paxton brady @paxton-aeterna - Tumblr Blog

pax at morn / pax at noon / pax at night

incomplete rough edits i noodled around on today to reconnect with pax after a month away

#headcanon!p #music!p #also post 69 on this blog what UP

pax, lox & piper

Right. There was nothing for it. He loved his friends. No reason to dread picking up the phone and calling one of them. No reason to be nervous. Well.

Maeko had made him a little nervous, slamming the front door of Borgin & Burkes after him and staring daggers at him through it. Paxton could just feel them pricking his neck. He felt a lot of things emanating from Borgin & Burkes right now, not that he'd even made it further in than the front hall. He'd walked in, stopped in his tracks at the sight of Maeko, and said faintly, "Oh dear. Your aura, love. The state of this place, it's..." Maeko's aura was looking distinctly porous, as if eaten away at by little moths. A metallic miasma seeped from the wallpaper—or was it through the walls?—and hung in the air like an oily residue. And as much as he'd been trying not to think of that day—the reason he hadn't come calling at Knockturn for a long minute now—it reminded him very much of...

"Maeko," Paxton said lightly, watching her eyebrows come together like a growing storm cloud the more he explained. "I think I've forgotten to tell you something." He explained, in detail, the importance of aura cleansing. He mentioned it might be worth mentioning to Piper, when Maeko next saw her. And he said—quite tactfully he thought—that she ought to get on with it, because from what he could see, their flat was fucked by a raging aura bleed. "I really didn't consider this," he apologized, "because I cleanse mine as a matter of habit, you know, but it should have occurred to me that our encounter would have consequences for her as well. So she might want—"

"Pax," Maeko said finally, with the flat look of someone whose magic aura had been eaten at like rust went after metal. "You can talk to her."

"You know," Paxton wheedled, sheepish, "I would really rather—I just think—if you could—"

And now he was standing in the cold alley, out on his ass, turning over his cell phone with a faint dread. Pax's thumb hovered, hesitating, between two contacts. But he could do this. Communicate directly! Speak to his friend of many years. The one person who would be able to address the situation properly.

The phone rang a few times. "Loxley! It's Pax," Paxton said, cheerily. Unnecessarily. "How are you? How are—things? With—you—and—your loved ones? And with—er, with you and Piper?"

@loxley-blair-lockhart

loxley-blair-lockhart

Loxley took a sip of the hot drink his boss and mentor had made for him, before promptly spitting the mouthful into the garden. "Oi you know I don't like my tea like this!" He choked while Proff Sprout laughed her ass off. "You must've taken mine! Hold on." She pushed a different mug at him, and Loxley gave her a withering look. "Bullshit, you old witch. You live to see me suffer." He sipped his drink and promptly did another spit take. "What is wrong with you?!" He stood up as the older lady giggled. It was contagious, and he gave a small grin while tipping the mug into the dirt, and grabbed a handful of the biscuits she'd laid out. It was then that his phone started ringing. Loxley placed the mug back on the table and walked out towards his cottage while answering the call.

"Paxton Brady, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He answered formally, although around a mouthful of chocolate Digestive. He was truly excited to get a call from Pax. They always had the best nights together and had a lot in common, although it somehow didn't translate into a close sober friendship. He was surprised to receive a call from Pax. The universe was normally their phone. "Piper?" He repeated with a frown. "Everything is... I think it's fine? Did she say something?" He started to worry. Paxton had literally never called him, much less asked after the state of his relationship. "Should we meet up? Where are you? Do you know old Professor Sprout's farm? I work out here most days if you wanna come out, or I can come to you... uhh you're sort of freaking me out. Sorry." He pushed his fingers into his eyelids until he saw colours.

@peace-love-piper

paxton-aeterna

"Sorry! Sorry. I don't mean to, it's not." Paxton winced. "Actually, it's a bit urgent. As long as the farm's not warded, I'll find you. Always been better at apparating to people than places. Right. Hang on."

Paxton hung up with no little relief, promptly turned his phone off, and shoved it to the bottom of his pocket. Then he closed his eyes and had a few meditative breaths. It helped. Then he took a few more, his focus on Loxley. Loxley and the blue flannel of Pax's he still had. Loxley and his brutal honesty. Hm, best not to think on that one now. Loxley, with his head constantly a little bowed and his minimal eye contact. (This was somewhat better than it once was.)

The pressure in his ears rose and popped with a jubilant crack, and when Paxton opened his eyes he was standing at the end of a row of garden beds that looked like they'd already been put to bed for the winter. The air smelled like wet dirt and rain, and he took grateful deep lungfuls of it. Turning round, he spied a cottage not a little ways off, and Loxley's back.

"I like your hair," he called, by way of greeting. (It was somewhat better than it once was. They had both gotten better at washing.) He began a casual stroll past the beds, assessing Loxley's aura with trepidation. "I don't mean to interrupt. It's only that I've got some concern about the state of things at—sorry, I've just realized I haven't seen you since October!" He put his arm around Loxley's shoulder and waist and reeled him in, then did a minor shuffle of reconsideration to avoid squashing his nose. "Are we having tea?" he asked, hopefully.

@loxley-blair-lockhart

loxley-blair-lockhart

"No it's warded, I'll just walk into the paddock where it's not- Oh oh you've hung up." Loxley did a slight trot as he tried to quickly get to an unwarded spot of land for Paxton to find. Sprout liked to keep all the unwarded "entry spots" a bit nice for company, but Loxley was near his cottage, and that was his responsibility. It wasn't too bad. A bit muddy. Fine if you were in a wellies and overalls combo... Well it was too late to go elsewhere.

Loxley turned around at the sound of the compliment with a wide grin, which he tried to hide by burying his face into Paxton's shirt for his hug, almost lifting the lanky Brady off his feet with his squeezing. "It's so good to see you!" He said, positively beaming. He really did love Pax. He needed to say it when he was sober more often, or at least California sober. "Oh do I smell of tea The crazy old witch likes to put things in my tea. Nothing, ya know, exciting. More like salt or soy sauce. Says she wants me to stay sharp or something. She also says I'm getting too fat off her biscuits. It's all a rouse to get me back to work quicker. Here, if you're not going to try and be a safety inspector, you can come by the cottage I've been fixing up on my down time. Sprout says it's mine if I can make it liveable!" He chattered excitedly as he led Paxton down a muddy lane towards his cottage. Inside, a fire was lit and it was warm. Loxley put a levitating billy can of water over it while preparing other bits for the tea. "Why the call, anyways? This isn't normally how we meet. You're not sweating, or begging to swap clothes, or asking me for gum." He smirked, offering a tray of the nice biscuits at Paxton. "Or are you getting better at hiding when you're off your face?"

paxton-aeterna

"Ah, thanks, " Paxton said, taking a nervous nibble. He slid two fingers underneath his choker and slid its blue bead back and forth. "I dunno, I've got. Some concerns. About Piper." Back and forth. "I recently learned she's Veela. It wasn't the best conversation. She tried to do something to me. To show me something, I think, and it sort of went poorly."

Paxton’s throat was tight, but it was clearly the right thing to do, the only thing to do, to check how Loxley was getting on and explain him what had happened to 13B since. "And it's my fault, really," he offered, after he'd finished. "That it's developed into a spectacular aura leak; I should have known. I cleanse mine out of habit, so I caught it early, but I didn't even think to check on--the flat." It hadn't occurred to him, that his friends might not have taken the run of Divination courses back at school and might not spot the signs of danger, but a part of Paxton wondered if he also hadn't wanted it to. It would have meant looking any member of the household in the eye, and that was something he'd been avoiding for weeks.

Paxton nibbled a bit more off his biscuit, which he held clutched desperately in his clammy hand. "And well," he blurted. "So. I came to check on how you're getting on. Since you're dating the--dating Piper and all."

@loxley-blair-lockhart

paxton-aeterna

pax, lox & piper

Right. There was nothing for it. He loved his friends. No reason to dread picking up the phone and calling one of them. No reason to be nervous. Well.

"Pax," Maeko said finally, with the flat look of someone whose magic aura had been eaten at like rust went after metal. "You can talk to her."

"You know," Paxton wheedled, sheepish, "I would really rather—I just think—if you could—"

The phone rang a few times. "Loxley! It's Pax," Paxton said, cheerily. Unnecessarily. "How are you? How are—things? With—you—and—your loved ones? And with—er, with you and Piper?"

@loxley-blair-lockhart

loxley-blair-lockhart

@peace-love-piper

paxton-aeterna

@loxley-blair-lockhart

pax, lox & piper

Right. There was nothing for it. He loved his friends. No reason to dread picking up the phone and calling one of them. No reason to be nervous. Well.

"Pax," Maeko said finally, with the flat look of someone whose magic aura had been eaten at like rust went after metal. "You can talk to her."

"You know," Paxton wheedled, sheepish, "I would really rather—I just think—if you could—"

The phone rang a few times. "Loxley! It's Pax," Paxton said, cheerily. Unnecessarily. "How are you? How are—things? With—you—and—your loved ones? And with—er, with you and Piper?"

@loxley-blair-lockhart

the-hobgoblins

paxton-aeterna:

Oz hemmed and hawed, making a performance of it. Paxton waited, taking the spliff and turning it between his fingers. There wasn’t a lot left, and he didn’t even think to share. It only let him inhale and exhale twice before it burned down to a useless stub, but it was just enough to sate him. Enough to slow his thoughts and keep him floating in this moment instead of returning to the real world and its consequences. Oz had already sucked his brain clear out of his head, and now he could feel his bones lose their sharp edges in real time.

