#djinn fics

[destieltaggedfic]

Djinn Realities - Part 4

The Shape of Things to Come – spiderglass   Ao3

Set 15x20 didn’t happen AU.  Dean’s retired life is perfect.  But then Sam wakes him up from the djinn dream and after having Cas in his dream it feels like Dean has lost him all over again.  Now Dean keeps dreaming of phone calls from the dead angel and it finally knocks him into trying to get him back.

Word Count: 62k                              Non-Graphic Sex

Take my hand and open your eyes - whit merule (whit_merule)   Ao3

Set S13 AU.  Despite being injured and in chronic pain, Cas has a happy life with Dean, but he knows that things don’t add up and so does Dean.  But when Sam is trying to wake Dean up from the dream world, Dean refuses to let go of whatever piece of Cas he has left.

Word Count: 5k                                 No Sex

It Was Real – Diamondanex   Ao3

Nonspecific timeframe.  Waking up in hospital after a car accident, Dean is ready to go home with his husband.  But when Sam and Cas start talking about hunting and monsters he doesn’t know what’s going on.

Word Count: 8k                                 Graphic Sexual Acts 

Djinn and Tonic - Melanie_Athene   Ao3

Set 15x20 didn’t happen AU.  Unable to cope after Cas’ death, Dean goes looking for a Djinn, but he doesn’t want just any dream, he wants the right one.  Warning for Dean being suicidal.

Word Count: 15k                              Non-Graphic Sex

Picture Perfect – quwarichi   Ao3

Set Post S15.  Its just Dean and Cas, together and happy, so why is Dean having nightmares about Cas being dead and why can’t he really remember anything about their life before now?  Slowly the dream disintegrates and Dean has to face his grief. (Not really djinn, but similar)

Word Count: 20k                              No Sex

[thedemonofcat]

There was a time before the bottle when Jaskier glimpsed something powerful and free, though the memory of it has faded.

Once, he was a Djinn, passed from one Master to another until, eventually, he ended up at the bottom of a lake—forgotten—until Geralt found him.

Jaskier took a liking to the witcher, not just because Geralt promised to use one of his wishes to set him free. Then Yennefer came along, and though Jaskier never knew what Geralt's wish was, it somehow became easier to stay close to him.

But Geralt never intended to set Jaskier free. It wasn’t that he disliked him—far from it. Yet no one knew what Jaskier truly was, and it seemed safer to keep him in check. Geralt’s plan was simple: he would never use the final wish, leaving Jaskier bound to his bottle but never forcing him back inside.

[princehendir]

DA demons present so many fun opportunities for Putting Guys In Situations and not enough fanfic writers are taking advantage imo

[cottoncandysprite]

New Season 4.6 episode up!!! Polyvamps enjoyers will like this one I think

04- Negotiations: Laszlo attempts to seduce the Counselor. Nandor negotiates with the Djinn to get more wishes.

[imaginariumgeographica]

Im starting a collection

From The Djinn-bot of Shantiport, and this fanfic

[jezunya]

"Ssshut up," Crowley hisses, not bothering to unslump himself from the tabletop. "You're in love with a human, you don't get an opinion."

"Better a human than a loyalist," Sherlock sniffs, and that gets Crowley to jerk his head up.

"Oi! He's not— I mean, he wasn't—"

"He was, then he wasn't, then he was again," Sherlock singsongs, before turning serious. "Once a good little loyal subject of Heaven, always one. Face it, the very fact that he hasn't Fallen means that he will always go back to them."

Crowley cradles his head in his hands, feeling far too drunk for this, or perhaps not nearly drunk enough. "That's not… He wasn't…"

A little tidbit of a scene from a much, much larger AU that I'm honestly not sure will ever get written in earnest, but that has been a project @sheliesshattered and I have circled back to many times over the years

This is post s2 of Good Omens and… somewhere in the BBC Sherlock timeline, probably post s2 but s3 & s4 don't really work with this au. Set in the universe of Tim Powers' novel Declare, though I'm hoping to write this such that you don't have to have read the book (but it certainly helps). Sherlock (and Mycroft, and others) are another form of Fallen Angel who have remained earthbound rather than ever joining Hell, and Sherlock & Crowley are ofc frenemy drinking buddies

More under the cut

For anyone who has read it: After the end of Declare, Andrew & Elena retired somewhere in the UK together, taking on the very common name of Watson. They settled down and had a couple of kids. Twins, in fact. Almost like one person split in two, you might say. Which they try not to be too freaked out about, but also they're really tempting fate when they name the kids Harriet and John, after Harry St John Philby. John (and Harry, to some extent) grows up to follow in his parents' footsteps, including certain secret missions in the mountains of Afghanistan. When he's invalided home, he assumes Declare has no more use for him, until he is contacted once more to be a 'special assistant' on one of their higher-level projects here at home in London, at which point he is assigned to shadow Sherlock & assist him in any way he might need. John doesn't know exactly what Sherlock is, at first, but he's weirdly reminded of some of his parents' stories of 'Our Stepmother' in the USSR, and he's about to learn that Operation Declare is a lot deeper, older, and closer to home than he ever imagined.

That's the starting point of Part 1 of this AU.

For those who haven't read Declare: Sherlock (and Mycroft, and others) are a different sort of Fallen Angel, who never joined Hell after falling from Heaven, but rather made a home wherever they could on Earth, becoming known as nature spirits, fae, djinn, etc. (Djinn is the most commonly used term in the universe of Declare, so that's the terminology John uses, and they are explicitly stated to be fallen angels.) They've been neutral in the Heaven vs Hell war, tho Heaven definitely views them as enemies and Hell views them as… frenemies? Enemy of my enemy? Not worth bothering with? They are largely free agents, with some different powers & limitations compared to angels and demons, since they don't have the power concentration/strength in numbers of either Heaven or Hell behind them, and their own schisms and internal power struggles, separate from anything to do with Heaven and Hell.

Part 2 of the au would be after Crowley and Aziraphale fend off the apocalypse in GO s1 and become free agents themselves. Suddenly, Sherlock has a couple of rogue agents, formerly of Heaven and Hell, in his city, where before they were Officially Posted There, so he (mostly) would avoid them, though he and Crowley have definitely crossed paths before. Those two are very much frenemies, especially since the Notpocalypse. (John, for his part, has largely come to terms with the whole djinn thing. He is not happy to learn about angels and demons in the truer sense, though.)

And this scene here? IDK, Part 3, I guess, but maybe just a little aside for Crowley angst after GO s2, maybe not a whole fic, until/unless there's some interesting fodder for this au in GO s3, thwarting the second coming with Sherlock & John in tow maybe… (and Crowley and Aziraphale having to figure out their relationship while the other supernatural entity/ies around them already have their shit together)

[shieldofiron]

Billy Hargrove’s Haunted Bong

For Harringrove Week March 29, Happy Billyday! Also on AO3 Here.

Specific Dialogue: “You don’t know what you put me through.”

NSFT-ish, just at the end.

Steve feels a little awkward picking through Billy Hargrove’s stuff. His dad’s gone, and now Max and her Mom are moving, they need to get rid of the excess, he knows that. There’s some of Billy’s dad’s stuff here, too, though a lot of it has been picked over by the neighborhood moms, trying to get shoes for their husbands and stuff.

There’s less of a market for teenage boy stuff, though Tommy has a few button downs slung over his arm, and apparently Max unloaded a bunch of Billy’s tapes on ‘The Freak’ Eddie Munson.

