, scarf and boots. She was just able to make it out of her apartment with only one loud mewl of protest.

Her feet sunk into the fresh snow all too easily once outside. It was at least three feet deep, making it more difficult than she expected to maneuver. The street had been plowed, and a few fresh tire tracks suggested people were out and about. She had been lucky to have the day off, after having spent over 120 hours in it last week.  

Though the worst of the storm had passed, snow continued to fall. Large flakes floated delicately from the light gray sky at a leisurely pace. The urge to stick her tongue out and catch one was incredibly strong, but she refrained. For all she knew Vivienne could be watching from out of one of the many glass windows at the Hospital just across the street as she passed by. She couldn’t risk it. At least until the hospital would be mostly out of sight.

She let her mind wander as she waded down the sidewalk. The snow continued to fall, the hospital continued to operate, and the world kept moving. Life always kept going. She thought about all the choices that led her to where she was now, how drastically her life had changed, much like the snow changed Haven overnight.

Tipping her head pack, she watched the snowflakes on their descent. Diving off clouds, down to earth, scattering across the wind to where they eventually would find the ground. Or her face. She had risked everything, taking her own dive. Leaving her homeland, her family, an engagement, all for her dream, for her passion. A risk that paid off more than she could have ever imagined. And perhaps most important of all she felt she had truly found herself in the process...  she wouldn’t trade that for the world. Despite what it cost her. Her breath came out a wispy cloud in front of her face, going the opposite direction of the snow, disappearing up into the sky.

But she gained so much, too. A new family of residents and their antics, interns and their pestering need to be helpful, and attendings with their drama. Her patients and their faith in her, and her team. A purpose. A loveable nightmare of a kitten that she loved nearly as much as studying medicine.

And even a neighbor who… might just be more...

Memories from the night before flooded her mind. The way he felt as she fucked him, and the sensation of coming completely undone atop him. Her ears burned at the thought, and she shook her head to clear it. It was way too early for that kind of thinking. Even if he did just call her vhenan…

His heart.

She buried her face in her mittens and rubbed her cheeks in circles.

He called you Vhenan. It must have been a mistake… he was tired, and so out of it. He probably won’t even remember having said it...

Vhenan was not a casual pet name. Nor would you call the neighbor you were sleeping around with anything remotely close to that.

And yet.

She had gotten so lost in thought that she arrived at the cafe without realizing. She was just standing in front of the door, hands on her cheeks, taking deep breaths like some bizarre crazed idiot staring vacantly through the glass. For how long, she didn’t know. It could have been two seconds, or two minutes. She pulled herself together and braced for the awkward conversation she was about to inescapably having with the barista.

She couldn’t just casually say, “Oh, don’t mind me, just panicking because I might be falling in love with my old soul of a neighbor who comes with a fuckton of emotional baggage that just might outweigh my own, whom I only met a few months ago, that I met by chance when my kitten stole his underwear while he was doing his laundry” and expect that to go over well.

It even sounded insane in her head.

Graciously, the barista had been on their phone and had not noticed her mental crisis happening just outside. Or perhaps they were pretending and sparing her dignity. She ordered her usual (sixteen ounce vanilla red eye), and paused. For Solas, she eyed the specials...wanting to go with something extremely sweet and decaffeinated. Come to think of it, she had never actually seen him drink coffee before, so she wasn’t even sure if he liked it. He didn’t strike her as someone who particularly liked bitter flavors, given his love for insomnia cookies. She played with a piece of hair that had slipped out from under her hat before finally deciding on a decaf dulce de leche latte (with whip), hoping he would enjoy it.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she left the cafe, with their breakfast in hand. The walk back didn’t last nearly as long, despite the snow coming down a little bit harder. By the time she had gotten back up to his apartment her socks were wet, her hair was wet, and her hands were cold. But still she decided it would all be worth it to get to spend a lazy morning inside with him.

She stomped the snow off her boots outside his door and left them in the hallway. She doubted anyone would steal her size seven sopping boots. Once inside, the distinct sound of the shower running reached her ears. Perfect , she had time to set everything up.

He entered the kitchen dressed in a cotton shirt and a pair of comfortable looking jeans a few minutes later, just as she was pouring her coffee into a mug. He stopped mid step, surprise spreading across his face as he looked at her, then to the table, then settling back on her.

“I thought you had left.”