Oz began literally climbing the furniture, cagey at the question, moving away from him. Paxton watched indulgently, waiting for Oz to stop talking before he drifted closer again. He flicked the stub away and grasped Oz’s hands in his, drawing back to toy with Oz’s balance. He grinned as Oz listed towards him and pulled harder, stepping forward to catch Oz tilting into his arms.

“Maybe I like it,” Pax exhaled smoke into his hair. “Maybe I like you.”

He looked down at Oz. His blue eyes were big, and maybe it’s how young that made him look, but Paxton felt strong, in control enough to be the one to lean down and kiss him. This thing, the sex, the intoxication and the rush of connecting with someone so quickly and completely, it could be another way of avoiding real life. He’d never done a particularly good job at avoiding the other ways. But it didn’t feel wrong. Not consuming and frightening, not like—

“Your aura, it’s like meeting a vortex,” Paxton said, thinking then of the tassels and chains he’d seen lurking underneath Oz’s sigils on their first meeting. “Maybe nothing functions how it’s supposed to, but that’s only because you make your own gravity. And I like it. It’s nice. S’not bad—it feels good to just…” He leaned away, stroked a hand down the side of Oz’s neck. He had a vague sense that he wasn’t saying the nicest things, but they were honest truths. “Feels really strong today.” And right—he needed to do something about that. Eventually he’d go home and take care of a cleansing, but he wasn’t ready to be without Oz yet. Or—he frowned. “I’m famished. D’you think Maeko’s forgotten?”

If Oz had something coy and flirtatious to quip back, it was lost with the press of Pax’s lips to his. The world-off-its-axis feeling of tumbling, falling. The stuttered double-thump of his heartbeat in his chest.

You like this too much.

But there was something to be said for that intoxicating rush, that masochistic thrill, of doing something you knew you shouldn’t. Things that were foolish, or dangerous, or indulgent. Things that could hurt you.

And it’s not like Oz had ever been all that good at control.

He leaned into Paxton’s touch like a reflex. “‘Ya make your own gravity’—I like the sound a that…” And okay—Oz may not have really understood what Pax was getting at, he was unschooled on concepts like auras and kindness and vortexes and truth. But it was the first time someone had talked about the strange magic that clamored inside of him without making it sound like a mistake, or a weapon, or a liability.

Just a thing that existed, like anything else.

Oz smiled, and opened his mouth to say something more, but before he could get there—

“Forgotten how handsy you get when you’ve got munchies, Earth Child? How could I ever…” said Maeko from where she’d apparated in, two large plastic bags filled with cartons of carry-out dangling from each hand, like a demon summoned by their own name.

Oz, who was well-used to Maeko frequently, silently appearing from the shadows at Borgin and Burkes and interjecting in the middle of conversations as if she’d been there the whole time, was not startled or thrown by this entrance, and he merely craned half his body around to smirk at her and say, “Smells good, Mae.”

She gave a tiny twitch of a shrug and said, “S’not Janice’s dandelion soup, but it’ll do…” She stepped forward two paces and dropped the bags unceremoniously onto the table that Oz was still half-on, before sliding up onto a corner of it and waiting not one single additional second to light a cigarette and take a drag. The smoke made Oz’s mouth water even more than the food, and Maeko gave him a knowing smirk before handing it over and ripping into the carefully-tied-up bags. “You two have fun, then?” she said, hardly even trying to mask the tease in her tone nor her amusement at their expense.

And yet. There was something so…unselfish, about how Maeko was with Pax. Morrigan had liked to possess people, to own them entirely—their lust and attention and fear and affection, every drop of what they had to give was hers and hers alone.

But Maeko didn’t act like there was some line being crossed, with any of this. No tug-of-war, no pissing contest with those she loved. What’s mine is yours seemed to be how Maeko and Paxton’s relationship was built—a dynamic that was, perhaps, acquired with time and experience. It made Oz wonder, not for the first time, what they’d been like before.

Maeko was halfway through a bite of food when she made a face, her head cocking to one side and black curls cascading downward. She swallowed, gesturing toward the sound booth with a plastic fork. “Why d’you have The Sundays on a loop?”

paxton-aeterna

“More fun now you’re here,” Pax managed to say in what just about passed as a normal voice. He was only lightly pink.

Pax crossed the room in one long-legged step, setting Oz carefully back to rights so he didn’t fall on his face as he moved to greet Maeko, fingers twining in her hair to reel her in like a slinky cat. It was too fucking perfect, the tight, brief little smacking sound of dropping a kiss on her head. Once, and then twice, of course, and then a third time, lingering, and finally a fourth, because who could resist, anyway.

“Forgotten m’always handsy,” he breathed right into her ear, grinning as she cringed away. She smelled like smoke and the dankness of the Alley, but Pax was used to both, used to the hand that lightly pushed at him when she’d had enough and used to the threatening gestures she made with her cigarette when he harassed her a few seconds longer. He relented, backing away, eyes all bright and dancing with a fond slyness.

Of course, this was when Maeko noticed the song on loop. Pax reached up to scratch at his nose awkwardly, conveniently avoiding her eyebrows to rifle through the food bags. “Er, I think I sort of mucked up your soundboard—thing, Maeko. It won't stop." Over the squeak of styrofoam and plastic, he said, “I think it’s possessed.” He got in half a thought about just how unclean his hands were before it slid clean away from him. “Like your painting,” Paxton said, glancing at Oz. His hair was sticking up on one side in a truly bizarre arrangement of sweat and frizz.

With chopsticks, Pax tucked happily into the containers marked specially with a little V, as both Maeko and Oz talked over each other to explain again how every piece of furniture they had was actually haunted, and he said well yes but that’s not quite the same thing as possessed though is it, and they rehashed new-old arguments with a patter that was still surprising but becoming steadily more familiar. He wasn’t quick enough to keep up with the two of them, sometimes, but that was alright. It was easy to let his thoughts drift warm and surface-content, and carefully not think about how he instinctively left half the food in his containers for someone else.

FIN

the-hobgoblins

paxton-aeterna:

“Yeah,” Pax breathed. “I’d like that.” He bit his lip in renewed concentration as he closed his slick hand back around Oz’s cock, jacking it in an almost-even rhythm this time. Oz just melted and writhed under his hands, eyes closed. Paxton pushed closer, nuzzled at Oz’s jaw until he tilted his mouth to meet Paxton’s. Soon enough, Oz was muttering against his mouth in warning with the same something—it was something small, some inflection—in his voice as last time, and Pax sped up his strokes until Oz arched into his grip and came in Paxton’s hand. Again! His brain cheered. Oz magic—because that was definitely what it was, Paxton was sure now—sparked through Pax’s entire body like an current, lifting the hair on his arms. It sent the lights on the fritz again.

The flavor of his own come still lingered in Pax mouth. When Pax had been younger and uselessly crushing on everyone who passed him by in the hall, driven insane by hormones and horny all the time but too polite to do anything about it, his fantasies had been full of the heat and throes of passion: snippets focused squarely on the mid-action part of sex. Now he’d found that there was a whole other realm of intimacy in the aftermath that he’d never realized was part of the deal. Watching Oz accidentally smear come through his stomach hair while the sweat dried on his chest and his face went from reddish to light, rosy pink was simultaneously sort of gross but also adorable. It made Paxton want to mess him up again. Gently.

He let go of Oz’s cock and gingerly touched Oz stomach, spreading his fingers through the splatter, resting his palm on Oz’s belly and feeling him breathe. “This is,” Pax said, only betraying himself with a flicker of tongue over his lips.“That was—literally one of the best things that’s ever happened,” Pax eventually got out, rubbing over his thighs with shaky fingers.

In the background, the song abruptly came to an end in the middle of a chorus. Then it started up at the top again, with that wobbly, vaguely porny intro. And again. Had the same song been playing this whole time? Hrm. That didn’t seem right.

Paxton twisted and reached up behind him, slapping at a few buttons hopefully. Nothing happened. He blew out a breath and bit his lip. Honestly, everyone liked The Sundays, but it couldn’t play forever. Right? “Er…do you know how to work this?” Oz started to pull away and Paxton quickly stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, transparently desperate to keep him where he was a moment longer. “S’ok, nevermind, I, I’ll—” Paxton produced his wand from where it had been digging into the underside of his thigh and lazily sent a spell behind him. The music came to a halt. “There, see? That—”

The song started playing again. They both stared at the table with dubious expressions.

“Huh,” Pax said after a moment. “Well. D’you think it’s possessed?“ Paxton asked, looking up at him playfully. “You know, like the painting in your flat?” He’d had a stoned argument with Maeko about it once. We do actually have haunted paintings, Pax, and that one is not haunted, it’s just animated. No, no, I really think it is. It feels terribly upset. Maybe you should call a wizard exorcist or something.

Sighing, Paxton relented enough to allowed Oz to move off him so that they could inspect the table. Together, they tried a few buttons with no result. The disc was stuck. It continued playing, repeating the same song, cutting out at odd times. Oz suggested turning the power off, but Pax insisted that no, compact discs were extremely fragile and would disintegrate under the slightest amount of stress. Or even worse, it might scratch. And Piper would know it was him. Eventually, they turned the volume down so that Maeko might not notice and left the booth quite innocently.

