Thumbs and Other Useful Things

22. Xe/xir/xirs. This would be the place where I post the wordy things.

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One Time in Duscae

 Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Spoilers: minimal? I can’t catch any but there may be some Relationship: promptis (Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum) with mentioned OT4 and slight NoctLuna at the end Rating: E Word Count: 1,940 Summary: Prompto’s too turned on to fall asleep. Noctis helps him out. (For this fic Noctis is non binary and uses they/them and Prompto is a trans demiboy and uses he/him.)

Prompto was curled up inside his sleeping bag, glaring at the wall of the tent.  He’d been trying to fall asleep for hours. Everyone else was already snoring (yes, even Ignis, who tried to pretend he didn’t), and it wasn’t like he wasn’t tired, it was just— Dammit, he was horny.

Too embarrassed to jerk off with three other people in the tent— not that they hadn’t already seen him in more compromising conditions, but it was the principle of the thing — he’d been sure all he’d have to deal with until they got to Altissia and individual lodgings was a little bit of discomfort.  It wasn’t like he was going to die if he didn’t— that. But he’d failed to factor in the influences of adrenaline, denial, and close proximity to the three people he was used to fucking him senseless. Not that they didn’t anymore, but they were all so exhausted all the time, and tense, and so Prompto hadn’t wanted to ask, and Ignis and Gladio were getting weird about it with the whole wedding thing approaching, and. So was Prompto, kind of. Also they were all really smelly without regular showers, which meant Prompto was too, and he wasn’t going to inflict that on anyone. So. Horny. Too horny to sleep. Rolling onto his back, Prompto gave the ceiling a long-suffering sigh.  He tried to put all of his frustration into it, but it didn’t quite work, so he tried it again. A hand came out of the darkness and smacked him in the face. Noctis. “Shut up and go to sleep, Prom.” “Can’t.” “Count chocobos or something.”  Noctis’ hand lifted and then came back down in the vicinity of Prompto’s waist, and Prompto was unceremoniously dragged along the floor of the tent as Noctis plastered themselves to his side. “We went through an entire herd of arba today, and then Gladio made me do multi-weapons training forever. Go. To. Sleep.”

Their breath puffed hot over Prompto’s throat and Prompto couldn’t suppress a shiver. It felt like it had been so long— Noctis froze. “Are you…?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” Prompto said, face burning. Across the tent Gladio shifted and muttered something in his sleep. Prompto clapped a hand over his mouth. “You could have said something,” Noctis grumbled, tugging at the zipper on Prompto’s sleeping bag. “Here.”

“You don’t have to,” Prompto protested weakly, trying to ignore the way his body had perked up and sprouted about five thousand new nerve endings. “It’s not that bad.”

“Do you want me to?” “…..Yyeeeeeessssss.” “What’s the problem, then?” Noctis’ hand wormed its way up against Prompto’s skin, down into his boxers. Prompto stifled a gasp. “Shit, you’ve been trying to sleep like this?” “I said I didn’t want to—mmm.” Noctis’ fingers were so good, tight circles right where he needed them, and it took Prompto a couple of panting moments to speak again.  “We aren’t exactly alone.” “The other two won’t mind,” Noctis said, leaning closer to nip at Prompto’s neck. Prompto shuddered. “How many times to we have to tell you? But we can stop if you want.” Their fingers stilled, the offer sincere. Prompto loved them suddenly, passionately, and if they didn’t start moving again they were going to murder them. “Okay, okay!” The circles resumed, and Prompto sighed in contentment and let his thighs fall open. Noctis’s laugh was a low rumble in Prompto’s ear, and it made him dig his shoulders into the ground and arch up. He’d barely even been touched and he was already so worked up. He opened his mouth to apologize and then Noctis’ finger slipped lower, into him, and what came out was a whimper. “Fuck,” Noctis breathed. It was very encouraging. The inside of Prompto’s boxers, already uncomfortably damp, was starting to become overheated. Lifting his hips to wriggle out of them made the pressure against him better, deeper. Prompto rolled up against Noctis’ hand and bit hard at his bottom lip. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Noctis said, and covered Prompto’s mouth with their own.  Prompto parted his lips immediately, flicking his tongue against Noctis’, and was rewarded with a harder kiss and Noctis re-settling their weight across Prompto’s chest. This was turning into something a lot more complicated than jerking off.

Hopefully, Prompto lifted his knee so it brushed against Noctis through the layers of their sleeping bags. Noctis swore and clutched at Prompto’s hair with their free hand. “Gimme a sec,” they said, and Prompto helped them kick their way of their sleeping bag and into his own. They settled back down chest-to-chest and thigh-between-thighs, the bag’s open zipper letting in cooler air that made Prompto’s skin break out into goosebumps.  Noctis’ t-shirt had ridden up. Prompto poked at their bare stomach.

“Hey.” “Hey.” “Heeeeeeyyy.” “Hey!” “Hey?” “Hey-hey.” “He—” Noctis was cut off quite effectively by Prompto kissing them.  They made a pleased, curious noise into the kiss, which Prompto answered by reaching down and palming them through their sweatpants. Prompto could feel them straining their neck against his hand, and stroked over their windpipe to remind them they had to breathe. Noctis went boneless and—wow. Prompto had never felt them get that hard that fast before. “Is that a thing for you?” “I don’t know,” Noctis said, turning their head to bury it in Prompto’s pillow. “You have no place to talk, anyway, you were the one who couldn’t—fucking wait—“

“I was fine!” “If you could’ve had the tent itself fuck you, you would’ve said yes, admit it.” “That’s—disgusting, first of all, and how would it even, it’s not like it has—oh gods now I’m thinking about it, why would you do this to me—” Prompto twisted his hand around the top of Noctis’ cock and Noctis bucked into him, groaning. He couldn’t help but feel a little smug. “I can feel you smirking,” Noctis said. “That really a good idea?” They returned their hand to between Prompto’s legs with one long stroke as they bent to take his earlobe between their teeth. “Pretty boy?” Prompto clenched around Noctis’ fingers before he could stop himself and gave them an extra-firm squeeze for the way they started sniggering. “I hate you,” he informed them, pumping faster. “I hate you I hate you I hate you I—fuck. Let me get you off first and then you do me, we’re not gonna get anywhere like this.” “I’m not complaining,” Noctis said, and withdrew their hand to wipe it on Prompto’s hip. Prompto made a face that Noctis couldn’t see and scratched a nail down the center of their chest.