“Technically, I did,” she gestured to the food. “I figured why not treat ourselves on a snow day.”

“You...” he glanced out the window at the snow that was continuing to dance and swirl its way past the glass, “Anise.”

He appeared by her side in a flash, arm wrapping around her waist, tucking her in close. His body was so warm, heating lingering on his skin from his shower. She practically melded into him.  “You should not have, you are freezing,” he kissed her temple and pulled back abruptly. “And wet.”

“Apologies,” she said, a bit breathless if she was being honest. His proximity, the press of his lips, his warmth… would she ever get used to it? Or was her heart always going to react this way when they touched?

He pulled away, taking his wonderful body heat with him. “One moment.”

“Where are you--”

He disappeared and came back with a change of clothes. A sweater and pair of sweatpants. “You might find these more comfortable,” he smirked, “and dry.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Her apartment was only a couple feet away with her own clothes, but… her mouth clicked shut. The chance to wear his …. that wasn’t something she was going to pass up. She went to reach for them, but he set them aside on the counter, eyes locked on her.

He grabbed the hem of her pullover and began to ease it off her. Together, they peeled off each wet layer, him sneaking a chaste kiss each time one was pulled over her head. As she pulled off the last layer, his hands drifted over the bare skin of her stomach. Her breath hitched at the contact. One settled onto her hip, thumbs tracing circles over the dip of hip bones, causing goosebumps to ripple over her skin. The other grabbed the change of clothes.

Right after getting her head through the sweatshirt, his mouth brushed along the shell of her ear before nipping at her bottom lip. “You are far kinder than I deserve.”

She shook her head, pulling her arms through and tugging it down. “Stop talking like that. Let me take care of you, too.”

Luckily the sweatpants had a drawstring, otherwise she would have never been able to keep them up. Not that her pants falling down would be an issue, at least this point in time, given the expression Solas was wearing as he watched her hike them over her ass.

But she really did want to drink her red eye before it got cold.

She waited with baited breath as they sat together, and he took his first sip of his latte. His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before widening. He took a more generous second sip.

“Do you like it?”

Solas blinked. “To my surprise, I do not hate it.”

She laughed, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s sweeter than I expected.”

“It’s also decaffeinated. I wasn’t sure… I’ve never seen you drink coffee before so I figured it would be a safe option.”

“Yes, normally I avoid it, but I will gladly take this over tea.”

Anise made a face at him. She loved tea. “What’s wrong with tea?”

“I detest the stuff,” he said in a flat tone, but the edge of his mouth quirked up the tiniest bit.

Anise feigned a gasp and set aside her coffee. “I see. Well, I must be going then.”

For a fraction of second, confusion flitted across his features, before he realized she was teasing. “I can’t believe that is what would send you running, after everything else you’ve learned about me.”

She playfully bumped into his shoulder, “I jest. It just means more tea for me.”

Solas rolled his eyes and smiled into his latte. The subject drifted to how Anise had found the cafe as they sipped their drinks. She explained how everyone at the hospital hated the hospital coffee, how it always tasted watered down and stale, and how the machine almost never worked properly. And after one particularly grueling week as an intern, Anise had gotten so fed up fighting with the machine she stormed outside and went for a walk. And just so happened to stumble upon the hole in the wall cafe a few blocks down. They fell into companionable silence, finishing up their donuts.

“Anise.”

She met his unwavering grey eyes and her stomach started doing somersaults.

“Thank you, I cannot express enough of my gratitude to truly capture how much I appreciate…everything you do, and this,” he gestured to the breakfast before them, “but also… for last night.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “You don’t have to thank me for that Solas, I wanted you too.”

He shook his head, smile creeping onto his face. “Not only for the sex Anise. For your presence. For… accepting me in the condition I was in. I was not ready to talk about it then, and you respected my boundary.”

Her heart clenched.

“Of course, Solas.”

He wrapped his slender fingers around the edge of his cup, and stared into its empty contents.

“There was an… incident at work.”

Anise placed a hand on his arm. “What kind of incident?”

She felt him stiffen beneath her palm.

“One between myself and the CEO.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

All it took was a gentle squeeze and he launched into the story of how he had been called into strategy meetings with the Vice Presidents and CEO.

“It was awkward, draining, and irritating,” he sighed, his tension evident in his rigid posture.“In theory, I shouldn’t have even been there given the level of my current position, but in reality they value my experience and tenure. If…I had made wiser choices earlier in my career, it would have put me on track to be in the Research and Development Vice President position.”