The tiny common room smelled even more strongly of smoke. Pax mouth and chin were warm and buzzy, his thoughts jumbled. He craved a joint now so badly he was liable to start rummaging through drawers. “Oz.” As Paxton closed the door behind them, he turned his head slowly, met Oz’s eyes. “Your magic just do that sometimes?”

“Am I meant ta believe you think only one a them ghastly artworks in Mae’s Olde Ancestral Home is possessed?” Oz drawled with lackadaisical, post-coital cheek. Gods, but he was really disinclined to move. Or for Pax to stop touching him.

But alas, all good things must come to an end. Their disheveled clothes were wistfully righted and haphazardly smoothed, sticking in places that would be a sweetly clandestine reminder, later. And Oz’s rudimentary knowledge of the sound booth equipment meant they had to leave the track a little bit sticky, too—metaphorically speaking, of course.

There was a half-smoked spliff—very obviously rolled by Maeko’s expert hand—that had been miraculously abandoned in an ashtray, and that Oz felt like he’d earned. He plucked it up and offered it politely to Paxton as he said facetiously, brows waggling, “Do what?” But he held onto the act for only a moment before relenting, and adding with a smirk, “Oh, ya mean go all wonky? Cause things around me ta fritz ’n frazzle? Wreak general havoc on earthly order?” He hopped up onto a table like a stray cat on a fence, folding up his legs so that his knees stuck out at acute angles. “M’afraid so, yeah—kinda my calling card, actually…” Oz held out his hands, palms facing up, the matte black of the inked tattoos absorbing the light. “…these’re meant ta help—sigils, we call ‘em. Lotsa hedges have ‘em, ta help with certain spells—though I’d wager most a them didn’t get theirs at eleven…”

Oz flashed Pax a playfully woe is me expression, indulging in the story’s inherently confessional quality. “And they do help, mostly. Ta keep a lid on the chaos…except when there’s a particularly ravishing knob in front a my face, evidently.” He winked—wicked, affectionate, teasing.

Then, after a moment, he asked, “Does it freak you out? S’alright if it does—can’t say I’ve met many who’ve known what ta make of someone like me…”

paxton-aeterna

“Maybe I like it,” Pax exhaled smoke into his hair. “Maybe I like you.”

“Your aura, it’s like meeting a vortex,” Paxton said, thinking then of the tassels and chains he’d seen lurking underneath Oz’s sigils on their first meeting. “Maybe nothing functions how it’s supposed to, but that’s only because you make your own gravity. And I like it. It's nice. S’not bad—it feels good to just…” He leaned away, stroked a hand down the side of Oz’s neck. He had a vague sense that he wasn’t saying the nicest things, but they were honest truths. “Feels really strong today.” And right—he needed to do something about that. Eventually he’d go home and take care of a cleansing, but he wasn’t ready to be without Oz yet. Or—he frowned. “I’m famished. D’you think Maeko’s forgotten?”

paxton-aeterna

zeke/pax

They had been standing in companionable silence, gazing at the same bookcase for a good bit of time already before Paxton tipped towards the stranger and confided: “That’s one of my wave hello books.”

At the man’s politely bewildered expression, he gestured to the philosopher’s book in the man’s hand. “I know that I’ll read it one day and I’m going to like it. So there’s never any real rush to do it,” he explained. “It’s always going to be there when I want. But then every time I see it, I know it’s waiting for me, so I like to wave hello. It’s like seeing an old friend.”

Paxton nodded to the book with the sort of feeling you’d give a fond acquaintance you didn’t expect to see. “Sometimes I like that so much that I never do get around to reading them after all.”

@ezekielrex

ezekielrex

Tracing the spine with his thumb, Zeke mouthed the title to himself as he turned the heavy volume around in his hands. It was just what he had been looking for. Taking a deep breath, he flipped through the pages carefully, ensuring the topics he thought were covered were indeed in it. The texture of the rough canvas felt comforting as he palmed it and the delicate paper was familiar between his fingers. He focused harder on the sensations, trying to calm his racing heart. It had been weeks since his last outing, and while it hadn’t been as nerve-wracking as the first few times, it was close. He was sure something was looming on the horizon, and it was making his skin crawl.

As a voice rang above him, Zeke somehow managed to stifle the physical flinch as his stomach dropped. He glanced up at the man and blinked. Not familiar. It took another second before the words made sense, but relief washed over him when they did. It wasn’t someone from back home. He hadn’t been caught.

“That–” He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. It hadn’t just been the sudden comment that surprised him, but the concept itself took puzzled him. It sounded.., carefree. “That is actually quite beautiful.” Glancing down at the book in question, Zeke first relaxed his white-knuckled fingers, then patted it gently as he balanced it with the others he had picked out. “I don’t think I could do that. What do you do if you never see it again? Do you not think of what you missed out on?”

paxton-aeterna

“Mmh, it's—” Paxton hesitated, then broke into an encouraging smile when the stranger added the wave hello book to his selection. “I s’pose it does take some faith in the world. But I like to think that if something’s meant for me, it can find me. Or come back to me. I’ve always felt there’s a sort of cosmic plan? Whatever will be, will be, and may the universe unfold as it should, you know, that sort of thing. Though I will admit that is bloody well tested sometimes.”

Paxton’s lips thinned. “I’ve always wanted that, since I was very young. To believe in something—” Paxton’s hand drifted upward. “Beyond, I think. But the older I get, the harder that becomes, it seems. I’ve started to—” He paused, casting a newly curious eye over the stranger, and then began to laugh at himself.

“A simpler answer is that I’m not much of a reader. I like it, it’s just—I’m rather slow at it.” Paxton inclined his head sheepishly towards the stack this stranger was carefully balancing. “Bet you read a fair bit, though, don’t you? Of course you’d be sad to leave a good book behind.”

#i am so sorry i do not have the ability to cut posts

bradyboys

please give a warm welcome to emerson brady!

#👏👏👏 reblog of brotherly love

zeke/pax

@ezekielrex

the-hobgoblins

paxton-aeterna:

At the first touch of Oz lips, Pax made a soft noise and curled up, kind of, his hands flexing on Oz’s shoulders—not like he was trying to get away, more like he didn’t know what to do with how it felt. “Oh, fuck,” Paxton gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, and then Oz took his dick all the way into his mouth. Paxton shifted a bit closer, getting Oz’s mouth in a good position to sink into, oh fuck that felt so incredible, the way Oz’s throat spasmed and rolled with contractions.

Pax felt static thrill over his arms, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as magic coiled around and inside him. It wasn’t his. It was whipping around him, like air rushing in his ears. The lights flickered as Pax canted his hips up again on instinct, chasing Oz’s mouth down again only to feel him pulling away. He opened his eyes to see little orbs corkscrewing wildly in midair. Ah, hang on, Paxton thought, and felt some ideas connect in his brain, like a daisy chain finally coming together, so he down looked to Oz—

Oz looked back up at him. Breathing hard and uneven, Pax looked down to see that Oz’s face was flushed, his eyes nearly closed, lips red and puffy. The deep, gasping breaths Oz sucked in only served to get Pax hotter, just like the flush of his lips. But nothing hit him harder than when Oz pulled away to give himself a bit of space, trailing a line of spit that quickly broke and fell. Oz’s brows were drawn together, and his lips and chin were wet. It was the most beautiful thing Pax had ever seen, and he just wanted to touch so badly, he literally couldn’t think of anything else—

Paxton’s stomach jumped at the touch of Oz’s warm hand, so much that he knocked his own tailbone against the edge of the desk, just that keyed up. The shade of red that Paxton turned as Oz spoke to him, petting him soothingly, was almost alarming. It embarrassed him, now that he had a moment to realize—how quickly he seemed to lose his sense of, well, sense, and how Oz could clearly see that too. It felt unkind of him, somehow, and not at all how he meant to be, but all sense of what he meant to be just seemed to pack up and leave in the face of having Oz infront of him. Paxton wondered if Oz had also gentled him this way last time, but he couldn’t recall. You’re really lovely. He could feel his cheeks get hot and the small of his back break out in sweat, flushing with embarrassed and pleased warmth. Oz’s face was pinked too, wetness beading in his dark eyelashes, in the corners of his hazy eyes, gleaming in the low light as Oz gazed at him with such blatant adoration it made Pax’s heart stop.

Determinedly avoiding Oz’s messy mouth, which he knew would likely shut down all his willpower again in moments, Paxton carded his fingers instead hesitantly through his stubble and Oz’s hair, then rested them at his nape. At Oz’s soft sigh, he rubbed over the spot. Words, he thought. He needed to find at least a few them; they clearly proved no trouble for Oz, but for him, somehow, they vanished. “S’this—is this alright, is this what you like?” he asked, incredulity running through him, voice probably not even loud enough over the music. He tried to keep his eyes on Oz’s, but his mouth was a wet and shining red mess, and Paxton couldn’t stop fucking looking.