“You’re gonna make a mess,” Prompto said, feeling the wetness start to bead at Noctis’ tip. “Here.” With some wiggling, he scrunched down so he was face-level with Noctis’ crotch and yanked down their pants and underwear to flatten his tongue against their shaft. The movement pulled the sleeping bag off of Noctis’ torso, exposing them to the night air, but Noctis seemed preoccupied with other things. Prompto had improved a lot since the first time he’d tried to fit a dick in his mouth, and it was no trouble at all to take Noctis down in one long, hot slide. What he couldn’t get he wrapped his hand around. Noctis gripped at the sleeping bag, at the back of Prompto’s head, and from the sound of their moan had stuffed their face back into the pillow.

Holding down Noctis by the hip, Prompto pulled off slowly, gathering saliva in his mouth and letting it ease the way as he sank back down.  A cool, rational part of his mind registered that it wasn’t the most pleasant blowjob he’d ever given. Hunched over in a sleeping bag on the floor of a tent was hardly ideal. There were at least five rocks poking into his back, his legs were folded at such an awkward angle that they were falling asleep, and for all the four of them tried to splash in any body of water they came across, that lack of showers thing he’d thought of earlier? Definitely an issue. Still, there was always something…meditative about sucking cock, especially Noctis’. Giving himself over to the taste and the sensation, to making it good, to how much he wanted to please. To how much he wanted, period. He could feel himself slick against his thighs but it was a distant thrill; what was important here was the way Noctis trembled, the way they dug their nails into Prompto’s scalp when he furled his tongue just so.

“Prom,” Noctis said after a time, warning. But Prompto had been doing this to prevent a mess, so he took Noctis deep and swallowed around them until they hissed and shoved him off, oversensitive. Noctis half-pulled Prompto up and kissed him, breathless. Their fingers were back on Prompto before he even had to ask.  He was so wet that Noctis had trouble getting enough friction to do anything, and he probably wasn’t helping by how much he was squirming around, but he could no more have stayed still right then than he could’ve sprouted a pair of antlers.   “Fuck—good—yes—ah!” “That’s it,” Noctis murmured, kissing across Prompto’s nose. They slid two fingers in, easy, and twisted: Prompto keened. It was a wonder that Noctis could move to thrust at all, with how hard Prompto could feel himself squeezing, but they found a rhythm that had Prompto whining and babbling nonsense as the sleeping bag tangled around his legs. Then Noctis brought their other hand to thumb back and forth over Prompto’s dick and he had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from shouting. The pleasure crested in a wave that rolled from where Noctis touched him through the rest of his body, squeezing his lungs and making his head buzz with a sugar-sweet ache.  Noctis caught him when he floated back to earth, drawing him close against their chest and kissing the top of his head. “Sleep,” they said, yawning. “Think I can now,” Prompto said. He smiled against Noctis’ neck.  “Thanks.” They fell into a satiated silence, Noctis’ heartbeat an audible pattern for Prompto to match with his breathing. He’d lulled himself into a hazy lethargy when a loud thump sounded from beside them. “Who’s gonna give me a hand?” Gladio asked.

“You didn’t even get your boys to a bed?” Luna paused the even strokes of her pen to double over, laughing. “And here I thought it was all suffering before you got to me. Oh woe, how I’ve been deceived…” “It was,” Noctis protested, pouting.  “I really missed you, and I was worried about you, and— oh, you know it wasn’t all,” they made a crude gesture with their fingers. “There were daemons, Luna.” “Mmm. Well for future reference, if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation, I am going to demand at least a hotel stop,” Luna said.  “I don’t fancy getting dirt and twigs down my knickers.”

“Understood,” Noctis said, slumping forward onto their desk.  You wouldn’t think that a pile of trade reports would be comfortable, but after a long day anything was possible. “You know…we have a very nice dirt-and-twig-free bed right in the next room…if that’s the sort of thing your fancies will allow…” “Let me finish this letter,” Luna said. “And then…yes, I believe that they will.” The heat in her gaze made Noctis sit straight upright and shuffle their papers into an approximation of an organized pile.

“….Noctis? Don’t take too long.” They didn’t.

Notes:

Ignis slept through it all and was very annoyed at this in the morning.

One of my dearest headcanons for ffxv is that Noctis has The Most sex out of everybody.  Like, seriously, they deserve that much.

Also you bet your sweet bippy everyone's still involved at the end, polyamory is a grand and a wonderful thing!

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Ice Water In My Veins (Chapter One)

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Spoilers: this fic is set post-game, so yes.  Warnings: This chapter has a small reference to self-harm and a suicidal thought. Relationship: promptisluna (Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret) Rating: T Word Count: 1,489 Summary: It’s been a decade since Ardyn captured him, and Prompto thought he was over it. He’s not.  It’s been a long time coming, but he’s finally getting help. (For this fic Noctis is non binary and uses they/them and the title “King,” and Prompto is a trans demiboy and uses he/him.)

This shouldn’t be so hard for him.

He hadn’t—Gods—died like Noct had, or the hundreds when Insomnia fell, or when the darkness overtook them all.  Hadn’t even come that close (wasn’t allowed to, wasn’t allowed to), like Luna.  Hadn’t had much besides scrapes and bruises, still had all his limbs, his head, healed so long ago and it had been ten years goddammit—

Prompto hugged his knees to his chest and watched the way his arms were shaking.   One kind hand on his wrist and his brain had gone well aren’t you a pretty one and now he was here.  In a utility closet. Pathetic.

It’s cute how you think they care, said Ardyn’s voice in his head. They don’t, you know. In case I was being unclear.