Steve is really here more as a favor to Max. He doesn’t know what he would do with a Scorpions t-shirt, or a stack of books. Who knew that Billy read so much, anyway?

Max walks over and crosses her arms, “Hey. Want you to see something.”

He shrugs, tossing the paperback he was never going to buy back in a pile, “Ok.”

Max leads him up the stairs and into the half packed house and into a mostly empty room. There’s a bed that’s been stripped, and a small cardboard box, open and half full on it. Steve catches a glimpse of a few tapes inside, and a handful of clothes. Maybe it’s stuff they’re saving.

Max holds up two cans of Aquanet, “Do you want these? I’ll give them to you for a dime.”

Steve fights to keep his face neutral, “Uh, not my brand. But thanks.”

“How about this?” She holds up a bottle of cologne, Paco Rabanne.

He shrugs, “Sure. How much?” This is probably fine, a non-weird thing to get, anyway.

“Uh... a quarter?” She says distractedly while he glances down to dig in his pocket for change. “And what about this?”

He looks up and almost chokes on his spit. It is without a doubt the biggest bong he’s seen in person.

“Put that down!” He says.

She scowls, “What’s your problem?”

“N-nothing. Didn’t Eddie want that?” Steve really would feel better if she put it down. Maybe stepped away from it too.

“He took the other one,” She shrugs, “Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s just a vase.”

Right. Just a vase.

He snatches it from her hands, just wanting to get it out of the house, “How much?”

“Uh... a dollar. No! Two dollars!” She cries.

He rolls his eyes, because this thing is probably expensive as shit, but he just wants it out of her house.

“Sure,” He pulls a couple of bucks out of his wallet, “I’ll see you, okay?”

She nods, counting the money, “You want your change?”

“No, nope, just gonna head right home,” And smash this thing to pieces, he thinks.

He hops in the beemer, throwing his vase across the passenger’s seat along with the cologne. It really is enormous, blue swirling glass that would be kind of pretty if it wasn’t dirty with old bong water and stuff.

“Never let it be said I never did anything for you, Hargrove,” He grumbles, eyes searching the road wildly.

He turns the corner off Cherry Lane, shaking his head.

“I mean, whatever. I didn’t like... jump in front of a monster. Though I did. For Max, I mean,” He tightens his hands on the wheel, “Whatever. You know what I mean.”

He glances down at the bong and the cologne.

He shakes his head, “You would think I was high already.”

The bong glints in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting the blue skies out the window and the slowly turning leaves.

“You know my birthday is tomorrow,” Steve says, to no one. “I guess I could have one smoke. Just to see what I’m missing.”

The sunlight glints, and it’s almost like a wink.

He’s going crazy, that’s the only explanation for why he heads home and takes the bong into his house instead of throwing it away. He dumps the old water in the sink, trying to take it apart so he can rinse it out. He might actually catch some kind of disease smoking out of this thing, considering Billy died in July and it’s halfway through January.

He shakes his head at himself, dunking the bong into the water and rubbing the side, trying to take off the film of hairspray and weed smoke that’s formed a crust along the sides. Probably he won’t smoke from it. It’s a lost cause.

The bong trembles in his hands and he rears back into the kitchen island, soapy water splashing everywhere. Blue smoke comes from the top, pale denim blue that swirls in the air and shifts and then...

Billy fucking Hargrove is sitting on the edge of his kitchen sink.

He looks much the same as he always did, shirtless, tanned and perfect with a necklace glinting from his chest. Winking in the sunlight.

“Harrington,” He says with a smile.

“H-holy shit.” Maybe Steve is high. How did he get this high and he doesn’t even remember smoking?

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Billy’s eyes sparkle, electric blue. Were they always that blue, glowingly blue? They look like Kyle McLaughlin’s eyes in that freaky movie Dustin dragged Steve to a few weeks ago.

“This is not happening,” Steve shakes his head, “This isn’t happening.”

Billy laughs, full and open, and then the blue smoke is back, smelling like Paco Rabanne and cigarettes and Aquanet, swirling through the air.

“What do you wish for, Pretty Boy?” Billy’s voice sounds like it’s coming from  right in Steve’s ear, but when he looks, the Billy on his counter is just smiling mischievously.

“Uhhh...”

Billy disappears and the smoke surrounds Steve. He clings to the countertop, the only thing that feels solid. Smoke slides along his face and arms, like a caress.

“Make a wish,” Billy’s voice beacons, “Birthday Boy.”

“I-if I blow hard enough, will you disappear?” Steve mumbles, not sure what kind of weird dream this is.

“If you blow?” Billy whispers, his tongue sliding along his lower lip teasingly.

“What are you?”

“You’ve never heard of a genie? Djinn is more accurate,” Billy’s voice is behind him now, along the back of Steve’s neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. Billy hums and it takes Steve a few moments before he picks out the theme to I Dream of Jeannie. “Should I call you, Master?”

“It’s not real,” Steve half laughs, “You died. I saw you die.”

“Where did the body go, Harrington? Disappeared... like smoke...” Billy appears in front of him, sudden and solid, “Poof.”

“You’re not a genie, though,” Steve shakes his head, “They aren’t real.”

“Try me, Harrington,” Billy smiles, eyes blazing.

“Uh...” Steve blinks at Billy’s face, so very close. He’s had dreams like this. Billy Hargrove, close and within reach, kind and laughing and oh so kissable.

“Go on,” Billy’s chin juts forward, and its so much like Steve’s dreams, he gives in. Maybe it is a dream. A weird one, but one of his regular dreams.

“Is it a three wishes kind of deal?” He asks.

Billy shrugs, “Dunno. I came to in a van full of shouting Russians who shoved green liquid down my throat. And then smoke poured out of my mouth, my ears, my eyes, and I turned into... this. Tried to go home, get Max’s attention. But then I got sucked into that thing when I got too close.”

Steve stares at him, at his lips actually. Is it nighttime already, or is it just the smoke swirling around?

“S.S. Butterscotch,” He mumbles.

“What?”

“I want a scoop of Scoops Ahoy S. S. Butterscotch,” Steve chokes, “Haven’t had it since the mall... uh...”

Billy puts a hand behind his back and winks at Steve, sending an electric bolt of lust down his spine.

“Your wish is my command,” Billy pulls his hand out and there’s a waffle cone stacked with a single scoop of S. S. Butterscotch, as smooth and round as if Steve had done it himself.

Billy raises it up to Steve’s lips, his eyes going dark and cloudy blue when Steve licks along the top. A shiver runs down his spine from the top of his head, making his knees weak.

“Oh, Harrington. You don’t know what you put me through,” Billy smiles, “Never thought I’d see you again. Never.”

Steve blinks, his mouth swirling with the flavor he’s been craving since Starcourt.

Steve finally manages to dig his claws out of the counter and reaches out, knocking the cone to the side. Well, it’s his dream. He might as well get to do what he wants.

Billy Hargrove tastes like woodsmoke and butterscotch and he groans into Steve’s mouth like he’s real, like he’s oh so human again.

Blue smoke trails up Steve’s spine like a featherlight touch, and he trembles, falling forward, hands digging into Billy’s hair. He’s always dreamed about boys and girls, he’s always had a lot of sex dreams, but they never felt like this.

Billy’s chest is warm, though there’s no heartbeat. But his tongue is wet and wicked and alive, and tendrils of smoke are curling against Steve’s overheated skin while Billy’s fingers dig into his hips. Holy shit.