Oz, of course, noticed. He did that thing with his eyebrows that he liked to do which made Paxton’s nose wrinkle in a little laugh, and sort of nuzzled into Paxton’s hand silently, and smirked—which, again, Paxton thought weakly to himself: he didn’t have an inch of forcefulness or cruelty in him, really he didn’t, he’d rather die than make anyone do anything—but when Oz smirked it only made him want to haul Oz bodily away and take those edges off it slowly and methodically until it was just a smile, a slow and tired and honest and sated thing. These people, the whole family, Tucker, Katie, Ains even, honestly, it drove him batty that he couldn’t just hold them—where he wanted—Pax’s hand slid up into the back of Oz’s hair, clutching at it, needing the grounding contact, grateful that Oz let him take it.

Wanted him to, even. It wasn’t long before Oz was bobbing his head again, deep and steady, except for when Paxton held him back, and then he was working his tongue against Pax until the messy, spit-slick glide of his flushed lips was almost too good. The tight clutch of his throat was maddening to begin with, and Paxton had to work to stay standing when Oz pressed deeper, so he had to hold him back occasionally. Now that Pax had his head on, it was impossible to not notice how much Oz seemed to be enjoying himself. All his little noises were muffled by the music and his mouthful, but his pace never faltered, like eager clockwork. He wasn’t shy either, his tongue working around at the end of every steady suck. It was so good, Paxton couldn’t help but groan, his head tipping back as his hips kicked.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore; he wanted to see, but he was just too overwhelmed again too quickly with how it felt. Moments ago he’d felt selfish, but now didn’t think he’d ever felt quite this helpless, or at least not quite in this way—he curled his fingers in Oz’s hair, two fistfuls, and tugged. The events of the past few hours were completely forgotten, tension gone from his body. The sensory overload now was a sweet one, just what he needed. He was used to getting lost in the sensations of kissing another person, was even sort of aware of how nonverbal and amazingly stupid it made him, but the lure of this was different: it’s a sinking sand, nowhere to find a purchase and every movement dragging him deeper.

Desperate to show his appreciation, unsure how, he combed his fingers through Oz’s dark curls and thumbed Oz’s sideburns, gasped out, “Yeah, good, how’s it—so good when you do it,” encouraging and mindless, laughing breathlessly. It was barely a fraction of the feedback Oz deserved for everything—Paxton was realizing just how out of his league he was here—but specifically for how unbelievably good Oz’s throat felt working around the head of Pax’s cock.

Paxton opened his mouth to say something more, but Oz kept moving down and he stuttered out a low moan instead–he tipped his head back again and breathed raggedly, hair sliding over his shoulders and down his back. “Don’t move, don’t move,” Pax stammered, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. He felt as if he had no control over the sounds leaving him, letting them go as easy as any breath. His hands were shaking. “I’m–please just stay still—” Oz mouth was pulling the words right out of him and all Pax could do was moan, sliding further down to get him deeper. “Oz, I’m—” and he gave up his struggle and pitched forward, bracing himself against Oz’s shoulders only to pull away too slowly and come with a shudder and a snap of his hips.

Oz let him pull back but didn’t move away, didn’t stop looking at him once while Pax was coming. He’d moved his hands to Pax’s thighs, more clinging to him than trying to hold him still. Oz looked halfway to drunk, a little satisfied and vacant, chin marked with drool and shining wet with his own cum. Paxton did this time what he’d wanted to before and wiped at it gently with a sweaty thumb, smearing more than cleaning, and Oz only looked up at him.

His stomach dropped; that was both gross and so fucking hot Paxton thought he was genuinely in danger of keeling over. His vision swam and he groaned, using the desk to lever himself down to his knees. He dragged a sweaty Oz into him by the wrist, the texture of a brand of a bird under his fingers. Pax shuffled between his legs, and set about rucking up Oz’s shirt so that he could see the tattoo he’d caught glimpses of before. He sat back on his heels, feeling his legs still twitching, and pulled Oz over him by the hips so that he could rest weight somewhat on Pax’s thighs. Even after two seconds on the floor, Paxton flinched to realize Oz’s knees had to have been screaming. “There you go. There—c’mere—” He panted, opened his mouth a little, letting Oz in, and then he could taste it, slick and bitter and so dirty. “You’re gonna—mmfgh, let me—” Pax couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel his feet, couldn’t tell if he was sorry for anything, couldn’t believe Oz just kept letting him, just—"you’re gonna kill me, that was, you’re so good at that, I can’t even believe—”

He was doubly sure now, compared to last time, that everything he could do next would be hopelessly clumsy and unimpressive to Oz, but he did his best not to worry. It’d turned out fine before, after all, but if this thing with Oz kept happening, then Pax was floundering around without a map here, and it bothered him. If he could get a real handle on what he was supposed to be doing, how this all was supposed to work, the technique that Oz had, then he could probably keep this whole arrangement going. So, well, not to put too fine a point on it, but he would have to download some porn about it later, or talk to someone.

He kissed at Oz’s chin and the stray droplets on his neck, on autopilot, licking his lips and shoving a hand down to, belatedly, undo buttons and zipper, hearing his own voice gasp ragged when he twisted his wrist around Oz. It felt good in his hand, after feeling so overwhelmed. Heavy and real. “What can I do?” he asked, voice feeling more hoarse than he anticipated. “Tell me.” He kept his other hand supporting the arch of Oz’s back, pushing his shirt up just to see his stomach muscles shifting, face slowly migrating into Oz’s armpit as he watched his hand work up and down, Oz’s hips chasing Pax’s hand as it moved up, like he wanted to stay completely inside. “Yeah? That alright?” His restlessness and general trembling lack of coordination put a hitch in Oz’s otherwise steady rhythm, but Oz didn’t seem to mind much based on the noises he made, which did weird things to Pax’s already way too soft dick.

‘Is this what you like?’

That question echoed over and over and over again in the back of Oz’s mind like a song stuck on repeat as he lavished his tongue all over Paxton’s cock, drew it deep into his throat and swallowed around the head of it, which made Pax blurt out beautiful breathy expletives and tug on Oz’s hair in a way that stung so delightfully, each little burst of pain a jolt of dopamine that zipped down from his scalp to Oz’s own stiffening erection between his legs like little electric shocks.

Is this what you like?

Yes, he did like this—everything in Oz’s body was communicating that pretty fucking enthusiastically. He liked watching Pax get lost in feeling. He liked working Pax up to the point he was babbling and desperate and then simmering back, ebb and flow, rinse and repeat. He liked feeling Pax’s slightly trembling thighs beneath Oz’s hands and the pubic hair that tickled his nose. He liked looking up and watching Paxton’s face twist up as Pax tried in vain to outrun his own release nipping at his heels.

And yet, it wasn’t a question Oz was accustomed to hearing very often. What he liked and what he wanted were generally the least important considerations in any given scenario.

There was gratification, obviously, in doing something that was asked of him, and doing it, like—mind-blowingly well. There was relief, too, in turning another human being into just as much of a needy, indecent mess as Oz had often been told he himself was; it was impossible to truly be alone in the world, if you could prove that everyone—at their core—was just like you were, and you knew exactly how to draw it out of them.

And so the satisfaction of a job well done, a temporary reprieve from loneliness—those were the associations Oz had always had with doing this. But as for what he liked?

That question was still circling around his mind like a shark in the water when Paxton started begging Oz to stay still, before burying himself in the wet depths of Oz’s mouth and emptying an oil spill of warm cum down the back of his throat, making Oz feel soaked and saturated by that heady satisfied good job feeling.

But it wasn’t until Paxton reached down to so fucking sweetly press the pad of his thumb against Oz’s cum-slick, swollen lips—genuinely the most romantic thing anyone had ever done to him, it made him want to melt into a fucking puddle all over the ground—that Oz actually started to realize how totally fucked he was. The salty-sweet taste of Paxton’s pleasure on his tongue, that eager awestruck look in Pax’s eyes, the tingly warm feeling that radiated out from where Paxton’s hand was cupping his stretched-sore, spit-stained jaw—all of these were things Oz liked. In fact, he liked all of this way too fucking much that he was at risk of drowning in it.

(He did not notice how the air around them seemed to vibrate oddly for a prolonged moment, like a plucked guitar string, buzzing like a meadow teeming with honey bees—)

His head was still lagging when Pax maneuvered to the ground and pulled their bodies together again, and Oz drifted along with the motions like tides. Pax was all rambling praise and wandering hands and Oz didn’t know what he was laughing about, just that it felt warm and giddy and good as it bubbled effervescent up from his chest and out of him. The kiss was half to shut Paxton up so that Oz could think for a moment, to snap out of the daze by doing something easy and mindless; he forgot there’d be residue from Paxton’s release still coating his tongue and inner cheeks—until Pax tasted it, and his whole body went still and shuddered and he made the most obscene sound into Oz’s mouth. Which did clear away some of the lingering fog, and gave Oz a thrilling little tidbit to file away for another time.

“S’not all that, really—I’ve had a bit a practice…” he managed to say amidst panting for breath, the pressurized pockets inside his head popping like an airplane’s descent. And his immediate instinct, just like last time, when Paxton’s fingers started to fiddle with his zipper was to say that the whole reciprocation thing wasn’t really necessary—that he was fine, that this wasn’t supposed to be about him, anyway.

But Oz was once again finding it difficult to deny Pax anything, especially not when he was so adorably eager and seemed to still, for some reason, genuinely care to figure out what it was that Oz liked (too much you like this too much what if he finds out how much you like—).