“They do,” Prompto said to the stuffy air.  Ardyn chuckled, right beside his ear, and Prompto flinched.  He dug his nails into the side of his calves.  Gladio had slapped him once, when he’d found Prompto doing that, his eyes scared.  Prompto curled his hands into fists instead.  Not as good, without the pain to ground him, but something.

It was the middle of summer, and Prompto knew it was hot, had just been complaining about it, but he couldn’t stop shivering.  He rocked back and forth and tried to breathe past the hammering of his heart.  In count four. Hold. Out count eight. You’ve done this before stop hyperventilating could you be any more self-obsessed—

A howl from outside; Prompto raised his head to look at the sliver of light that crept in around the door and realized that something had been scratching at it for the past several minutes.  He couldn’t move, he couldn’t, but it turned out he didn’t have to: the handle clicked and the door swung open without him, and Pryna bounded in to snuffle at his pants. “Hey there, puffball,” Prompto croaked, and then he was crying.  Pryna shoved her way into his arms and let him bury his face in her fur.  She smelled like dog, not metal or blood or anything else, and her ears were soft beneath Prompto’s fingers.   “You’re a good girl,” he said, smoothing a hand over her flank.  “You knew I was having a bad time, didn’t you? You found me.” He could hear the way he was stuttering between sobs, and his nose and eyes were a streaming mess, but Pryna butted her head up against his chin and settled down in his lap like she was planning on staying for a long time.  “Good girl,” he repeated.  “Good dog.”

“Pryna, honey, you’re acting like you’re worried—oh, Prompto,” someone said, and then Prompto and Pryna were enveloped in Luna’s comforting arms.  “Noctis, she’s right here. Prompto’s crying.”

No, Prompto thought, and shoved at her chest.  Luna pulled back, radiating concern, but Pryna stayed right where she was.  He was grateful for that.   It was easy to hear Noctis approach. They weren’t exactly light on their feet.  Still, the soft touch took Prompto by surprise. He jerked back and hit the corner of a shelf, hard, with his right shoulder.  The spray bottles on it wobbled dangerously.  So maybe a closet wasn’t the most comfortable place for three grown adults and a dog. He thought Noctis was going to say as much, because they made a lunge for the door—but then they closed it.  It seemed darker than before, after the sudden influx of light. Prompto was suddenly hyperaware of everyone’s breathing.  Pryna barked.

“Noctis,” Luna started, exasperated, but her move to re-open the door was cut short when she bumped into what sounded like a bundle of mops.  Noctis threw out a hand to catch them—their joints cracked—and missed, the clatter of them falling against the opposite wall amplified in the tiny space.  One of the handles rapped Prompto on the head.  

“Ow.” “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” Noctis tried to settle back and the mops rattled again.  They froze, a hand on Prompto’s knee for balance, and huffed.  “Gimme a moment.” Luna clucked her tongue as they eased themselves down with much grunting and frantic grabs for falling cleaning paraphernalia.  By the time they had found themselves a semi-stable position squashed against Prompto’s side, Prompto had managed to wipe his eyes on the collar of his shirt and catch his breath. There was an awkward silence.

“Figured the dark would make it easier for you to talk to us, but I guess that didn’t work,” Noctis said finally.  Despite himself, Prompto laughed.  He shook his head and pressed his face again into Pryna’s neck. “Nope.” “You don’t have to,” Luna said.  She laid a hand on Prompto’s arm, tentative, asking permission. This time he let her. He wanted to talk to them, but he couldn’t. This was just his own head not letting him go, even though everything was over and done with, and had been, for ages. He couldn’t put that on them.  Prompto took a shaking breath and twisted his hands in Pryna’s fur.  She yipped and tensed up in his lap, and he forced his fingers to lie flat.   “Sorry, girl,” he said.  Pryna liked his cheek.   It was silly, huddled in here with Noct and Luna like they were schoolchildren playing hooky.  Prompto could feel the grit on the floor against his leg where his pants had come untucked.  He felt sticky, tears drying on his cheeks and Pryna’s drool on his hands.   Noctis fumbled for Prompto’s face and shoved a crumpled tissue against it.  “It’s not used,” they assured him.  “Just been in my pocket for a while.”

Luna made a disgusted noise.  “Why am I married to you?” “Because you love me,” Noctis said.  They reached out to flick her and caught Prompto instead.  “Oops. Well, you too.” “Noctis!” Luna pulled Prompto into her chest.  “You’re not an afterthought, Prom.  Noct, stop being mean to him.” “When was I mean?” Noctis tried to crawl into Prompto’s lap and ran up against several pounds of dog.   “Move, doggy,” they said. Pryna didn’t.

“I’m the King, you’re supposed to do what I tell you.” Pryna pushed her muzzle into Prompto’s armpit.

“I can’t believe my throne has been usurped by a dog.”

“Did you mean your actual throne, dear, or just Prompto’s lap?” “What’s the difference?” “I think the Council might be a bit surprised if they walked into the throne room and just found Prompto in a chair.”

“Fuck the Council,” Noctis said.  They nuzzled the side of Prompto’s neck.  “Hey, how are you feeling?” “Better,” Prompto said, and was surprised to find out that it was true.  He scratched the underside of Pryna’s chin and leaned his head on top of Noctis’.  Noct and Luna always did manage to cheer him up, sometimes without him realizing it was happening.  Even when he tried to hide from them.  “I just sometimes…things.” Luna, part of the way through combing Prompto’s hair back, stilled.  “Was it Ardyn again?” How had she—? The air in the closet was thick suddenly, stifling.  Prompto worked a hand between himself and a whining Pryna to press against his ribs.  Over his head he could hear Noctis and Luna talking, alarmed. Noctis moved behind him, wrapping their arms around him, and Luna peppered kisses over the side of his head. “It wasn’t anything you said,” she assured him.  “Listen. You know I can tell what it is, when something’s ailing someone—” “He didn’t get me sick,” Prompto snapped, but that was wrong, because he was. He’d been fine for ten years, and then Ardyn had come back like a nightmare except real, and now he was jumping at shadows.   “Oh, love,” Luna said.  “None of this is your fault.” Pryna was licking his face again, trying to knock him backwards.  Would have, if Noctis hadn’t been there.  They stroked gentle fingers down Prompto’s side. “Prom,” they said, haltingly.  “If you wanted—you know there’s someone that I talk to.” “No!” He couldn’t have the same person who heard all of Noctis’ troubles had to listen to his. They’d hate him for being so weak in comparison. “Someone else then, maybe?” Luna asked.  “You can’t keep locking yourself up in broom closets.  It’s not good for you.” “It’s worked well for me so far,” Prompto said, but he knew she was right.  It felt like an unraveling to admit.  He tilted his head up to kiss Luna, twisted around to kiss Noctis as well.  “I…can think about it?” “Good,” said Luna.  Noctis patted Prompto’s arm.