Steve groans when Billy begins to slowly drag his hands to the placket of Steve’s jeans, teasing along the buttons. His tongue is teasing the inside of Steve’s lips, turning all of his thoughts to liquid lust.

Then Billy disappears into smoke and laughter, and invisible hands trail along Steve’s cock, under his jeans... through his jeans...

“Oh fuck,” Steve gasps, hips working. “Don’t stop.”

“Feel good?” Billy’s voice is somewhere on the ceiling.

“Fuck, yes, B-Billy... fuck...”

“Wanna make you feel so good,” Billy says softly, his voice crackling like a flame, “Wanna make you cream your jeans.”

Steve is embarrassingly close to that already, “R-Revenge?”

“For all the times you turned me on in class? No. But good guess,” Billy practically purrs when a smoky finger flicks the head of Steve’s cock and Steve cries out.

Steve gasps, “T-then...”

“Haven’t touched anyone in six months,” Billy laughs, and it echoes off all the polished surfaces of the Harrington’s pristine kitchen. “And you’re so touchable.”

Steve closes his eyes before they roll back in his head and makes an inarticulate noise, “Fuck, Billy... I’m... I’m... g-gonna...”

Billy’s corporeal in a moment, hand pressed over the invisible fingers, pressing Steve’s cock hard into his stomach, a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Come on, Pretty Boy. Get there.”

Steve’s orgasm bursts through him like a wildfire, and he screams into Billy’s shoulder, pressing his mouth against flexing muscle in a vain attempt to silence himself. Blood roars in his ears and he passes out into Billy’s waiting arms. He half expects to go right through them, but they catch him, sure and steady.

When he wakes up, his eyes are blurry and his body is blissed out, floating like it hasn’t since Starcourt. He sits up in his bed and looks around the room but there’s no one there.

Oh shit. It really was a dream. He bites down the bitterness and looks down at the bed beside him.

It’s the bong, gleaming and blue, glass colors swirled together like smoke. The morning light glints off the edge. Like a wink.

“Good morning, pretty boy,” The voice rumbles through the room and Steve closes his eyes. Wishes he was dreaming.

[dualumina]

Today's science experiment: Do djinn glow in the dark?

First off; a regular (mini) water djinn!

Shockingly not really. (we're not rich enough to buy the other 3 normal djinn so that's all for these guys)

Next up, the Mythwright Gambit gang; Zommoros and Qadim!

Pleasantly surprised Zommoros' eyes glow. Qadim is made of fire so he's doing exactly what he should be doing.

And last but not least, our friends from the Key of Ahdashim... Key and Qadim (the Peerless)!

Key is out here dunking on everybody with 100% glowing armour. Never actually realized Qadim 2 Electric Boogaloo has that forehead orb thing going on.

Guess when ya gotta ponder orbs ya gotta ponder orbs.

[lunylune]

A whole new world, where we can have adventures in the great wild somewhere.

(Related to a fic i'm working on don't worry about it :P )

[destieltaggedfic]

Djinn realities - Part 3

As always spoiler alert - these fics are all involving djinn or djinn realities even if the characters don't know it and its not tagged.

Djinn & Tonic - FallenAngelAndPie   Ao3

Set 15x20 didn’t happen AU.  He may be retired from hunting now, but when he hears about a djinn case nearby, Dean realises that this could be his way out, his way to spend his last few days happy with Cas.  When Sam saves him, Dean simply tries again, not realising that djinn dreams may be the way to rescue Cas.  Warning for Dean being a bit suicidal.

Word Count: 20k                              No Sex

The Path of Fireflies – museaway   Ao3

Set S10 AU.  Shortly after they have turned Dean back from being a demon he wakes 12 years in the future, where apparently he and Cas are married and run a B&B.  Eventually, he starts to believe this is actually his life.  (Not exactly djinn but close enough)

Word Count: 64k                              Non-Graphic Sex

what is and always could be - Love_at_first_write   Ao3

Set 15x20 didn’t happen AU.  The only thing that convinces Dean to wake up from a djinn dream is the Dream Castiel who begs him not to die.  But all is not lost when Sam takes him back to the bunker.

Word Count: 3k                                 No Sex

Pyrite – MontyPython   Ao3

Set S15 & AU.  Tea shop owner Cas has been in a perfect relationship with local mechanic Dean for the past 2 months.  But there are little things that don’t seem quite right which only increase when he starts receiving written messages from a DW.

Word Count: 18k                              Graphic Sexual Acts

Absolute Beginners – ahurston   Ao3

Nonspecific timeframe.  A deadline for consummation is coming up in Cas’ marriage to the djinn queen and the only way out of it is for him to claim a prior relationship.  It needs to be with someone he has a genuine connection with, so Dean is the only candidate.  The only problem is that once he agrees, no one is really sure if its real or not.

Word Count: 20k                              Graphic Sexual Acts

[thedemonofcat]

So I was thinking about the episode of Charmed I Dream of Phoebe. There aren't too many spoilers for those who haven't seen the episode, but Phoebe gets transformed into a genie as part of the plot.

As a result, I began thinking of ideas for a fic

Basically instead of the Djinn just attacking Jaskier throat. Geralt accidentally curses Jaskier to become the next Djinn. The wish about blowing someone's head up doesn't get made. The conflict between Yennefer and Geralt still remains, however, and Geralt still wishes that their fates were linked. In order to ensure that Jaskier would never return to the Amphora, Geralt never made a third wish.

Then came the incident on the mountain. Instead of Geralt's words being just angry words, they are a bit more complex. The consequence of this is that it actually forces Jaskier to fulfill Geralt's 'Blessing'. This causes Jaskier to return to the amphora, which then vanishes.

Despite Geralt's efforts to find Jaskier, he finds it harder and harder to find him, as he has to protect Ciri. In spite of that, Geralt always keeps an ear to the ground and listens to rumours about Djinns.

In the meantime, Jaskier has been passed from one person to another. Being forced to make their wishes come true. Sometime, it's just the average people who are just looking for simple things such as more money or for their corps to do well in terms of their performance. The majority of the time, Jaskier ends up in the hands of mage's. In comparison to whose wishes are far more messed up. Over the course of Jaskier's time as a Djinn, he slowly starts to forget about his life as a Bard. Jaskier's amphora is found one day by Rience. The first thing Rience wants is for Jaskier to take him to Geralt and Ciri so they can portal straight into Kear Morhen.

Jaskier is rescued from Rience after a fight breaks out. Geralt is overjoyed to be reunited with Jaskier once again, but he quickly becomes frightened when he learns that Jaskier only remembers Geralt as one of his former masters. There is an effort to try and free Jaskier from his curse of being a Djinn by Yennefer and Vessimer. As Jaskier struggles to regain his memory in the meantime, everyone else tries to help him.

At some point a thought crossed Geralt's mind that he could just wishes for Jaskier memories. There is only one thing that he thinks about as well and that is wishing Jaskier would forget about the mountain and always want to be with Geralt regardless of what happens. Geralt feels guilty for having even just the slightest thought about this. In the end,

Jaskier and Geralt end up talking. This causes Geralt to confess that he loves Jaskier. This causes Jaskier to recall that he once loved a white-haired man. This finally brings back Jaskier's memories.

Unfortunately, there is no way to break Jaskier's curse, resulting in him remaining a Djinn for the rest of his life. Ciri finds a way to serve Jaskier's bond by forcing him back into the amphora after the master makes the tree wishes. In this way, Jaskier will be able to be completely free of the enslavement and yet still have the power he gained from being a Djinn.