And Oz still didn’t know how to begin unpacking that, so the easiest immediate alternative was to just enjoy it and not let himself think too much about it. Besides, the hand that was resting on the bare, sweat-soaked divot of his lower back was solid and grounding and real, and Oz relaxed back into it as his hips canted forward into Paxton’s grip, which was warm and pleasantly clammy. “Yah, just—fuck, don’t stop…” His voice was gravelly and raw, and he groaned as he watched Paxton’s fingers tighten and squeeze. Watching himself thrusting into Pax’s hand felt wicked and somehow voyeuristic, and Oz smirked at the indulgence of it, while the music warped again, slowing down and speeding up in a manner that seemed correlated with the movement of Oz’s hips and Pax’s wrist, if you were actually listening to it—which right now, Oz wasn’t.

The sweat that coated Pax’s hand felt nice, but Oz wanted more. If Paxton had been a hedge witch, it would have been an easy fix; sex spells were among the most commonly practiced in safehouse circuits, and Oz was fairly certain that every hedge knew the basic spell to summon lubricant.

But Pax wasn’t a hedge, which meant Oz would need to do some things himself. Oz ran his hand over the back of Pax’s neck, carding his fingers through some stuck-together strands of hair at the nape until they pulled apart, and said gently, “Feels so good, really good, but maybe just, like—a tad slipperier?” He gave Pax’s neck an affectionate squeeze before pulling his hand back and twisting both his hands into the shape of a simple tut. He muttered a phrase in an Ancient Greek dialect and then held up his palm, where a wet gelatinous substance pooled over the word HELLO.

Paxton drew in a breath, his eyes widening and his mouth forming into a very precious, very kissable o shape, and Oz said, “I’ll teach it ta ya sometime, if ya like?” The thought of which sent Oz off on a whole new mental spiral as he watched Paxton drag his long, lovely fingers through the thick pool and rub them together curiously, and Oz could not help but to imagine what those hands and fingers would look like contorting into various tut positions, what they would feel like stretching inside of him…

It was way too fucking hot a notion to dwell on, so that by the time Pax’s hand was stroking him again Oz couldn’t bear to watch him doing it anymore without turning fully feral; instead he just let his eyes close and listened to the sounds of slick, steady friction, grunting out nonsensical words and colorful expletives between hitches of breath.

paxton-aeterna

"Yeah," Pax breathed. “I’d like that.” He bit his lip in renewed concentration as he closed his slick hand back around Oz’s cock, jacking it in an almost-even rhythm this time. Oz just melted and writhed under his hands, eyes closed. Paxton pushed closer, nuzzled at Oz’s jaw until he tilted his mouth to meet Paxton’s. Soon enough, Oz was muttering against his mouth in warning with the same something—it was something small, some inflection—in his voice as last time, and Pax sped up his strokes until Oz arched into his grip and came in Paxton’s hand. Again! His brain cheered. Oz magic—because that was definitely what it was, Paxton was sure now—sparked through Pax’s entire body like an current, lifting the hair on his arms. It sent the lights on the fritz again.

Paxton twisted and reached up behind him, slapping at a few buttons hopefully. Nothing happened. He blew out a breath and bit his lip. Honestly, everyone liked The Sundays, but it couldn't play forever. Right? “Er…do you know how to work this?” Oz started to pull away and Paxton quickly stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, transparently desperate to keep him where he was a moment longer. “S’ok, nevermind, I, I’ll—” Paxton produced his wand from where it had been digging into the underside of his thigh and lazily sent a spell behind him. The music came to a halt. "There, see? That—"

The song started playing again. They both stared at the table with dubious expressions.

"Huh," Pax said after a moment. “Well. D’you think it's possessed?" Paxton asked, looking up at him playfully. "You know, like the painting in your flat?” He’d had a stoned argument with Maeko about it once. We do actually have haunted paintings, Pax, and that one is not haunted, it’s just animated. No, no, I really think it is. It feels terribly upset. Maybe you should call a wizard exorcist or something.

#sex cw #magic sex cw

wixgifts

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… there was a song contest.

“Welcome to the 436th Interstellar Song Wars! This year’s line up is nothing short of spectacular, my dear audience. From a passionate love song by a former KX security droid to the sweet melodies of the traditional Orto hoot singing—there is something for everybody!”

#eurovision is today so this beauty gets a reblog

russianblush

Jamie Campbell Bower at SFM6 (People Convention)

giggle-me-this

katiethxrne:

paxton-aeterna:

“The occasion is—” Paxton began, then stopped. He didn’t know Nate well, but suspected he wouldn’t care to hear Pax complain about work stress. Nate, like Katie, seemed the exciting sort. “Katie had the night off and said she knew a nice place where we could go and relax. This is just a stop-off. Because of the koi pond,” Paxton said, confidingly. He neatly tucked away a strand of hair that had eagerly dislodged from Katie’s slicked-back look. “Where are we off to, Katie, dear?”

Beside him, Em nibbled at a slice of bread and coolly slid his sunglasses back onto his nose. A whole wave of teenage cool exuded from him and his neon cap, but Paxton felt his foot bobbling around excitedly under the table. Pax didn’t need to see Em’s eyes to know he was looking Nate up and down with avid consideration. At some point earlier Em had lost them around Katie, which meant she’d passed some sort of test known only to Emerson. He’d seen the way Em had looked at her when she’d handed him her medallion. All the Brady boys had a fondness for trinkets.

Emerson dug a toe into the spur of his anklebone. “This is my brother, Emerson,” Paxton said, which he had been about to do anyway. He’d never felt Em vibrate on a frequency so feverish before. It was like Chiller with his soft white ears pricked up, attuned to something Pax couldn’t see.

Emerson crunched an olive and hit Nate with a smile like a sunrise. It wasn’t shy about itself. “Alright?”

“The occasion is me ‘n’ Paxxie deserve a goddamn break and we all want a wonderful night of debauchery and memories that we won’t be able to speak of in the morning,” Katie answered jovially, now thoroughly entertained with balancing her still full whiskey glass on a finger, spinning it carefully with her other hand and winking at Emerson who was blinking at her. “This is all plain old skill not magic - besides most Muggles are gonna think I’m some fucked up circus act anyway. They don’t really think this is all real, its a wonder what the mind is willing to trick itself over.”

Katie leaned into Pax’s gentle touch, humming lightly and making a noise of protest when he stopped playing with her hair. I might’ve come off as desperate if it were anyone other than Pax.

“Goin’ to a place I’ve heard of in whispers,” Katie lowered her voice, taking on a sort of husky pied piper feeling, “rumored to be a home of our ilk, those who are down with the sickness and plain just down bad - Slick Wands,” she let a risque sort of moan fall from her mouth. “But if we have other ideas we can always do it last, make a proper crawl of our night. I’m not opposed to say… the Unnamed Bar for our destination if our fearless leggy lad Nate would be enticed to join us.”

“Do be nice to Emerson, I’ve gone and adopted him. I’m very fond of the Brady bunch, would like to aquire the full set like a Pokemon team one day. Of course Paxxie is my star starter,” she leaned over to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth and brushed his forehead with her own before pulling back.

“So, what say you Mr. Witch Weekly nee Peanut Legs - shall you enjoys the fruits of my labor being a copper and let me buy you several drinks and a lapdance?”

Nate gave a hum at the mention of the koi pond, and nodded his head indicatively at the hedge bartender that he knew. “That server’s with a small safehouse on this side of town, and he told me that everyone says a witch used to own this place, and that she cursed every man who’d ever wronged her into spending eternity as a fucking goldfish. So now they never have to get new fish for that pond…” His tone was light and amused, almost conspiratorial; Nate did love to gossip. He grinned, and made a hand gesture at the aforementioned bartender to bring him another drink, to which the hedge smiled and nodded, before saying wryly to Katie and Paxton, “…such a crock of shit, right?”

He was introduced to what turned out to be Paxton’s brother, and Nate reached an arm past the younger Brady to pick up the iced scotch that the bartender slid across the bar, taking the opportunity to eye the teenager up and down. He looked a lot like how Nate imagined he himself used to look, in sheer I don’t give a fuck-edness, when he would go out to bars underaged in New York. Which was really quite funny, and kind of, unintentionally endearing.

Nate’s charm, practiced so often and for so many years that it was second-nature, slid on without him even really thinking about it. He took a sip of his drink and said in a velvety tone, “Hi, Emerson—I’m Nate.” No need to throw out his full name, because he was in the company of people who knew him better than Nathaniel Pinnock from the papers, and because it would have gone right over the head of Pax’s assumedly No-Maj brother, anyway—and wasn’t that kind of nice, and refreshing?

Looks like Nate’s night of hiding in plain sight wasn’t fucked, after all.

He rolled his eyes at Katie’s continued, ridiculous antics, but was gradually warming up to the idea of spending the night in her company, and Paxton’s, and Emerson’s—when Nate actually, legitimately burst out laughing at the mention of Slick Wands. It was honestly too fucking good to be true, and hilarious.