“You know we’re here for you,” they said. “I know,” Prompto said.  The floor tiles were pressing a pattern into his ass, and he was still stuffed against bottles of cleaning chemicals in a space far too small for everyone it was holding, but at least he had the two of them.  “I know. Thank you.”

Notes: So I have a theory that everything…went into a sort of stasis while Noctis was in the Crystal, and that included Prompto’s healing.  Prompto decided not to deal with it, and everything was so fucked that he didn’t have to.  But now there’s peace and Prompto is happy, and his brain decided it would be a good time to have things surface again. (Title from “Organ Donor” by Jeremy Messersmith)

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@grumblehugs whoops! I didn’t realize that’d break the tag. I took out the parenthesis and here are the parts

Part I Part II Part III

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Home and What to Grow There

Part III of Wedded Bliss (and How to Come by It) Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Spoilers: this fic is set post-game, so yes Relationship: promptisluna (Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret) Rating: E Word Count: 4,343 Summary: There are things Noctis regrets, but Luna and Prompto are not among them. (For this fic Noctis is non binary and uses they/them and the title “King,” and Prompto is a trans demiboy and uses he/him.)

                                                       The King Noctis tried not to think too much about the years they’d lost.

It was difficult.  They had to deal with the aftermath every day, trying to rebuild a kingdom that had been invaded and then broken and then lost to daemons and endless night.  The only mercy was that everyone else was also too busy reclaiming their suddenly accessible lands to be a threat.  

Not that Noctis didn’t worry about it.  A weak enemy was so very tempting.  The barrier around Insomnia may have been the first thing they restored, but it was useless without a functioning city and kingdom.

Food storage had run out in the fourth year of their absence.  Their people had existed upon fungi and other dark-growing plants, and anything that still lived in the water.  Now the farmers who hadn’t starved to death were trying to ready fields ten years fallow, searching for caches of seed crops that hadn’t sprouted wildly at the sudden return of sunlight.  The livestock that hadn’t been victims of soup pot or daemon were spindly and far between.

Villages turned to rubble, cities turned to crumbling monuments.  Mold and grime and the stillness after living matter had rotted away.

Noctis had seen enough of bones, they thought.

“We don’t blame you.” Ignis’s voice made Noctis start. They realized they’d been sitting unmoving, squinting at the letters on the report in front of them, for far too long.

“Four against the masses? What great odds.” Noctis waved away Ignis’ protest.  “For every person that’s happy to see me return there’s another who remembers her husband killed by daemons, or their children crying from hunger.  I restored the light, but I was the one who took it away, and then I fucked off without dealing with the consequences.”

“You had no way of knowing that would happen,” Ignis said. He placed a hand on Noctis’ shoulder.  “None of us did.  In the end it was the right decision, was it not?” “Yes.”  Noctis rested their forehead on the table.  Despite all their guilt, all the suffering they’d wrought, they still believed that they had made the best choice.  But a child who knows too well why her parents aren’t coming home won’t forgive her king when their only excuses are gods and legends.

Some part of them had played idly with the idea of giving Talcott his first sword. It was too late, now. He draws weapons faster than half my father’s army could.

“You’re a good king, Noct,” Ignis said softly.  “And a good person.  It may take a while, but those who doubt it will learn the truth.” He paused. “Ah, I believe Her Majesty is at the door.”

Despite themselves, Noctis felt their heart lift. “She found something she wanted to show me,” they said.

“I see.  Is it a personal matter, or should I stay?”

Even if it was, Ignis had more than earned the right to know about it. But Noctis found themselves wanting Luna’s arms.  “Go,” they said.  “You can tell Gladio and Prom I’ll be on time for the transport minister so they don’t get jumpy.”  Ignis gave Noctis’ shoulder a final squeeze and stepped around them to let Lunafreya in.

“Well met, Your Majesty.”

“And you, Captain Ignis.”  

Noctis looked up. Luna sounded upset.  All thoughts of their own troubles fled.  They jumped to their feet and ushered Luna into their chair.  “Are you all right?” “I’m fine. Some of the usual rites take more out of me than they used to. It’s frustrating.” Luna sighed.  Noctis took her hand and sat beside her, hardly hearing the door close as Ignis showed himself out.

“Surely there’s somebody who could help you…” “Look at who’s talking,” Luna said, smiling at them.  “I have helpers, Noct, but there’s only so much they can do.  I do eventually have to do my job.” She squeezed Noctis’ fingers.  “I’m all right, really.”

Noctis raised their eyebrows.  

Luna raised hers back.  

“As long as you’re sure,” Noctis conceded, reluctant.  They dragged over the silver tray of drinks left on the table from the last meeting and poured her a cup of water.  Luna took it with an air of humoring them and stared into it.

“Noct,” she started, and then stopped.  “Noctis. What I found…” “What is it?”

Luna reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a small pendant.  She opened Noctis’ hand and laid it gently in their palm.

“That’s my mother’s crest,” Noctis said numbly.

Luna nodded and turned the pendant over. An ornate A was etched into the back.  “I think it belonged to her,” she said.

Noctis studied the pendant.  It was filthy, spotted with age, and the ribbon was crumpled and ragged.  They should feel something more, Noctis thought, holding it; but they had no memory of their mother.