[widoglock]

Just Like the Present

“You know you can tell me when things are bad,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers stilling upon Kingsley’s jawline. “You won’t scare me away.” Kingsley takes a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I know.” “But?” “Things have been…” He covers Caleb’s hands. “From what I remember from—from the others. It’s been a while. So I guess I’m out of practice.” “Out of practice with…” Kingsley laughs. “I dunno. Happiness? Good things? It didn’t bother me until today but for some reason I’ve felt…I feel like a square peg in a round hole all of a sudden, like me and happiness aren’t made for each other. Like it’s all too good to be true, for um. For someone…” “Kingsley.” “For someone like me, maybe, and I know that’s not—but there’s this—I think I hallucinated today, is the thing, and it’s got me spiraling. A little bit.”

Rating: M

Tags: 6k, Widomauk, referenced Shadowidowmauk, hurt/comfort, pining, touch starved Kingsley (cursed object edition), my usual obsession with hugs and lucid dreams

CW: Dissociation/derealization, hallucinations (sort of...see cursed object for details), anal sex (both Caleb and Kingsley have a penis), self-hatred

[Also on Ao3] Full fic below:

---

Kingsley wakes up from a nightmare, and he’s warm.

Groggy fingers find Kingsley’s and tangle.

“All right?” Caleb murmurs.

Kingsley groans. The cabin is crack-of-dawn dark. The blankets are the perfect kind of heavy, and smell like bay laurel and the two of them.

Caleb kisses the back of Kingsley’s head. Kingsley curls his tail around Caleb’s ankle. Caleb yelps.

“Scheiße, you’re cold.”

Kingsley doesn’t let go. “How’d you sleep?”

Caleb grumbles into his hair. “Well. Very well.”

“Storm didn’t keep you up?”

“Nein.”

“Nein,” Kingsley repeats, really plucking the consonants. “Magic man?”

“Circus man.”

“I'm not getting out of bed.”

Caleb snorts, and he’s so warm, and Caleb can hear the rain outside. “So sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Kingsley gets one last glance at the pile of clothes on the floor—takes a moment to admire the way Caleb’s overclothes fit along the grooves of his frock coat. Then a shadow blocks the window.

Kingsley looks up. Caleb is standing in front of Kingsley’s desk. He’s scraggly with dirt and exertion; a streak of blood darkens his forehead. Kingsley can barely make out the shock on his face.

Kingsley says, “Caleb?”

The Caleb on the bed tenses. “What’s wrong?”

The Caleb by the window is gone. Kingsley exhales.

“Nothing,” he says, because he really needs it to be true.

“Would incense help? I could open the drapes?”

Kingsley kisses his wrist. “It’s fine. Really.” He forces the shake out of his fingers, and tucks Caleb’s hand back against his chest. “Thank you, though.”

Caleb refits himself along the curve of Kingsley’s spine. “I worry about you, circus man,” he says after a while.

Kingsley closes his eyes. “Wake me when you smell breakfast?”

--

The rain is still spitting a bit when they get up for breakfast. The cold tastes like snow, and the sea air sets a sparkle to the mundane. The crew eat lavishly, having just been to port, enjoying fresh meat and cheese. Some rope snapped from the cold last night, and now the carpenter’s repair planks are lincoln-logged all over the hold; Kingsley and Caleb work out a solution with some magic and a little leftover sail line.

Around ten, Kingsley takes his turn at the helm. Caleb goes up to the crow’s nest to read. Frumpkin chases mice and rats and cheek skritches. It’s less cloudy now, with an added burst of wind, and the deck shimmers with rainwater. If Kingsley cranes his neck at the right angle, he can see the very top of Caleb’s head—a spot of color against the soft steel of daylight.

“I’m falling in love with you!” Kingsley shouts up at him.

Caleb shouts down: “What?”

“I said, I want to make you happy for the rest of your life!”

Caleb leans over the edge and yells what sounds like, “You know I can’t hear you from up here!”

Kingsley waves. Caleb mirrors the gesture. When Kingsley laughs, his breath fogs out of him. Caleb shouts something else and goes back to his book. Kingsley feels eyes on him, but when he turns around, there’s only the ocean.

The sea settles. The air shakes its winter bite. The crew gather for a game of cards, and Kingsley eats a sandwich for lunch. He’s on his way stern-side when he hears Caleb say, “Kingsley!”

Kingsley turns. He sees Caleb behind him on the stairs and says, “Problem?”

Caleb’s clothes are different. He looks scared. He says, “Kingsley, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you—what’s wrong?” He grabs Caleb’s elbow.

“This isn’t real.” Caleb grabs him back. “It’s a construct. You are under a—a spell of some kind. Do you remember?”

Kingsley starts to say, “Remember what?”—but then he blinks and Caleb has vanished. More than that—there are no bootprints to mark his passage. No dribble of rainwater. Not even a crease where Caleb had grabbed his coat.

“Okay,” Kingsley says, and goes to find some booze.

--

Kingsley wants to get drunk. He doesn’t. He’s got shit to do on deck, and anyway—he can’t make Caleb worry. They see each other often now—for days at a time even, when Caleb’s schedule permits. Still: Frost gathers on the porthole panes at night. A certain sacrosanctity clings to everything. If Kingsley carries a flask of the good stuff, so does the rest of the crew. It’s a pirate ship; pirates drink. It’s fine.

Normalcy creeps back into frame. Dinner is a jovial affair. Kingsley and Caleb trade gossip over wine and biscuits and salted pork. Caleb’s work stories are less gory than Kingsley’s—but by a smaller margin than one might expect from a man of his vocation.

They go walk along the bulwark and watch the stars come out. Their fingers graze, and Caleb gasps.

“You’re freezing!" Caleb begins rubbing Kingsley’s hands. “Doofi. Where are your gloves?”

“I dunno. Somewhere.” He loves the way Caleb shuffles his hands around like a stick in a fire plough. “I’m not cold, really.”

“You’re frigid. Hold on.” Caleb switches gears and takes off his scarf. He winds it around Kingsley’s neck. It’s dark blue and warm with residual body heat. Kingsley nuzzles his nose into it as Caleb dusts the hair from his face.

“You know you can tell me when things are bad,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers stilling upon Kingsley’s jawline. “You won’t scare me away.”

Kingsley takes a long breath through his nose.

“Yeah. I know.”

“But?”

“Things have been…” He covers Caleb’s hands. “From what I remember from—from the others. It’s been a while. So I guess I’m out of practice.”

“Out of practice with…”

Kingsley laughs. “I dunno. Happiness? Good things? It didn’t bother me until today but for some reason I’ve felt…I feel like a square peg in a round hole all of a sudden, like me and happiness aren’t made for each other. Like it’s all too good to be true, for um. For someone…”

“Kingsley.”

“For someone like me, maybe, and I know that’s not—but there’s this—I think I hallucinated today, is the thing, and it’s got me spiraling. A little bit.”

“Shit. That’s—”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Caleb says firmly. “It distresses you: It’s not nothing. I don’t portend to, ah, to know an awful lot about the mind. Hallucinations. But. There are ways to—there are paths to take, to help. And you…” Here he soothes his thumb across Kingsley’s cheek. “And you. My wonderful friend. You deserve the world. Nothing but goodness and love and rest. I will happily remind you of this as…as often as you’d like. Ja?”