Nate wiped beneath his eyes with his thumb and then downed the rest of his drink and set it down on the bar. With characteristic arrogance, Nate drawled, “Unfortunately, you’ll have to miss out on my impeccable, unparalleled drink-making skills tonight—it’s my night off, and if I show up at the bar while Fish is short-handed, she’ll probably guilt me into working. But…” he leaned forward, drawing them all in. “…I’m a regular patron of Slick Wands Entertainment Club—practically a VIP. It’s great, perfect for blowing off some steam—I could probably even sweet-talk Emerson in. If you want…”

He leaned back, smirking, excitement bubbling in his belly already. It had been a while since Nate and Harriet had gone to Slick Wands to watch the dancers and escape reality for a few hours. There was one loose-end consideration, though, so belatedly Nate added, “…but only if our resident auror keeps me on good behavior—basically I can look but not touch. Unless you want Xiomara to blow me up, literally. And Katie also has to stop calling me ‘Mr. Peanut Legs,’ what the fuck does that even mean…” He pulled a note from his wallet and set it on the bar, then looked between the other three. “…well? Everyone in?”

@paxton-aeterna

paxton-aeterna

Emerson glanced at the money on the table, looked inscrutably at Nate from behind his dark glasses, and stood up first. “I want to go.”

With the patience of someone who meditated every morning, Paxton began: “Let’s—”

“I’m going to a magical club with a VIP member who invited me and a wizard cop,” Em said, and started moving slowly backwards. “I hope you turn into a koi fish, Pax!”

“Hang on, no need to be unkind,” Paxton protested. He got up, pulling at the hem of his crop. “Er, sorry. Give us a second, please. I’ll—wave you over when we’re ready to go.” He led Emerson away until they were just two lanky boys across the room, standing with their heads together at the koi pond.

“I love you,” he started again, and waited.

“I love you,” Emerson said smartly, a tad aggressively. “We cried about it earlier, remember? When you said you were sorry?”

“And I am. I just wanted to say—oh, please take off the glasses, Em.” He was used to how Emerson kept them on in public, but Paxton had a hard time looking at Em while he was wearing them. They made his chest tighten, and the mead was hitting him a little, making him earnest. “I know that’s all this is—is love, right. You love me, so you want to come with me. I love you, so I want to be careful about this. The magical world, it’s—so beautiful, but it can be dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing. I had years of school, and I still can’t keep up with it sometimes. I feel like no matter how many ways I try to explain it, I can’t make you understand that—”

“I’m having the best night with you,” Emerson said, sliding the frames down his nose in concession. “The best in ages. Don’t you dare make me go home.”

Paxton waited for him to finish. “—I was going to say: so I have to stop trying to explain it. I just have to show you. I think you should come out with us. I want you to, and I am sorry for always being so far away from you.”

“Aw, shut up. I hate—it’s like you know when I’m about to actually get mad at you, and you always wait until just before.” Emerson said, crossing and uncrossing his arms, like he was taking a minute to arrange his thoughts. “I’m sorry for wishing you were a koi. I thought you’d be pretty. Probably you’d like it. Hang on. Have you ever turned into an animal?”

Paxton waved a hand at Katie and Nate, pulling Emerson into his side. “A bit beyond me, that. I’m best at littler charms.”

☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾✩☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽

Slick Wands was not what Paxton expected. He’d pictured something crowded, more smoky, where he’d have to shoulder his way through people with drink in hand. A place more on the chaotic side, like Katie herself. But the doors Katie held open for him opened into a room more like another hotel lobby than a club. Unlike the Whitecourt Hotel, it was dimly lit and quiet, with underlit panels along the walls and only a long sleek receptionist desk at the far end. Some kind of ward shimmered as Paxton entered behind Nate, jockeying with Emerson, who had so far been keeping in step with Nate down the pavement like a little shadow.

A witch appeared to politely ask them for identification, and Paxton deferred to Katie and Nate, unsure. Did they have an appointment? Why would you need an appointment at a club, anyway? Paxton wondered vaguely. He lost track of the ensuing chatter, watching two young men further in checking their coats and disappearing up a staircase. He wondered what Oz was up to that night. If Oz liked to dance. He probably did, Paxton decided. It had been a long time since Paxton had gone out to dance—not since Scotland, at least, if you counted that, which Paxton did. And he’d never been to a place like this before, certainly, but how different could it be? It didn’t matter how out of place he might be inside—moving your body was moving your body, so fluid, especially while he was—oh, this was the edible he’d finished on the way, wasn’t it. He’d forgotten all about it. Oh, that was lovely timing.

Emerson nudged his side as their little group moved forward to the reception desk. “What was that back there?” he asked, as much to Pax as to anyone. “That thing when we got in the door? It felt like that game where someone pretends to crack an egg over your head.”

“Wizards love to be secretive,” Paxton offered, which wasn’t a real explanation but was plenty true. Emerson shot him a look, his smile lopsided.

“I know that,” Emerson huffed. “You’re saying that was to hide this place? But why hide at all? What do you lot have to be scared of?”

@katiethxrne

the-hobgoblins

paxton-aeterna:

Paxton sighed into Oz’s mouth, cupping his hands around Oz’s jaw and letting Oz leverage him against the table exactly as he’d hoped. The relief of having a person in his arms again was making Paxton’s head spin, or maybe that was lack of air; they were kissing again, deep, hot kisses; not like the first hesitant kiss Oz had given him on his bed, and not like the sloppy, uncoordinated, drugged kisses that came after. Oz’s mouth was open, Pax’s thoughts jumbled up with the shimmering music. It felt so different, to have Oz sober and willing, all alone with no one around, with the assured way he now touched Pax, the ready way he reacted every time Pax touched him. And once again Oz just kept offering—kept letting Pax be with him—however he wanted, which still seemed far too good to be true, and it was getting to Paxton more than he hoped he let on. Fuck, it was brilliant. Kissing in the past had always been something simple, lovely, a relief and pleasure to be had and then remembered. But he wanted to pin Oz, wanted to keep him there, feel the weight of his body until they both collapsed.

This wasn’t exactly how Paxton wanted to be; he wanted to take his time, to be careful, to feel it all properly. And it wasn’t that they had to hurry, really, because Paxton had an idea that Maeko would find a way to take her time. It was mainly that, only that, after days of lying awake and thinking about how nice it had felt to make Oz melt into the mattress underneath him, he’d finally got hands on Oz again and couldn’t help himself being eager. Oz’s fingers traced over his lower back until they reached the moon tattooed above his ass, nails scraping gently up, up, up again to squeeze Paxton’s waist. The pleasant buzz in his head turned into more of an, oh fuck buzz.

The soft light from the little floating orbs cast Oz’s features in partial shadow, and Pax had always been defenseless in the face of human beauty: the dark bronze lining his eyes, the sharp mouth that lent itself so generously to every emotion that Oz let show—there wasn’t a hint of guile in that smile, no matter how hard Oz tried to put it there. His smirks only ever made Pax want to kiss his cheek, tire him out, put him to bed. Paxton said, “I just want your mouth,” and then, trying to politely cover the fact that every move Oz made with his hips was doing his head in: “So whatever, er, you want to do is—is fine, love.”

Something in Oz’s eyes shifted. Seeing it, unsure of what it was, Paxton slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled until their mouths came together again a bit too roughly, sucking Oz’s bottom lip into the warm heat of his mouth. The words had come out clumsy and a little bit thick with something stuck in his throat, and Paxton wanted to make sure Oz had all the actually important information about how much he wanted this before Oz said no or asked any questions. Pax didn’t think he could stand hearing the word no. It wasn’t until Oz’s body had lined up with his that he’d realized his body had felt tight and confusing; alone, unusual. And Oz seemed so assured, so confident that he could help, that Paxton needed it to be true: he couldn’t bring himself to say how much he still felt punctured and left alone after holding hands with Piper.

The shift into intimacy was so effortless, so natural, like exhaling; and the fact that it was so easy to lose himself in this feeling probably made Oz a cautionary tale, somewhere—a poster child for all the addictive personalities and the woefully malleable. But fuck; Paxton’s body was so reactive, it moved to greet Oz’s every touch. And he was making these breathy, chirping sort of sounds—Pax didn’t even seem to realize he was making them, which made it somehow even more objectively erotic. Oz was immediately obsessed, again, with imagining all the sounds he could get Pax to make, cataloguing each one for revisiting in Oz’s own private daydreams.

And maybe it was the return of that old familiar musing, maybe it was the dreamy melody that wafted in and out of the crevices between their tangled mass, but there was this distinctly dreamlike quality that settled over you, when someone vocalized the very thing you were thinking—like plucking a thought from your head and showing it to you, placing it right into your hands like a soft downy feather. That’s what Oz felt, when Paxton blurted out the words I just want your mouth like that. His smile broadened, dripping in mirth that flooded into the kiss Pax pulled him into and poured down Oz’s limbs, his spine. He trailed languid kisses along Paxton’s jaw, nipped at his ear, teasing, and then breathed into it, “Yeah?” I’d like to give you everything you want, Oz thought, and it was kind of, like, crazy how much he meant it, how singularly focused his drive was toward that thought. “…I think I can manage that.”

While Oz sucked kisses that would leave marks onto Paxton’s neck, he reached a hand down between them, where it got caught on one of Pax’s fidgeting for the same goal. Oz laughed; he loved this part, there was something so undeniably human in it—when all the everyday things that were fussy and essential suddenly became a nuisance as you fumbled with fastenings and buttons and clasps, all the silly little obstacles preventing you from offering someone more of your body to kiss and to stroke and to touch. Everyone’s body craved the comfort of touch, fundamentally; Oz didn’t know why anyone bothered denying it.