As if sensing her question, he cast a glance aside at her and said, “In layman's terms, it’s the highest position a scientist can hold.”

“I openly disagreed with our CEO, albeit a bit heatedly during the meeting. Perhaps I should have kept my opinion to myself, but I am not one for keeping silent when I believe I can offer a better solution.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Saying our illustrious leader disliked my outspokenness would be an understatement. So would calling what I said simply a disagreement, but I digress.” He pushed aside his coffee. “He cornered me after work. Tempers flared, I insulted him, and…”

It was hard to picture him being easily angered, he certainly never showed her that side of him. Snarky, yes. Annoyed? For sure. But she had never been the target of his ire before, she was still getting to truly know him. Cracking that reserved mask of his, one week at a time. She listened attentively, nodding for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prompted him. His brows knit together.

“He punched me.”

“What! Solas! ”

She was on her feet before she registered what she was doing.  She cupped his chin, delicately turning his face towards her. She scanned his face for bruising. How could she not have noticed? She was a doctor for fucking Sylaise’s sake.

“It barely landed. It was in terrible form, and didn’t leave much of a mark,” he reassured her, tugging her hand away from his face. “It happened on the second day, so I’ve had plenty of time to recover.”

“I hope you reported this,” Anise said, horrified.

She knew the answer to that based on his body language alone. “You didn’t… why not ?”

“I considered it, but…” he shrugged, “It happened outside of work. I fear it would only put more strain on the relationship I have with him. He clearly is not over what happened between his wife and myself. And...” Another mirthless grin. “I am prideful, hot headed, and foolish, Anise. I instigated.”

“I don’t approve but,” she leaned forward and kissed his forehead, “but I will stand by your decision. It’s not fair. You took the consequences of your actions in stride, he shouldn’t get to continue to act this way towards you. It’s entirely unprofessional.”

“It is. The rest of the week was just...” he shook his head, “painful.”

He stood and began to clean up their breakfast at the sink.

Following him over with their cups, “Why don’t you leave, work for a different company? One where you can be in the labs again?”

He took them from her and rinsed them out. “Letting go of the past is… easier said than done.”

She came up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his torso, placing her head between his shoulder blades. “I know. I just want you to be happy.”

He took a deep breath and turned around in her arms.

“When I am with you,” he smiled, and it was a genuine one this time, “ I am.”

[shardclan]

Horizon had once said that Lutia’s magic was warm. That it reminded him of strong spices like cinnamon and star anise, or the tingle of ginger tea.

At the time, Ashes didn’t understand. They were inundated with magical energy all the time. He couldn’t tell one from the other, much less ascribe characteristics to it. He assumed it was just something Horizon could feel because of what he was. But now, out in the open lands of the Lightweaver, Lutia’s magic stood out. Like a stormcloud blotting out the sun.

It did have a distinctive sort of tingle to it, but he could barely feel it over the flush of heat in his chest and the sickly gurgle of his sinking stomach.

Lutia stood quietly a polite distance away, watching his back without seeking his attention. Her posture was straight and tall; it had to be in the swaying grasses in this lonely corner of the outer Summerlands. But under her cloak her shoulders seemed small and drawn in. They both knew she was there, and that for the first time in multiple eons now, they could communicate properly. But instead the silence between them filled the space, not with potential but with a void. One that she didn’t know how to bridge.

She owed him the most, and now that she was finally facing him, she had no idea how to begin. Every word she thought of seemed like it would sink like a stone into the abyss her actions had created between them.

“You finally show your face,” he said stonily, clapping his journal shut. “And you have nothing to say?”

“The opposite,” she said meekly. “I merely don’t know where to begin.”

“You seemed to figure it out fine with everyone else.”

“Ashes…”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t you dare use that tone on me, like I’m being unreasonable and you can just convince me to be otherwise.”

“My exasperation is with myself,” she clarified gently. “Not with you. Never with you. I’ve taken my feelings out on you and made you suffer more than enough. I failed you and the words ‘I’m sorry’ feel so small and empty in the face of what I did to you. More than Saber, or my family, or Junior, I know the one I hurt most was you.”

He turned to face her, but the meeting of their eyes did not bring either of them peace.