Kingsley blinks rapidly. “Ha. Um. Ja.”

“‘For someone like me,’” he scoffs. He cups Kingsley’s hands. “You are ridiculous. Treasure yourself.”

Kingsley can’t quite nod. He feels the pool of fabric around his neck, and the cold wind through his hair. Caleb says,

“And for shit’s sake, let me buy you some gloves.”

That breaks the dam, and Kingsley laughs as he wipes his eyes. “I have gloves.”

“Not good ones, if you prefer to keep them off. Come to the city with me soon. We’ll find something versatile.”

Kingsley hears a ruckus on the stairs, and then the ship’s carpenter bubbles up from the galley like a cask buoy, suspended by the arms and cheers of her crew. She’s the musical flavor of drunk, and would like the whole ocean to know.

“Brine below with brandy in tow, on seas and—and sails of…what’s the last part?”

“Ferry,” Kingsley shouts.

Her friend rattles her arm around. “Sing the one about the girl from Brokenbank! The girl from Brokenbank!”

“And ferry! On seas and ferry and sail on the—the what? The girl from…?”

“Brokenbank!”

“Right! La…la fille d’Brokenbank!”

The carpenter launches into something bright, brash, and palpably Swavanian. Her friends shout and sway along. Summoned by demand or opportunity, the ship “musiker” appears from belowdecks, and with a few sweeps of his bow promotes their drunken sing-along to a proper soiree.

Kingsley leans against Caleb, and Caleb leans against Kingsley, and the both of them lean back against the bulwark. “La fille d’Brokenbank” ends in a chorus of applause. The next number sounds oddly familiar. Kingsley can feel the vibration when Caleb starts to hum along.

Kingsley says, “You know this one?”

“The Zemnian version. The original.”

“How’s the translation?”

“Terrible.”

Kingsley offers his hand, palm up. Caleb takes it. Drunken whoops accompany their sashay onto the main deck.

The body remembers what the mind forgets. Sometimes that means panic attacks over innocuous shapes and sounds, and sometimes it means knowing all the steps to a dance he’s never heard of. Kingsley’s feet fall into something tap-like, and he and Caleb bob and weave like streamers at Harvest Close. They collide; Caleb takes the lead, and his hand finds its home between Kingsley’s shoulder blades. They’re close enough for Kingsley to map the laugh lines on Cakeb’s face. There’s still a smudge on his temple from journaling, and a dusting of cat fur on his shoulders, and Kingsley loves him so much he has to laugh.

Off-beat claps bolster the tempo, and soon Kingsley and Caleb are spinning faster and faster, around and around and around like feathers in a gale. Caleb raises their joined hands, forewarning a swingout, and Kingsley lets their combined momentum carry him out onto the deck. The tassels of Caleb’s scarf fling around his neck on a delay; the frost nips his nose and ears. A familiar pair of hands catch him by the hand and waist before he can spin himself apart. Kingsley meets Caleb’s eyes again—

And finds them shadowed. Desperate. Caleb’s cheeks, once flushed with wine and exertion, are pale like snow. His hands clutch hard enough to hurt. He looks fragile, and frantic, and his clothes are the wrong color. He opens his mouth and says,

“Kingsley, please.”

Kingsley’s heart stops. He wrenches out of Not-Caleb's grasp.

“Kingsley—!”

“Stay back!” Kingsley warns, and tastes metal—the signature ozone buildup which precludes very powerful magic. He turns to find Caleb—the ruddy, soft one—with his arm outstretched, palm full of fire.

Kingsley doesn’t process the distance between this new bedraggled Caleb and the old. He feels more than sees his hand take Caleb’s wrist. He knocks his aim aloft, and Caleb’s spell unloads right over his doppelgänger’s head. The fire bolt cuts through the fog like a signal flare.

“You can see him too?” Kingsley pants, as the sparks scatter over the water.

Caleb stares at the doppelgänger. His fingers are still staticky with magic: “Who are you?”

Not-Caleb won’t look away from Kingsley. “Kingsley. It’s me. This is a dream. You are under a witch’s spell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t—I'm sorry, but I can't keep the connection open for much longer. I can wake you up, but it has to be your choice.”

Kingsley smells rain and salt and wine. “You’re not—I’m not under a spell. I’m—I’m here on my ship with you—the real you. And we’re headed to Nicodranas—"

“Kingsley.”

“We’re headed back to see Yasha and Beau and, and Fjord and Jester and Veth, and we’re all going to catch up at your wizard tower—”

“But how did you get here?”

Kingsley flounders. “What?”

“I asked you, how did you get here? Here on this boat, on your way to Nicodranas?”

“Wh—we took off from the coast. A port town.”

“Which port town? On which coast?”

Kingsley doesn’t know. Why doesn’t he know? He looks back at the scared faces of his crew—at the musiker, bow frozen on the upswing, and the drawn swords of his seamen. If they know the answer, they aren’t keen to share.

“What are you?” Caleb snaps. “Who sent you?”

Not-Caleb sways with the wind. “How did you get here, Kingsley?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You will die if you stay here much longer. This spell is like a drug, to keep you complacent while it sucks the life out of you.”

“You are the real spell,” Caleb accuses. “Where did you come from? What do you want from us?”

A smatter of snowflakes find purchase on the sails; the deck; the collar of Kingsley’s coat. He should be cold. Why isn’t he cold?

“Answer me!” Caleb shouts.

Kingsley tests the words out on his tongue: “What happens to you? If I stay.”

Not-Caleb’s fingers twist around his coat sleeves.

“Kingsley.” The real Caleb grabs him by the shoulders. “Look at me. This is real. I’m real.”

“Where were we, two weeks ago?” Kingsley’s vision blurs. “Caleb? Why—why don’t I know the names of the crew?”

“I think—I don't know. I think you are under the weather somehow.” Caleb’s grip migrates to his hands. “It will be okay. Kingsley? Listen to me. There are paths to take, paths to help, remember? We can fix this. Together.”

“Why are you here?”

That lands a blow; he can tell. “Kingsley, please.”

“You’re a professor. From Rexxentrum. You do meetings and private lessons. You never have time for anything. Why are you out in the middle of the fucking Lucidian ocean? Why are you here?”

“I am here because I love you,” Caleb pleads.

Sometimes, you only learn there was a beam under your feet when it breaks.

Kingsley can hear his own heartbeat, and the murmurs of the crew. He looks out over the rail at the tar ocean that stretches on and on forever.

“No you don’t,” he says.

“What?”

“You don’t love me.” Sehanine, he’s such an idiot. “You love Essek. You live in an adorable little cottage together on the east side of the capital, near the academy, and you keep a garden with green beans and crocuses and funny wooden shelters for the bees—and I’m out here on the ocean, and you don’t love me.”

“That’s not true,” Caleb—no, not Caleb, never Caleb—says. “Kingsley. You aren’t well. You aren’t making any sense.”

“To your credit, it was a very nice dream.” Kingsley pecks him on the forehead. “Thanks for the dance.”

He unlocks their hands. If Caleb calls after him, he can’t hear him over the roar of the ocean, or maybe the blood between his ears. He holds out his hand to Caleb—the one with traces of garden dirt in the grooves of his boots—and says,

“I’m ready.”

--

Kingsley wakes up from the best dream of his life, and he’s fucking freezing.

Pebbles scratch his cheek. He sits up, leans over, and vomits up his breakfast. He’s pretty sure he can hear people shouting. Someone grabs him around the waist.