For example: Paxton’s cock, which was pink and perfect, sprung forth readily when Oz slid down onto his knees and eased Pax’s soft denim jeans and underwear down his legs. There was a bead of precome leaking from the tip that looked truly too delectable to waste, so Oz opened his mouth to catch it, pushing his tongue flat along the underside of Pax’s cock and closing his lips around it; Paxton bucked right up into his mouth in response—Oz didn’t mind, it was probably involuntary—and the sudden thrust into Oz’s throat made him gag, unprepared, sure, but it also made him vibrate with needy energy and keen desire. He’d managed to keep all of that loosely in check, so far, but Pax’s cock grazed the roof of his mouth and Oz’s control slipped, and that need that lived inside of him ricocheted out in a burst of magic that rippled through the ambient, spinning and bobbing the light orbs above them like luminescent pinwheels and making the music skip, so that it stuttered for a few beats over the words ‘squeeze & a sighsqueeze & a sighsqueeze—’

And it took significant effort, to remember that Oz was supposed to make this sweet and nice for Pax, instead of just selfishly swallowing him down in a callous frenzy, fast and overwhelming. Oz didn’t want this to be like that, so he pulled off of Pax with a pop, looked up at him through his lashes and said, “I’ve got ya, right? I wanna make ya feel good…” He eased Paxton’s hips back with a palm pressed low on his stomach, spreading his fingers wide as he smoothed his hand upwards, following a trail of fine hair up Pax’s navel, traced around his belly button piercing with a finger; Paxton’s skin was flushed and warm beneath Oz’s hand, as if the word that was inked there had whispered to it some particularly scandalous secret. “You’re really lovely,” Oz said, in a way that was meant to be sort of cheeky and sultry but was actually just very genuine. Paxton had one arm stretched down, his hand half-cupping the side of Oz’s neck, fingers curled hesitantly; Oz wagged his brows in an encouraging way and gave a smirk that granted permission—to give Paxton back that feeling of control, of grounding balance, to say it’s okay to ask for what you want—after which Pax’s hand slid up into the back of Oz’s hair, fingers nestling securely in the black curls.

And then Oz took Pax into his mouth again, opening up the back of his throat this time and letting Pax guide the pace of his bobbing with the hand in his hair.

paxton-aeterna

At the first touch of Oz lips, Pax made a soft noise and curled up, kind of, his hands flexing on Oz’s shoulders—not like he was trying to get away, more like he didn't know what to do with how it felt. “Oh, fuck,” Paxton gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, and then Oz took his dick all the way into his mouth. Paxton shifted a bit closer, getting Oz’s mouth in a good position to sink into, oh fuck that felt so incredible, the way Oz’s throat spasmed and rolled with contractions.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore; he wanted to see, but he was just too overwhelmed again too quickly with how it felt. Moments ago he’d felt selfish, but now didn't think he'd ever felt quite this helpless, or at least not quite in this way—he curled his fingers in Oz’s hair, two fistfuls, and tugged. The events of the past few hours were completely forgotten, tension gone from his body. The sensory overload now was a sweet one, just what he needed. He was used to getting lost in the sensations of kissing another person, was even sort of aware of how nonverbal and amazingly stupid it made him, but the lure of this was different: it’s a sinking sand, nowhere to find a purchase and every movement dragging him deeper.

Oz let him pull back but didn't move away, didn't stop looking at him once while Pax was coming. He’d moved his hands to Pax’s thighs, more clinging to him than trying to hold him still. Oz looked halfway to drunk, a little satisfied and vacant, chin marked with drool and shining wet with his own cum. Paxton did this time what he’d wanted to before and wiped at it gently with a sweaty thumb, smearing more than cleaning, and Oz only looked up at him.

His stomach dropped; that was both gross and so fucking hot Paxton thought he was genuinely in danger of keeling over. His vision swam and he groaned, using the desk to lever himself down to his knees. He dragged a sweaty Oz into him by the wrist, the texture of a brand of a bird under his fingers. Pax shuffled between his legs, and set about rucking up Oz’s shirt so that he could see the tattoo he’d caught glimpses of before. He sat back on his heels, feeling his legs still twitching, and pulled Oz over him by the hips so that he could rest weight somewhat on Pax’s thighs. Even after two seconds on the floor, Paxton flinched to realize Oz’s knees had to have been screaming. “There you go. There—c’mere—” He panted, opened his mouth a little, letting Oz in, and then he could taste it, slick and bitter and so dirty. "You're gonna—mmfgh, let me—” Pax couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel his feet, couldn’t tell if he was sorry for anything, couldn’t believe Oz just kept letting him, just—"you're gonna kill me, that was, you’re so good at that, I can’t even believe—”

#explicit sex cw #sex cw

the-hobgoblins

paxton-aeterna:

Oz was watching him closely, more openly now that they were alone, so Paxton put on a cheeky grin as he trailed him into the booth and said, “Whatever I want, hm?” It was a little too showy a smile for Paxton Brady, just a touch too sharp and quick a joke. He still meant both. He remembered just how much he’d enjoyed it when Oz let him take the lead before.

Paxton paused to inspect a handwritten timetable spellotaped to the wall just inside the booth, which listed out the weekly programming. A few timeslots seemed specifically reserved for talk radio, prioritizing issues facing Beings and other oppressed groups in the magical community. Paxton turned quickly away to browse the music selection, raking a hand through his own hair absently until it had twisted helplessly around his fingers.

A minute later he mumbled to himself, amazed, “What the—Stevie Nicks doesn’t even have this many albums.“ Finally, though, Paxton pulled a case out of the third stack he searched triumphantly, gazing down at the gleaming blue CD inside. “Love this one,” he said, pointing to the full moon on the cover. “‘And it’s yooou and me in the summertime?’ You know it?” He turned to gaze at the expanse of buttons and sliders sat on the desk. There were way too many to manage, but with Oz’s help Paxton worked out his general bearings and set the disc carefully, carefully in place before pressing a few of them hopefully. He had no idea what they did, but by the time he was done he was pretty sure the disc was on continuous play. Or it might have been shuffle. Didn’t matter. The volume was good, at least, he made sure of that.

Funky guitar arpeggios and shimmering pop filled the booth. Paxton held Oz’s eye and deliberately turned the dial until the music was too loud to hold a conversation over, shifting to lean his ass carefully back against the edge of the table with an expression that said butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Oz had drifted towards him, so it was a simple thing for Paxton to lean forward and stretch out his fingers to curl in the bottom hem of Oz’s shirt, tugging him in the rest of the way. “I’ll be fine,” he promised, directly into Oz’s ear, “with a bit of distraction.”

“Sure…” Oz indulged, taking the bait that Paxton was quite clearly laying out like a honey trail. An amused laugh caught in his throat as Pax swept by him to peruse the music, close enough to disrupt the air between them but not close enough that they actually touched. Oz shut the door and leaned against it, arms folded and head cocked to one side as he watched Pax all but saunter around with his back turned, coy and feigning innocence but knowing exactly what he was doing. Oz knew all too well what putting on a show looked like.

It was all rather charming, if somewhat surprising. He’d been feeling just a little bit guilty, since that night at Loxley’s birthday party. Pax had come to his room to try to get to know him better, for Maeko’s sake, and Oz had—well. He’d gotten much better acquainted with the flush of Paxton’s skin and the taste of his mouth and the marvelously eloquent, gasping moan that he made when he came. All of Oz’s favorite conversation starters.

And that had all been a dream, and immensely satisfying after doing nothing more than innocently eye-fuck Maeko’s very pretty best friend from afar, for months, despite the ever-present temptation. But Oz had also just assumed it’d be a one-off; a fluke to be shrugged off as the incubus of spliff and moonshine and belly-button piercings and leather leggings. Impulsive, libidinous, but fun in the moment; no harm done.

Having Paxton Brady in his bed for just one night would have been more than enough.

But there did seem to be something different about Pax, now—an intention that seemed to radiate from him like a heat lamp. And maybe Oz was reading too much into signals that weren’t really there, maybe he was just up himself and he was seeing what he wanted to see, because he was a tragically needy thing with impulse control issues, as Morrigan would have reminded him. Maybe a bit of mindless flirting felt easy after experiencing something upsetting, and it was nothing more than that.

The considerations gave Oz enough pause to hang back—well, as much as he could, anyway, in the shoebox-sized recording booth that was crammed with radio gear on all three non-glass walls—after explaining the basics of the soundboard to Pax. Oz hadn’t heard of the tune Paxton picked, but the warped guitar riff of opening notes that thrummed out of the speaker sounded so much like an old porno that it made Oz laugh.

The association was fleeting, though, as the song soon melted into something pleasantly mellow and poppy, the warm voice of a femme English vocalist gliding a melody over the top. Oz smiled and said, “I like it. S’catchy—” just as Paxton pivoted around and deliberately turned the volume dial way, way up. Oz’s smile shifted into a smirk; no more talking today, huh? And the look on Paxton’s face gave him all the assurance he needed in regards to misreading signals.

Oz stumbled against Paxton as he was tugged, playing at being caught unawares, and the desk that Pax was leaned against jostled as their bodies slotted together; he vaguely remembered Maeko warning them not to break anything, and Oz wondered how realistic of an ask that would turn out to be. His hands were already wandering—trailing down the length of Pax’s long side, palming a crescent moon path around his waist to his back to bunch the fabric of his shirt in one fist—when Pax whispered in his ear. The expression Oz returned was entirely impish; I thought you’d never ask.