Ashes saw her hair, cut short to a small cotton puff of curls haloing her head instead of the billowing cloud he had always known. He saw the faded bruise where Galbana hadn’t been able to hold her anger back. He saw her timid posture, her seeking, desperate eyes, the remorse, the exhaustion, the defeat.

Lutia saw what she had feared she would. She saw nothing. Not even the briefest flicker of pity or sadness. Ashes’ heart was set to an anger that had cooled and hardened and smoothed like blackened glass. She couldn’t see into it, and it offered her no purchase.

“Yep,” he said softly, turning away from her. “You sure did.”

“I’m sorry, Ashes.”

He flipped back through his book, keeping focused on the magic circle he was looking for. “It’s as small and empty to my ears as you felt it would be.”

“What should I do?” she insisted. “How can I prove it to you?”

“I never said I needed proof. I believe you’re sorry, I can see that just fine. I just don’t care.”

Though the day was mild, Lutia felt suddenly that the sun was beating down on her and the breeze was going to sweep her away. It wasn’t as though she had expected it to be easy, and she had entertained in her darkest sleepless nights that Ashes might be resistant. But this wasn’t resistance. This wasn’t the Ashes she remembered, not even the angry one who couldn’t help but blurt his feeling in a stream the first time he was forced to see her after Opal was dealt with.

And yet this Ashes, closed off from her as he might be, was something she could only blame herself for. She had made a bitter man out of the bright-hearted child she once knew.

“Don’t pour your tears into this emptiness,” a familiar voice said. “They’ll find no purchase there.”

Lutia quickly sucked back the tears she had already been doing her best to keep from falling, and glared at the intruder. “I’d like it if we could continue to have privacy, Azricai.”

Azricai planted her cane, folding both hands over the handle and looking between the mage and her former student. “You’d gain nothing for it.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning he is beyond you now, and you know it.”

Lutia’s shoulders slumped, but Ashes merely sighed. “I hope you’re not here to try and patch things up between us.”

Azricai cast a frosty glance at him. “I don’t recall saying that.”

A shiver went down his spine, and he found he stood up straight reflexively. He didn’t know exactly why, but Lutia was much older and much more familiar with her demeanor.

“I thought your days of being the Gale Wolf were over,” she said.

“Yes,” Azricai answered slowly. “You thought. I haven’t come to intrude or play peacemaking games with you two. I have come to put you both to work on an important task.”

Ashes snorted. “What makes you think I’ll work with her?”

“I do.”

The simplicity of the retort caught him by surprise, but he quickly recovered. “I’m not going to work with her, Azricai.”

Azricai tilted her head. “So you refuse to work for the good of the clan because of a personal grudge that blinds you. You are more like your teacher than you think.”

The words hung over the open field and slowly sank in. They were quite understandable, it was Azricai’s audacity that left both the Archmage and the Tribune stunned.

“Why are you goading him?” Lutia cried. “I was the one in the wrong! I was the stubborn ass!”

“And now it seems to be his turn. If you feel that’s unfair,” Azricai said, meeting Ashes’ infuriated gaze coolly. “Show me that you’re better than she was.” She added, in softer tones: “You know I wouldn’t ask if it was something unimportant. And it’s something that cannot come up in the tribunal.”

“What’s so important that you would demand I work with her on unofficial business?”

“The extermination of the Ashfall Catoptria.”

Ashes stared at her, his mouth twisting as he considered it. “Okay. I grant you that is a worthy cause. But is there something I’m missing? Just have Lutia go raze their home, it’s what she’s good at.”

Azricai pressed her lips together, and a vicious gust whipped at the grass. “We are discussing the annihilation of a group of cannibals who were kidnapping, force-feeding, and eating children, Ashes. Would you like to continue injecting these petty comments at every opportunity, or can you find it in your heart to simply ask why your skills are required like an adult?”

The wind had kicked up around them. Had he been in his full form, Ashes would have found his tail firmly tucked between his legs. He had known Azricai had an oddly intimidating reputation once upon a time, but he had never once been on the receiving end of her full intensity.

With him cowed and quiet, the wind died and Azricai returned to her calm but unreadable self. “Very good. The reason both of you are needed is because Lutia is not going to be the one who commits the act.”

Lutia, ever quick on the uptake, asked calmly. “If not me, then who? Tawny?”

“He’s on official business with the Margravine.”

Lutia squinted. “Who else would have enough power for this? Do we have a new mage?”

Azricai smiled. “Close. Her name is Dust.”