“Caleb?” he slurs.

“He’s okay.” Yasha runs her fingers through his hair like she hasn’t done since he was Molly. Each point of contact feels like a breath after a week underwater. “Rest. We’ve got you.”

“‘M I gonna die?” Kingsley asks her.

“No, Kingsley, you are not going to die.”

“Feels like I’m gonna die.”

Yasha says something else—something firm. Kingsley claws for purchase. The tide drags him out from under her hands, and he drifts.

--

Consciousness is fickle after that. Kingsley thinks he sees a wagon bed, and Jester’s face, and the honey glow of late summer through a canvas tarp. His dreams are empty and waterlogged, his reality a disjointed stream of technicolor snapshots.

Then his brain finds a foothold. It hoists him over the ledge into cognition. Kingsley sees moonlight first. Or, a refraction thereof. Kingsley looks up to check. The windows overhead link arms to form an elaborate glass triptych, their panes bustling with circus wagons and astral cities and tieflings who wave and dance and drink Hupperdook mead.

Kingsley pulls the covers up over his head. At the foot of the bed, an uprooted Frumpkin meowls his displeasure.

Chair legs scrape hardwood. “Kingsley! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, you’re awake!”

“Despite the gods’ best efforts.” He didn’t know a person could get this cold. Jester peels the blankets from his face and says,

“You look awful.”

It’s great to see her. “I feel awful.”

“You should be healed by now. Like, super duper triple healed. I’ve been pumping spells into you like crazy.” She flicks his nose. “You really freaked me out, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Here, drink some water.”

He accepts a cup. The water settles like a rock at the bottom of his gut. “What happened?”

“Okay, so…do you remember how we found a house full of super spooky witchy stuff?”

For once, Kingsley does remember. The artifacts were deemed too potent to leave for the crows, so they’d stuffed their cart with odds and ends and rattled away toward the capital.

Kingsley teases out the details like puzzle pieces from behind a shelf. “We hit a pothole.”

“Mhmm.”

“A crystal fell out of a bag, and I…I uh…”

“Mhmm.”

“Shit.” He drags a hand down his face. “I really grabbed the one that puts you in a coma, didn’t I?”

“Like it was a platinum piece. Caleb says it makes you live out your greatest hopes and dreams so you don’t notice it sucking out your soul.”

“Right. Yeah, he told us that part before I uh…” He watches Frumpkin knead himself a nest along the crook of his knee. A claw pierces the blanket. “Ow. Yeah. How am I not dead?”

“Caleb cast some kind of dream spell and fell asleep next to you. It was super cute. And super scary.” She props her elbows up and rests her chin on her hands. “Frumpkin, you are going to tear the quilt.”

Frumpkin yawns his derision. Jester says, “Sooooo. What did you dream about?”

Kingsley whistles. “The world’s biggest pirate boat orgie.”

“Oooooh!” Her tail stands up straight. “Was I there?”

“We were on our way to pick you up. If that counts.”

“I think it should. Caleb told me to tell him when you woke up. He’s really worried about you.”

Kingsley pulls the covers back over his face. Jester coos and pats his horn through the blanket.

“Don’t worry. We can just hang out for a bit. Oh! And Caduceus said to give you some tea. I’ll be right back.”

He’s asleep before she even leaves the room.

--

He cracks an eye open, and Yasha is in the chair next to his bed. Beau sits crosslegged on the rug. The couple appear to be mid-argument over school districts, or maybe what constitutes a blade versus a sword. The windows cast elaborate landscapes on the wall. Kingsley goes back to sleep.

--

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark again, and Caduceus is bent over in his sleep. An empty cup keeps vigil from the bedside table. The air still smells faintly of dead people tea.

Kingsley thinks his blood might be frozen. He hooks his nose over the lip of the blankets and glares at the empty fireplace. There don’t appear to be any matches around, or even any wood.

Kingsley counts to ten and pries himself from the depths of his bed. The cold wood floor shoots needles up his feet. He dances his weight around until his body adjusts.

A ginger shape darts off the bed and out the door.

Midnight zoomies. Kingsley looks after Frumpkin, then back at the fireplace. He could pull the rope for a servant, but he also knows there’s a library two floors down with a hearth the size of a wagon cart. The guest room has always felt more like a shrine than a bedroom anyhow.

Kingsley drapes the first blanket over Caduceus. He wraps the second around himself like a sheet of butcher paper and shivers his miserable way to the library.

The library lights are periwinkle tonight. Kingsley picks his way through the warren of shelves and arm chairs to the couch, then the hearth. He stands with his numb fingers brooch-locked around his blanket, washed out by firelight, and waits for the heat to permeate the cold front under his skin.

And waits.

And waits.

Well, fuck. Kingsley steps closer to the fire. He can feel the heat on his face, but only by degrees of separation, like there’s a veil between himself and the flames. Kingsley dumps his useless blanket on the floor. Fuck the fireplace. Fuck the whole tower and all its gleaming monuments. Kingsley thrusts his hand into the fire.

Someone yelps. A strong grip wrenches Kingsley’s hand from the fireplace.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“That’s sort of beside the point.” Shit, that hurt. Kingsley looks down at his hand, and then the hand that paints a line of heat around his wrist. “Dick and balls, Caleb. Are you—?” He takes Caleb’s hand. “Are you burned anywhere?”

“I am not the one who shoved his hand in a fire.”

“Fire-resistant, remember? It’s fine. Barely stung.” Kingsley tilts Caleb’s hand. Runs his finger along the slant of his pinky. “You look a little pink here.”

“Why are you trying to set yourself on fire two days after I pulled you out of a coma?”

“Just quirky like that, I guess.” Everywhere their fingers brush, a shock of heat pricks the veil between Kingsley and the rest of the world. “Thank you, by the way. That was…you didn’t have to do that.”

“You know I did.”

“Just…” Kingsley needs to let go of Caleb’s hand. “I’m sorry to ask for one more favor, after everything.”

Caleb looks at him with inexplicable tenderness. “What do you need?”

Kingsley releases Caleb, and cold floods right back up his arm to fill the spaces pierced by Caleb’s touch. He’s tasted relief now. Kingsley’s nails grazed the riverbank only for the current to drag him back under, and the cold hits so much harder for the memory of air and sunshine.

Kingsley says,

“I need you to forget it. All of it. Everything you saw. I’m sorry to have put you through it, but there’s no taking it back now—so the best I can do is ask you to…to kindly put it in a box in your brain somewhere and bury it. Bury it deep and spare me the mortification.”

“Kingsley—”

“Tell me I haven’t ruined our friendship over a silly little daydream.” Kingsley will not cry. He will not. “None of it has to mean anything. Anything at all.”

Caleb kisses him.

Kingsley’s brain skips and starts. He feels the tickle of Caleb’s stubble first. A match catches, and heat—real heat—grazes his lips; catches on his gasp. Jester told him once about the Temple of the False Serpent, when the room flooded and Fjord passed his last breath to Jester on a kiss. Caleb’s lips are soft and sure. The tips of his fingers dust Kingsley’s cheek. Sunlight pierces the thicket.

Then Caleb breaks away. “I’m sorry. I know you—”

“Don’t stop.” It’s a pathetic mewl. He’s shaking so hard it hurts. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Caleb’s face crumples, and then his hands are back on Kingsley’s face. Their lips meet. Kingsley makes a sound from the very pit of his chest. The relief is so profound he thinks he’ll crumple.