“Well whaddaya know? I’m an expert in distractions…” Oz said, just loud enough to be heard over the music, before leaning in for a kiss. It was the sort of demanding, open-mouth kiss that didn’t waste any time on foreplay, jumping straight into being wet and hot and filthy; a brazen invitation.

He pulled back when they were on the verge of oxygen loss and ran his tongue over his lips. “…so why don’t ya tell me what sorta distraction you’re in the market for?”

paxton-aeterna

This wasn't exactly how Paxton wanted to be; he wanted to take his time, to be careful, to feel it all properly. And it wasn’t that they had to hurry, really, because Paxton had an idea that Maeko would find a way to take her time. It was mainly that, only that, after days of lying awake and thinking about how nice it had felt to make Oz melt into the mattress underneath him, he'd finally got hands on Oz again and couldn't help himself being eager. Oz’s fingers traced over his lower back until they reached the moon tattooed above his ass, nails scraping gently up, up, up again to squeeze Paxton’s waist. The pleasant buzz in his head turned into more of an, oh fuck buzz.

#dirty talk cw #but uh barely

gellertalbus-deactivated2025041

#protect him at all costs

the-hobgoblins

paxton-aeterna:

“Well,” Paxton trailed off, uncertainly. “Piper was going to show me the radio station. Before…” He wanted them both if he could get it, that was certain. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d still like to see it. A distraction might be nice. Maybe the two of us can go on ahead while you sort out food, and then we can eat there? Together?” Paxton arm tightened where it had fallen to around Maeko’s middle. He squeezed her to him, looking entirely innocent, as if he had no awareness of Oz’s little glances and Maeko’s answering smirks. Paxton pushed his face into her unruly dark hair, inhaling the dank chill of the alley and lingering smoke.

“I love you,” he exhaled into it, a hint of a plead buried there. I know I’m being greedy. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

They agreed on a plan for the evening. Paxton was starting to feel a little cheered, a little more focused on the here and now. The events of less than thirty minutes ago had already begun to take on the quality of a bad dream he was waking up from. Yes, he and Piper had—well, the damp patches under his armpits were still there, and he would have to deal with the consequences later. But now! Now he had the undivided attention of two people whose attentions usually required a bit more lateral thinking on his part. He should focus on that.

Of course, Paxton immediately stuck his foot right in it by asking Oz if he could Apparate the two of them. He kept doing this—forgetting, and then remembering too late, that hedge wizards didn’t go through the basic training all the rest of his peers had. He was quickly, pointedly assured by Maeko that a vanishing cabinet (a concept he’d never heard of, honestly, but he was long used to that by now) was the way to travel to the station. They just had to be careful not to disturb the new doxy nest that had taken up residence atop of it.

The vanishing cabinet, dark and eerie inside, seemed to emit a kind of cool breeze when he opened the latch and stretched his arm inside its black cavern. “Hrm. Cozy,” he said into it, only very disapprovingly, but stepped inside. The feeling of Oz at his back was reassuring, and the tiredness in his limbs did the rest to mitigate the resistance he would normally have put up. The latch clicked shut behind them, and Paxton shuffled a bit in place, listening to their breathing in the small space. He could feel a point of pain still grinding relentlessly above his eyebrow.

When the cabinet door opened again, Paxton squinted, oversensitive in the mundane, human way. His stomach grumbled. His eyes went right to a couch opposite the cabinet, which felt inevitable. Paxton felt so shit, physically, that to be unconscious until he could wake up feeling not-shit would be a gift. But he didn’t want to be unconscious; he didn’t know what would be waiting for him there. He wanted to be here, with Oz and with Maeko.

Stepping into the radio station was strange. Paxton felt rather like he’d got tickets to go backstage at a concert, or attend a live taping of a favorite TV show. Oz hopped out first and then reached back a hand to take Paxton’s for the step down, as if Paxton might fall.

Station Sunbeam Alternative Radio was a tiny number, squeezed comfortably into whatever space the Wet Tunnel could cobble together for it. It was one booth and a common room littered with ashtrays, recording equipment from the 80s and 90s and a couch that looked like it had been dragged into an alley and mugged on its way home from the dry cleaners. There was a half-drunk bottle of firewhiskey left atop a watermarked desk that had no chair to go with it, and a little bead-fridge lamp with a dim, low-watt bulb illuminating walls covered in band posters and framed The Band Cthulhu memorabilia. Every horizontal surface was littered with an abundance of parchment and printed invoices.

Paxton drifted across the room towards the recording booth. The door was closed, the On Air sign dark. Inside he could make out a big black pair of headphones with cracked cushions, a microphone, and a soundboard with an expanse of buttons and sliders. Quietly, he lay a hand on the glass and pressed his forehead against it, feeling the hot, damp steam collect when he breathed. “S’ really nice,” he said, overbrightly. “Thanks for bringing me. I’m sorry about—all that. Back there.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Maeko dismissed as she was wrapped up in one of Paxton Brady’s famous octopus hugs, rolling her eyes like she was put out by it, but unable to prevent a small, private little smile from spreading across her face, which betrayed within it far more affection than Maeko Burke was known to offer to anyone.

“Awh…” cooed Oz cheekily as he leaned against the open-door frame to take in the pair of them, to which Maeko flashed him a vulgar hand gesture over the top of Paxton’s head.

“Just, try not to burn the place down before I get there, will you?” Maeko said, once she’d managed to duck out from under Pax and his limbs, having hit her quota of being ‘all mushy ’n shite’ (as she would put it, if she were poorly imitating Oz’s accent) for the day. Or for the month, maybe. And then, with a very wicked gleam in her eyes, she added pointedly, “…and don’t break anything,” before apparating away.

Which were actually quite generous guidelines, Oz thought.

The notorious Vanishing Cabinet of Borgin and Burkes (or, more accurately, one of several sets that had been built and stored on the premises, according to Maeko, throughout her family’s history) was located on the second floor, at the end of a hallway that was—like most places in the property—dark and spooky and nondescript.

“I actually prefer it ta your fireplace traveling…” Oz noted as he climbed into the cabinet after Pax with practiced ease, having used this method of transport to the Den of Magic often, “…dunno how you manage not ta sneeze yourself silly every time, doin’ that. With all the ash and soot and whatnot…”

The door gave a very theatrical creeeak as Oz pulled it shut, and then he leaned into a wooden corner with one shoulder, crossing his legs and looking almost blithe despite how tight the space was. Conversationally, as if they were just chatting in a sitting room, he said, “I once had ta hide in a tiny little cupboard during a safehouse raid, for hours—you’d think it’d be claustrophobic, or somethin’, but it was actually sorta nice after a while. That’s when I learned how ta sleep standin’ up…”

While he spoke, Oz reached out and dragged his fingers down the back of Paxton’s arm, hooked them around his wrist and held on—because Pax had said he’d never traveled in one of these before, and it was pitch dark in there, and Oz figured it was nice to feel tethered to the ground by something, probably. And if not, it made for a pretty decent excuse.

He trailed idly after Pax, watching the latter take it all in. “Yeah, it is…” Oz agreed, though it was hard not to also be conscious of the fact that this space felt nice, and comforting, sure, but it also was just so very Piper. Maybe not all the abundant evidence of late-night chain smoking—but all the color, and the life? All of that screamed Peach.

She’d been proper manic, back at the house—too distraught for Oz to gather even the slightest clue as to what had occurred, between her and Paxton. And then she’d just insisted on leaving, saying over and over something about how she didn’t feel right, there was still something lingering, she needed open air and to be alone til she got her head on straight…

Oz pulled back to the present, to Pax’s voice. He gave a sympathetic shrug, “Nothin’ for it, on my end…” he assured, but his gaze lingered on Paxton with some degree of concern. “…assumin’ you’re alright, a’course.” Because Oz assumed Pax had gotten his fill of talking it out, earlier, with Mae. But still, he left that window cracked open a smidge—just in case.

And then because a lightening of mood seemed in order, he smirked and said, “You wanna go in?” Without waiting for an answer, Oz pulled open and dug through the cluttered desk drawer until his fingers found a key along the back edge, which he pulled out with a cheeky gotcha! before unlocking and holding open the recording booth door (not the most secure, granted, but crime in the Den was surprisingly low. Plus, when they’d all had their own key, Maeko kept losing hers and Oz just never brought his, since he rarely wore anything that had pockets…).

The room lit up on its own once there was movement inside, with some glowy little hovering orbs that were another distinctly Piper touch. Oz nodded at the wall of shelves that were crammed full of all sorts of CD’s and records, and said, “Why don’t ya pick out somethin’? Whatever ya want…”

paxton-aeterna

A minute later he mumbled to himself, amazed, “What the—Stevie Nicks doesn't even have this many albums." Finally, though, Paxton pulled a case out of the third stack he searched triumphantly, gazing down at the gleaming blue CD inside. “Love this one,” he said, pointing to the full moon on the cover. “‘And it’s yooou and me in the summertime?’ You know it?” He turned to gaze at the expanse of buttons and sliders sat on the desk. There were way too many to manage, but with Oz’s help Paxton worked out his general bearings and set the disc carefully, carefully in place before pressing a few of them hopefully. He had no idea what they did, but by the time he was done he was pretty sure the disc was on continuous play. Or it might have been shuffle. Didn’t matter. The volume was good, at least, he made sure of that.

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