“I know you never knew her, but it felt wrong to simply throw it away,” Luna said.  She rubbed a thumb over Noctis’ wrist.  “I thought perhaps you’d want to see it.” “Thank you,” Noctis said.  They felt strange, hollow and full all at once.  Maybe hollow of one thing but full of another? There was a bitter taste at the back of their tongue.  Despite this, it wasn’t a bad feeling.  “How did you even find it?”

Luna grimaced.  “I’m learning how to keep herbs.  Tenebrae or the university have always provided me with any pills, creams, or medical plants I need to help my work, but there are a few things I can grow myself, and I think it’d do me good.  It’s not coming naturally,” she said ruefully, and looked down at her fingernails as if she had dirt underneath them.  “I killed off my first lot and picked up the box on the window to dump them out and—well, the pendant fell to the floor.”

The Queen’s quarters had been empty for a long time. It was no wonder that nobody had found the pendant before now.  “Thank you,” Noctis said again.  They tightened their fingers around it.  “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted a garden?” “I have a garden,” Luna said.  “Technically so do you, as every palace garden except the Queen’s belongs to the King.” Noctis rolled their eyes her impertinence, and she laughed.  “This was…for myself. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“I love you,” Noctis said, because they did. Luna blinked rapidly and rotated the water cup a quarter turn as if doing so could hide the way her expression had gone soft.  “I love you too, Noct.”  She reached out to press their hand to her lips, her cheek.

“I should go lie down,” Luna said after a while.  “I still feel a bit unsteady.”  

Noctis tucked the pendant into their jacket and took her arm to help her rise. There was a box on their dresser where they kept a few of their father’s rings. If they cleaned up the pendant, maybe they could put it in there.’ “I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t be absurd, you still have the transport meeting.  I’ll take Prompto, will that make you feel better?” Luna leaned up to kiss Noctis’ nose.  “He fusses as much as you do.”

“You’re worth fussing over,” Noctis grumbled, but they followed Luna to the door.  “Call me if you start feeling really bad?” “I will,” Luna said.  She kissed them again.  “Try not to kill the minister?”

“Only for you,” said Noctis.

When Noctis stepped into Luna’s rooms they found Prompto wrist-deep in the box at the window, a basket of seedlings and a bag of dirt that looked like it had been turned over once or twice down by his feet.  Luna was directing him from where she was lying on the bed, Pryna curled up beside her. Pryna gave Noctis a welcoming bark and settled her head back on her paws.

“I want the rosemary on the far left,” Luna was saying.  “It gets big, and it needs room to grow.” “Which one’s the rosemary?”

“They’re labeled, sweetheart.” “Oh! Right…”

Noctis walked up behind Prompto and put their arms around his waist. “It’s the one that looks like pine needles,” they said.  “No, that’s lavender.  Prompto, have you ever seen a pine tree?” “Shut up.”

“He’s barely let me get up at all, Noctis,” Luna said, lifting herself up on her elbows.  “So I’m making him plant things for me.  I thought he’d know herbs, doesn’t he carry around that first-aid kit all the time?” “Yeah, but I just buy whatever’s at the store!” Prompto said. “With my luck I’d poison something!” “I have faith in you,” Luna said.  “And so does Pryna. Right, honey?” She patted the dog and Pryna wagged her tail back and forth.  “See?”

“Me too,” Noctis said, resting their chin on Prompto’s shoulder.  “Wait, are you….patting the rosemary?” “It looked like it needed encouragement,” Prompto said, flushing.  Noctis laughed and kissed the side of his head.

The bed creaked. Noctis and Prompto whipped around to see Luna sitting on the edge, feeling around for her slippers.

“Luna!”

“I’ve been abed half the day, I feel better than when I woke up this morning,” Luna said.  She stepped lightly over to wrap an arm around them both.  “And besides, with the two of you here, I couldn’t feel poorly if I tried.”  

“I gave you a simple order, Pryna,” Prompto said, shaking a finger at the dog. “ I said ‘don’t let the Queen get up!’”  Pryna huffed and looked up at him with big eyes.  Prompto dropped his hand.  “You know I can’t be mad at you when you do that.”

“You didn’t know her when she was a puppy,” Noctis said.  “Stealing everyone’s food and tracking mud all over the carpets.  She still does that sometimes, actually, you’ve seen her.” Luna pressed against them, and Noctis extricated an arm from around Prompto to chafe at the sleeve of her dress. “Cold?”

“No,” Luna said.  “But don’t stop, that feels nice.”

“Now how am I supposed to do this,” Prompto complained, indicating the box of dirt.  “I’m all squashed.”

“Get used to it,” Noctis told him.  “Besides, you don’t seem like you mind.”

“True.” Prompto wiped his hands on the edge of the box and rested against Noctis’s chest, gazing out over the courtyard below, the grey sky, the city just visible over the far wall.  “It’s changed so much in such a short time…”

The guilt that had been sleeping since that morning pricked at Noctis’ conscience again. They swallowed down the urge to apologize.  “I wish I’d been able to change it sooner.”

“No!” Prompto turned to look at them, eyes fiery.  He made a motion as if to grab Noctis’ face, realized his hands were still dirty, and crossed his arms instead.  “The reason we’re so good now is because of you. You had no way of knowing how long it’d take.”

That was almost a direct echo of Ignis’ words from earlier. At least Noctis had the Crownsguard.  “Ten years isn’t the same as getting caught up talking to the cashier on a snack run, Prom.”

“A very long snack run,” Prompto said stubbornly.  “A very noisy cashier.”

“I’m going to have to agree with Prompto,” Luna said, nudging Noctis with her hip.  “Gods move at their own pace, there’s no use in holding yourself accountable.  Not that that makes it easier.”  She touched Noctis’ brow.  “Do you know Aletha, who sells the best fish in the market? Her daughter named one of her dolls after you.  She plays ‘saving the kingdom’ and has you jump in your car and drive over the bad guys.”

“That’s not exactly how it happened,” Noctis said, but they felt their lips twitch.

“Details,” Prompto said dismissively.  “Whenever you feel like you haven’t done enough, come to Luna and me, okay? We can each tell you hundreds of things you’ve done right.”