“Shh, shh.” Caleb kisses his cheeks; his brow; his jaw. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. Es ist in Ordnung.”

Kingsley sways. Caleb braces him with his arms. The warmth spreads up Kingsley’s spine; down his throat; expands with his lungs, slow as daybreak.

“Es ist in Ordnung,” Caleb repeats, like he can taste Kingsley’s desperation. “Es ist in Ordnung…”

The kiss deepens. Caleb hugs him closer. Kingsley’s arms ache. He screws his nails into his palms. If he touches Caleb he’ll break the spell.

Caleb rests their foreheads together. He pants, and his nose brushes Kingsley’s, and he says,

“You are an idiot. I love you.”

The world tilts on its axis. “You don’t. You can’t.”

“I love you both. Essek knows I love you both.”

It kills Kingsley to tear his head away.

“Kingsley…”

“If you ever loved anyone with this face,” Kingsley says, “it wasn’t me.”

Caleb makes a low noise at the back of his throat. He grabs Kingsley by the arms and pushes him onto the couch. His mouth locks around Kingsley’s throat. Heat spikes through Kingsley’s chest like a blade; he only knows he threw his head back from the give of the cushions. Emboldened, Caleb teases the skin below his ear. Kingsley hears, over his own keen,

“You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“It’s cold,” Kingsley manages.

Caleb recaptures his lips. His legs brace Kingsley’s hips; his palms leave sunshine prints on his chest. One hand slides down, down, down. Fingers tease the line of skin between Kingsley’s shirt and pants. Kingsley arches up. He must make some other sound, because Caleb says, “Right here, schatz.”

“Caleb.” The fingers press harder. Lift the edge of his shirt. “Caleb.”

The touch vanishes like a snuffed candle. “All right?”

“Please—I can’t—”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No. No, please. Please. Caleb, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Lips on his lips. Kingsley softens.

“Es ist in Ordnung…Es ist in Ordnung.” Caleb’s hand slides back up under his shirt. “I have you. Just stay with me.” He runs his fingers up his ribcage. “Just stay here with me.”

It takes a second to remember how to speak: “I’m here. I’m here.”

A flash of magic, and the library doors swing shut. Caleb undoes the first three buttons of Kingsley’s shirt; stops to kiss the exposed skin; undoes the last three. Pushes the fabric aside.

“I loved Mollymauk. I loved Lucien. I love you.” He kisses the words down Kingsley’s ribs. “I am in love with the dust that makes you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

Kingsley laughs. Forces back tears. “A bit, yeah.”

“Why?”

He wants to live under Caleb’s hands. He wants to run away to the ocean and never look back.

Caleb dips closer. He stresses, “Why is it so difficult to believe that you are loved, Kingsley?”

“Don’t ask me that. Please don’t ask me that.”

Caleb’s fingers slide back down his stomach. “I want to hold you. I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

“I’m not a real person,” Kingsley tells him. “I’m just a jumble of broken parts in a pirate coat.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

Caleb says, “Do you know what I dream about? I dream about waking up next to you on a Saturday morning, with nothing to do but lay around and kiss you and watch the light change.” His hand wanders below his pants. He cups Kingsley’s hip. “I dream about taking you to the market, and filling our baskets with fresh berries and sweetbread and whatever you like. I dream you show me the ocean. I dream we lay out on the deck of your ship and look up at the stars. I dream I forget my lunch, and you appear mid-lecture with a bag of snacks and tomatoes from the garden, and I get to show you off to my class. I dream about that a lot.”

His hand trails back up his thigh. Kingsley writhes, a live wire under his touch.

“I dream I wake up from a nightmare, and you are there. I dream you teach me how to sail.” His thumb sweeps closer to Kingsley’s cock. “I dream I stay up grading papers, and you come up from behind and wrap your arms around my shoulders, and you tell me the work will still be there in the morning. I dream I get to hold you and kiss you and make you come. Will you let me?”

Kingsley looks up at Caleb, and the way the fire halos his hair.

“I love you.” Kingsley’s fingers are claws on the cushions. “Before I knew my own name I knew I loved you. Fuck me, use me, whatever you want, you’ve got me.”

“I told you, I want to make you feel good. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Caleb draws his hand back up the line between his thigh and stomach, away from his cock.

Kingsley whines. “I’m not…I don’t deserve this.”

“Ah. Too bad. Tell me anyway.”

That shocks a laugh out of him. “You’re a tyrant. I want…”

The fire crackles. Caleb’s hands are on his hips, anchors to reality.

“I want you,” Kingsley chokes out. “I want to feel you. I want to feel you on me, around me.”

“How do you mean? Do you want me to fuck you? Ride you?”

“Oh fuck. Shit.” He’s sure his heart will pound out of his chest. “Touch me, ride me, please. Yes.”

Caleb kisses him. The world narrows back down to the bloom of his touch.

“All right. All right, I’ve got you.” He pulls away. “Not going anywhere. Lay back for me?”

Kingsley musters the wherewithal to obey. Caleb shuffles out of his boxers. He reaches for the waistband of Kingsley’s pants.

“Ja?”

“Please. Please, shit, here, let me—”

He helps Caleb pull down his pants and underwear. Magic dusts Caleb’s hands, and then a vial appears between his palms.

“Oh.” He rattles the vial. “I am glad that worked.”

Kingsley pretends not to stare at Caleb’s cock. “Yeah? What was the alternative?”

“Forty-five pounds of dinner rolls.” He uncaps the vial. Kingsley looks on, almost from outside himself, as Caleb warms a dollop of oil between his hands.

Kingsley’s body knows sex. It’s had sex as people he can’t bear to claim, with people he’ll never care to know. In the wake of his resurrection, as Kingsley grappled for some kind of ownership over his body, he’d collected flings like copper pieces. It shouldn’t be a shock, when Caleb brushes two fingers up his shaft. It shouldn’t feel so new, when Caleb swipes his thumb over the head of his cock.

Caleb’s free hand finds Kingsley’s on the couch. He says, “Touch me?” and there’s a tremor. Maybe there’s been a tremor for a while.

Kingsley unlocks his grip from the couch. He takes Caleb’s wrist, and the world doesn’t end. Oil spills down his cock with the steady up and back of Caleb’s other hand. Kingsley’s grip spasms. He finds Caleb’s sides and clutches for purchase. Caleb says something soft and low. He breaks away to pour more oil onto his palm. Kingsley watches, helpless to move, as Caleb reaches down with lathered fingers. He preps himself. The firelight catches his fingers as they reappear. He says,

“Still with me?”

The memories are fuzzy. “I’ve left you a lot, haven’t I?”

“You always come back.” Caleb prestidigitates his hands clean. “This couch may, um. May prove a challenge.”

“We could move to the floor?”

“No, ah, I think this will work fine. Just…”

The cushions dip with one knee, then the other. Caleb sits so he brackets Kingsley’s thighs. He plants his palms to frame Kingsley’s head, and looks down at him with such lavish adoration Kingsley wants to wither away.

Caleb’s brow furrows. He hooks his finger and feathers the underside of Kingsley’s horn. Kingsley shudders.

“Someone lied to you,” Caleb whispers. “Who convinced you that you are worth so little?”

Kingsley looks away. Caleb’s finger finds a certain spot along the base of his horn; spurred by Kingsley’s moan, he massages the skin there with slow vigor. He says, “You deserve so much more than I could ever give you. I’m selfish that way.”

Kingsley musters a scoff. “Only you could look at this and call it selfish.”

Caleb kisses him. Kingsley thinks the world could end and he wouldn’t notice. He runs his fingers through Caleb’s hair, like he’s always wanted to do, and Caleb rewards him with a shaky noise. Everything is yellow and soft and dappled.

Caleb leans back. He raises himself over Kingsley’s cock. A pause, as he looks to Kingsley for permission. Then he sinks down. Caleb takes the tip of his cock. Heat envelopes his shaft, slow and steady. Kingsley can only heave for breath. His horn half catches on a pillow. Caleb hooks his palms above Kingsley’s hips. He says something punched out, like he can barely fit the words out of his throat, and the walls around Kingsley’s cock contract and release. Kingsley bites back a wail.

Caleb, fully seated now, takes a moment to adjust to the stretch. He’s still wearing his sleep shirt. His hair is ruffled from Kingsley’s fingers. Kingsley covers his hands. He closes his eyes and floats with the pattern of their overlapping breaths; feels the hug of Caleb’s body all around like a winter coat.

“Don’t think I’m not gonna…” Caleb’s muscles flex, and Kingsley has to pause to recover his wits. “Don’t think I’m gonna last.”

“Good. Because I won’t be able to keep this up for very long.” Caleb raises himself to the tip of Kingsley’s dick, then rides the shaft back down to the base. Kingsley doesn’t hear the sound he makes, but he feels the air leave his lungs and mouth. Oil beads off his thighs and cock and stomach. Kingsley’s fingers knit with Caleb’s, hard enough to sting. The sound of skin on skin; Caleb’s broken Zemnian as Kingsley ruts up to meet him on the downturn. They find a good angle; Caleb shouts, and Kingsley drives back at the same spot. Caleb’s muscles pulse; a few drops of precum bob off his cock. A shock of pleasure nearly throws Kingsley over the edge.

“I’m—fuck, Caleb, I’m…”

Kingsley is a star in Caleb’s hands. He’s bleeding light and Caleb is holding him through it—holding him like he’s something soft and impossible.

“Kingsley…”

“I can’t—”

“Come inside me.” Caleb draws their joined hands over Kingsley’s stomach. “Please—”

Kingsley thrusts back up at him, and the words are lost. Waves build upon waves. Kingsley’s cheeks are wet. It’s hard to see past the pleasure. He says Caleb’s name, and Caleb squeezes his hand, and Kingsley comes.

He hears Caleb gasp. Kingsley reaches out through the haze. He cups Caleb’s cock with his free hand, and Caleb thrusts down once, twice. He comes over Kingsley’s stomach.

A suspended moment. Caleb rolls up onto his knees, off Kingsley’s cock, and collapses. Kingsley throws his arms around his back.

“Caleb. Caleb…”

Caleb plants a messy kiss to his shoulder. Kingsley’s fingers find his hair. The world realigns itself in panting increments.

A log splits in the fireplace. Caleb groans. He starts to sit up, but his hand slips; Kingsley catches him before he can slide off the couch.

“Okay?” Kingsley laughs.

“Ja. Ja, I’m…” He laughs too. “Move over a bit.”

They shuffle until they’re face to face, Kingsley hammocked between Caleb and the back of the couch. Caleb flicks a prestidigitation cantrip at Kingsley; at the couch; at himself. The mess evaporates.

The cushions dip; Caleb’s fingers dust the floor. Kingsley can’t be bothered to open his eyes. A little buffet of air tickles his skin, to the snap of fanned-out fabric. He thinks of clotheslines in summer, and the blue sheen transition from the outdoors to a worn foyer.

“I’m good,” Caleb whispers, as he tucks the blanket over their shoulders.

Kingsley pricks his fingers into Caleb’s shirt.

He murmurs, “Don’t wake me up, all right? I like it here.”

Kingsley feels Caleb exhale. “You think this is another trick?”

“I don’t know. Mostly I’m warm and I’m tired and I love you.”

“And tomorrow you will wake up,” Caleb taps one knuckle, “and you will still be here,” another, “and I will still love you, too.” He kisses Kingsley’s hand. “So. If you are tired, sleep.”

Kingsley thinks he was an optimist once. Belief comes to him like muscle memory, and he sleeps.

[crackers4jenn]

Howdy! I posted chapter 1 of what will be a 3 chapter destiel supernatural fic, a-like so:

Title: one more time

Summary: Set during the s15 divorce arc. What if Cas got captured by a djinn. What if he experienced his moment of ‘true happiness’ while caught in its dream, and it summoned the Empty. What if Dean saved Cas from the djinn, only to have a portal of black goo open up in front of them?

A jolt seems to yank Castiel into consciousness.

There’s a lingering sensation in his left shoulder, a feeling like he’d been hit, and from the side he hears a voice speaking, but it comes in and out the way it would in a dream, muffled and intelligible.

And then he hears, “Cas!” yelled sharply, clearly, and he snaps back into focus.

He’s in his kitchen, still wearing his suit and coat after a tiring day of work, and his best friend, Dean, is grasping his shoulder and staring at him in concern.

“Dude, blink already,” Dean says, but Cas has known him long enough he can read between the biting sarcasm. He’s worried about him. Why, Castiel doesn’t really know. He only has the vague feeling that he’d been drifting off, but otherwise, everything’s fine.

When Dean sees that Cas is alert, he gives his shoulder a squeeze and backs off. “What’d I say? I told you that asshat, Doucheriah, was working you to death, man.”

“Dean,” Cas sighs. Though they banter more than fight, this is a conversation they’ve had often, and because it’s a sensitive topic it tends to lead to some real tension.

Dean is of the belief that Cas’s uncle—Zachariah, but Cas prefers the nickname Dean has given him—is taking advantage of him, working him long hours for little pay, and attaching him to cases that leave him feeling mentally adrift and weary of humanity. Cas has been working his way up his family’s law firm the past fourteen years. It’s how he met Dean, actually, through the company’s hire of Dean’s brother, Sam. Dean had needed a roommate, and Cas had needed a friend.

[raointean]

It's Just Djinn-etics - Raointean - Ms. Marvel (TV 2022) [Archive of Our Own]

We never really saw what happened when Aamir found out about the whole "Your great-grandmother was a djinn" thing (understandably so, as it would have seriously messed up the pacing), so I wrote it! Featuring Khan family adorableness

[teecupangel]

Alright, people. So... the next chapter for Beloved Moon and Eagle of Alamut are up but that's not the main thing.

The main thing is: here is your reminder that next Monday, MARCH 13, around 3 to 4 EST, will be the next 'Teecup's BIG Upload Based on Important Dates in AC Lore!' which has been my modus operandi since last year.

We are celebrating Desmond's Birthday and it will include:

The next chapter of Beloved Moon (Prepare tissue... I guess?)

The next chapter of Eagle of Alamut (In which I kinda give Desmond a gift... ish?)

The first chapter of the Assassin's Creed x Call of Duty Modern Warfare Crossover! (Tentative title: Shadows' Endgame unless you guys tell me 'Assassin's Creed: Modern Warfare' is a better title)

A 10k oneshot of the Leverage AU-type conman Desmond that will serve as the 'pilot episode'

Short smut

Now, depending on how this week goes, I might "MIGHT" be able to slip in another short smut for next week. We'll see. XD

[helloliriels]

Love when there's almost as many comments as kudos ... 💕👌 😭

Lately had a bit more in mind for this fic ... would it be of interest?