“Thousands,” Luna agreed, nudging Noctis’ chin to kiss them.  “As long as you don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” Noctis said, and surrendered to the kiss.  When they drew back Luna had pushed her hands all the way up the back of their shirt and Prompto was grinning.

“Is it a good time?” she asked, searching their face.

Noctis bent to glide his lips over the base of her throat.  “Best time.”

Prompto hooted, pumping his fist, and then made a face. “Shit, I have to wash my hands.  Get started without me.”

“Hurry back,” Noctis said, distracted by Luna pulling them towards the bed. Pryna gave a yap of protest as she was ushered away, but she’d learned by now to trot into the sitting room when her people wanted to play.

Prompto did not, in fact, hurry back.  Noctis had divested themselves of their shirt and vest and were having a great deal of fun sucking marks into Luna’s thighs when they heard the bathroom door open again.

“Sorry,” Prompto said, tiptoeing over to them.  “I, uh, went through the passageways to my rooms because—well—I thought we could try this, this time?”

Prompto lifted a familiar green bag.  Noctis’ mouth went dry.

“What is it?” Luna asked, glancing between them.

Noctis knew they were blushing, but it didn’t look like Prompto was going to explain anytime soon, so it had to be up to them. If their voice came out a little flat, well, at least they were using it. “He wants to use his cock.”

They had discussed this, the three of them, but there was a difference between talking and doing. Noctis found themselves holding their breath.

Luna looked back at the green bag. Comprehension dawned across her face.  “On Noct or on me, Prompto?”

Prompto clutched the bag so tightly Noctis fancied they could hear his knuckles creak. He looked terrified at being handed such a decision.  “Uh! I! Don’t really have a preference! Whichever you want?”

“You’re nervous,” Luna said, reaching out.  “Why don’t we go for familiarity, this time? Noct?”

“Good with me,” Noctis said.  They felt their voice rumble through their chest.

Prompto gave a warbling cry high in his throat and fell forward onto the bed.  “I want you to know I was a lot cooler about that when I practiced in the mirror,” he said. “You know, for the record.  In case anyone’s listening.”

Prompto’s ass had landed right next to Noctis’ head.  Noctis nuzzled into it.  “Only the people who matter.”

“Are you sniffing my butt?” Prompto asked, cracking open an eye to peer down at them.  The way his face was smushed into the covers made his voice honk through his nose.

“No,” Noctis said, and continued nuzzling.  “What, you aren’t into that?”

“Ass eating, yes.  Ass sniffing? Not so much.”

Luna stifled a laugh and Prompto turned red again. “Don’t tell me it’s the new thing,” he said.

“Sweeping the nation from here to Lestallum,” Luna said solemnly, tweaking Prompto’s ear.  “It’s in all the papers.”

“If you think you’ve escaped it, think again,” Noctis added against the pocket of Prompto’s jeans.  “You’ll find a practitioner soon enough, they’re particularly…dogged.” They dodged the pillow Prompto threw at them. Luna made a great show of ignoring them.

“Come on, I want to see how this works,” she said to Prompto.  Prompto dragged the bag out from under him and handed it to her, rolling over onto his back.  Luna took the opportunity to kiss him, slow and deep, and then upended the bag.

The harness was black, but the dildo was a decent match for Prompto’s skin tone, considering that he’d told Noctis he’d ordered it from a catalogue. Luna picked it up and hefted it in her palm.  “It’s wet?”

“I washed it off in the sink,” Prompto said.  “There’s condoms in there too, for it. And lube.”  Luna drew both out and set them aside.  

It took all of Noctis’ willpower to tear themselves away, but there were one or two things that needed to happen before they could continue.  “I’ll be just a minute,” they said, and shoved off for the bathroom.  

Mirth had turned into excitement, down at the bottom of their gut. Luna holding Prompto’s dick in her hand made this real. Prompto’s expression as Noctis turned away was delicate as he watched Luna, anxious, but full of so much tenderness that Noctis felt it themselves, pounding right alongside their heart.

When they returned Luna was holding the harness up by a strap. “This looks complicated,” She said.  “How is it supposed to fit?”

“Let me show you,” Prompto said.  He demonstrated how to fit the dildo and harness together and then sat up and wiggled out of his clothes.   The harness slid up his legs with the ease of long practice.  Prompto checked the tightness, adjusted the front piece, and struck a pose.

Noctis could always tell the way wearing it changed Prompto’s confidence; he knelt with his hips thrust out, legs apart, his eyes going half-lidded and smug. It was one of Noctis’ favorite sights. They rocked up to glide a hand over Prompto’s side and plaster themselves along the line of Prompto’s bare back.

“Looking good,” they said.  

Prompto preened, tipping his head back onto Noctis’ shoulder. “Thanks.”

Luna was trying to appear calm, but Noctis could see the way her thighs were shifting. “Indeed.”

The smile Prompto gave her was downright unfair.  “Off?” he asked, plucking at the front of her dress.

“I like that suggestion,” said Luna.  She pulled down the zipper of her dress and bunched it up to fit over hear head, hanging it neatly from the bedpost. Her bra and underwear met with the same efficiency.  “Noctis?”

“Don’t slack off now,” Prompto teased, patting Noctis’ thigh.  Noctis yanked a little at Prompto’s hair to get back at him, reveling in the noise it drew from Prompto’s throat, and ducked away to deal with their pants.

Luna picked up the bottle of lube before Noctis could.  “May I do this part?” That went straight to Noctis’ dick. They bit the inside of their cheek. How did they get so lucky? “Sure. Didn’t know you knew how?”

“Gentiana,” Luna explained, and pushed Noctis gently down to the mattress. “Do you like the lube cold or warm?” “Who the fuck likes cold lube?” “Some people have their preferences.” Luna poured out a generous amount, rubbing her hands together.  She kissed Noctis’ stomach and then the inside of their knee.  “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Noctis said.  They snagged Prompto by the elbow.  “Hey, do a little work here.”

“You’re spread out across the entire bed, Noct,” Prompto said, but he dragged his fingers down the center of Noctis’ chest, came back up to tweak a nipple.  The slip of his tongue across Noctis’ jugular coincided with the first touch of Luna’s fingers behind them.  Noctis’ hips twitched.  They weren’t hard yet, but they were getting there.

The three of them didn’t usually do this in Luna’s bed.  It felt different, looking up at a patterned canopy instead of a black one, being enveloped in Luna’s scent…it would probably be weird to take a whiff of the pillows, especially given the recent conversation about ass-sniffing.  The needlework on them was kind of scratchy, anyway.

“Shit!”

Luna crooked her finger again, and then pulled it out and added another.  Noctis focused on breathing.

“Nice,” Prompto said, high-fiving Luna over Noctis’ chest.  Noctis tried to glare at him but ended up choking when Luna started to spread her fingers.  Fuck, okay, good.

“I would’ve done this sooner if I’d known you liked it so much,” she murmured.  

“I’m full of surprises,” Noctis said through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

“Mm, lucky us!” chirped Prompto, absentmindedly grinding his hips into the quilt.  Luna reached to help, but Noctis intercepted her hand and held it gently in their own. “Not yet,” they said, into Luna’s ear so Prompto wouldn’t hear.  “And no penetration this time, it reminds him.” Luna nodded and pecked Noctis’ lips before re-routing her hand to Prompto’s ass.

“I think that’s enough,” Noctis said after a few more minutes of bearing down on Luna’s fingers.  Luna gave them one more thrust, deep, and then withdrew, reaching again for the lube.

“Let me,” she told Prompto.  She tore open a condom and rolled it down his cock, slicking it up with couple of expert pulls.  Prompto’s eyelashes fluttered.

There was a bit of heaving and adjusting so they could all get into position—Noctis tried to be patient—and then they could feel the head of Prompto’s cock pressing against them, and oh, oh.

Luna’s hand closed over their cock and they saw stars.  “Too much,” they gasped, and Luna released them until Prompto bottomed out.  “Okay. Have at it.” “‘Have at it?’” Prompto repeated, snickering. He drew back and thrust forward in a long, easy stroke. Noctis’ hands dug into the quilt. “Like you haven’t said worse,” they said.  “You told me once to, I quote, ‘go to town on the downtown—‘“

Prompto spluttered. “Did Luna really need to know that?”

“Oh, I think I did.”

“You could’ve at least not repeated ‘town’ twice, Prom, that was the really embarrassing part—fuck.” Luna had returned her hand to their cock.

“Sorry, what was that?  Didn’t quite catch it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Noctis wheezed, “and keep going, both of you.”

Luna kissed their mouth, messy but good—twisted her wrist—Prompto groaned and moved faster.  They were around Noctis, inside them; Noctis breathed in Prompto and Luna and breathed out love for them, gratitude and pleasure and hot skin in rumpled sheets—

“Gorgeous,” Prompto said as Noctis came with a keen.  Prompto pulled out and sat back on his haunches, sweat shining on his upper lip and across his collarbones.

Noctis swept a rubbery arm across the bed for something to clean themselves off with and came up with their boxers.  Eh, it wasn’t like they hadn’t used them for that purpose before.

“I do love your class,” said Luna brightly.  Noctis snorted and crooked an elbow over their eyes. They lifted it again when they heard Prompto’s breathing hitch.

Prompto was holding himself up with one hand, arcing backwards, the other working beneath the harness.  His cock bobbed with the jut of his hips.  Luna clambered over Noctis’ leg to offer a knee for Prompto to rock against as his limbs drew in tighter and tighter, culminating with a strangled moan. He pitched forward and fumbled himself out of the harness, dropping it off the side of the bed and curling up with a yawn.  

“Luna, you now?” he said.

“May I have the honor?” Noctis asked. They had regained a fair amount of feeling in their limbs by then, and curved up to make a pass for Luna. She fell across them with a surprised laugh.

“You sound like you’re having a good time,” Noctis said.

Luna grabbed Noctis’ hand to bring it between her legs.  “I’d say that, yes.”

Instead of responding Noctis flipped her over and kissed their way down her body.  Luna squirmed and gripped at their shoulders, pushing down when Noctis buried their face in her folds.  Noctis’ chin was soaked in a matter of seconds; they grinned at the way Luna clenched under their tongue.

From the corner of their vision they saw Prompto curl a hand around Luna’s ankle, but they were preoccupied with finding Luna’s clit and sucking on it. Luna bucked up against their mouth.

“Noct’s good at that, yeah?” Prompto asked. He sounded far away, though Noctis could feel him beside them.

“Yes,” said Luna, like she was underwater, or behind a wall. “Yes, always, yes.”  Her nails bit into Noctis’ skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to show her appreciation.

There were a few things Noctis could do well. Eating Luna out was one of them (eating Prompto out was another, but Prompto wasn’t the current matter at hand. At mouth. Whatever.).

When Luna came she closed her thighs around Noctis’ head and muffled her scream in Prompto’s helpful palm (Pryna was in the next room, and they’d discovered through unfortunate experience that if either dog heard Luna scream they’d come racing in to protect her). Noctis wiped their mouth on the inside of their wrist and pushed themselves up to kiss her.

“We didn’t even get under the covers,” Luna said, amused.  “They’re a mess.” “It’s the middle of the day,” Prompto said.  “And I came late to this party.” He scooped up the harness and juggled it back and forth, getting to his feet to run across the floor to the bathroom.  “Lubey dick, lubey dick, ew ew ew ew—“

Luna snagged her dress from the bedpost and slipped it back on.  Her hair looked like something she’d call a “fright” and Noctis thought of as “adorably disheveled.”

“Noct,” she said.  “Help me with my garden?”

“Of course,” Noctis said. They tugged their pants on and walked around the bed to offer an hand to Luna, but she had already flitted to the window again.

“Look, like I told you, Prompto, the clouds are clearing,” she said.  “We’ll get some sun before the rain starts.”

“You being so good at the weather would’ve been a real big help when I was younger,” Prompto said, coming over.  “I used to get caught in the rain a lot.”

“I’ll have to make up for lost time,” Luna said, taking Prompto by the forearm.  “There is some of it you can learn.  Stick your hand out the window, here.  Can you feel the humidity?”

Paws thudded against carpet; Noctis turned to see Pryna waiting, with Umbra beside her.  “You picked him up, didn’t you, girl,” they said, kneeling, and the two of them leapt into their arms.  “Easy, easy!”

“The plants!” Prompto shouted, leaping for the basket. “Oh no—“

“Wait, you’re naked—“

“You’re wearing white—“

“Noctis, get the—“

“Umbra! Pryna! No!”

Notes:

The three of them regularly use lube but Luna’s never used it on Noctis’ ass before so she wanted to check. Use lube, kids.

(Gentiana’s the one who likes it cold, because of who she is.  Also, if you thought that was a shoutout to Gentiana being a trans girl, you’re correct!  Noct and Prompto know because when she meets trans young’uns she likes to be like “hello I’m your trans big sister now.”)

I know it’s traditional for fantasy worlds to have different herbs than Earth does, but if Audis can exist on Eos, so can rosemary and lavender. Maybe there’s some sort of dimensional grafting going on?

also a big thank you to @binoctis​ for coming up with the titles for this fic!

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Beauty in Threes

Part II of Wedded Bliss (and How to Come by It)

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Spoilers: this fic is set post-game, so yes

Relationship: promptisluna (Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret)

Rating: E

Word Count: 3,145

Summary: A honeymoon with three people.

(For this fic Noctis is non binary and uses they/them and the title “King,” and Prompto is a trans demiboy and uses he/him.)

                                                 The Queen

Here was a happiness Lunafreya had never dreamed she’d have.

She sat at the small table beside the balcony in their suite, letting the sunlight stream in from the open doors to wash over her face and the tea set before her. She had a book propped open on the table, but she had abandoned it in favor of breathing in the morning air.  Almost a quarter to noon, now, late for her to still be idle.  But that was what honeymoons were for.

On the bed Prompto sighed and turned over in his sleep.  He was wearing his stack of leather bracelets and nothing else.  Luna looked over at him and could feel her eyes crinkle in fondness.  She had hoped to find common ground with Noctis’ other partner, for the ease of the household and also, selfishly, for her own happiness.  She had not expected Prompto to fast become one of her closest friends, or to be attracted to him.  She had not expected him to be amenable to her advances as much as she was to his.

As if he could sense her watching him—and perhaps he could, he had been hunter-trained in darkness— Prompto opened his eyes.  When he saw her there he instinctively curled up, reaching for the covers—but then his eyes focused and he sank back, letting his legs fall open as he stretched.  It was as unconscious a show of trust as any he had shown, and Luna felt that if asked at that moment she could’ve sprouted wings and floated away.

“Good morning,” Prompto said.  Luna was learning the sound of his morning voice the way she was Noctis’. Prompto’s was heavy on the vowels and crackling like dry paper, and like Noctis’ it had never yet failed to make Luna smile.  

“Good morning,” she said back.  “Tea?” She lifted the pot slightly, offering, but Prompto shook his head.

“S’all right. Thanks, though.”

It was no wonder Prompto had slept so late.  She and Noctis had worked him hard last night.  Luna had to admit that she had not expected Prompto, with his way of startling like a nervous rabbit, to like being handled so much. Or so roughly.

“Noct is out for a run,” Luna said, as Prompto started peering around.  “I’m surprised you slept past them, for once.”

Prompto shrugged and shoved his face back into his pillow. “They got used to morning runs with Gladio,” Prompto said.  “It makes them cranky if they don’t.  Even on vacation, I guess.”

Luna wondered if Gladiolus or Ignis would ever admit to the time they had spent in Noctis’ bed, and if it would shock them too much if she offered it again, Noctis willing.  She herself had not given up Gentiana, and Noctis had not expected her to.  But the two Crownsguard were still frightfully uptight around her. It was a shame.

I came through the war too, she wanted to tell them.  I died and I came back to life. I have no more use for what things men think of me.

“You look like a portrait, in the sunlight,” Prompto said.  And then, hesitating, because he was shy even now: “Come back to bed?”

“Yes.” Luna drained the last of her teacup and set it back on its saucer.  She had put on a robe to take her breakfast but slid it off and left it hanging from her chair, padding across the room to join Prompto on the mattress.  He winced at her cold feet but didn’t move away, wrapped an arm around her when she laid her head on his shoulder.

She traced her fingers lightly over the scars on Prompto’s chest, mapping out the dips and ridges with her touch.  They had healed badly, a long time ago, and she had offered to help Prompto with them when the three of them got back.  Prompto was still thinking about it.  “You’re handsome either way, of course,” Luna had told him, and Prompto had gone scarlet and kissed her.

Footsteps outside the door, quiet talking.  Luna recognized Noctis’ voice.  One of the guards opened the door and peered in, perfunctory, and nodded.  Noctis strode through, flapping the front of their sweaty shirt.

“I see you went back to bed,” Noctis said, once the door had closed behind them.  They peeled their shirt off and wandered over to kiss the two of them.  “Good morning Luna, Prom.”

“Go take a shower, you smell,” Prompto said, shoving Noctis away.  Noctis stuck their tongue out and lifted their arm over Prompto’s head, shoving their armpit in his face.

“Ew, gross! Luna, make them take a shower!”

“You can’t come back into the bed until you’re clean,” Luna said.  She was aiming for stern, but she could tell she sounded affectionate.  “Go do as Prompto says.”

“The things I put up with,” Noctis sighed, but they went obligingly into the bathroom, and soon steam billowed out of the open doorway and into the room.  Luna watched it rise to the ceiling and dissipate.  She didn’t realize she’d been humming under her breath until Prompto joined in to harmonize.

It was a country song, one she’d learned from her travels.  She was surprised Prompto knew it.  But then, folk songs had a way of crossing borders, and people on opposite sides of a continent would be singing the same tune, given regional variations.

Noctis’ head popped out of the bathroom, dripping wet.  “I can hear you having fun without me.”

“Rinse your hair out,” Luna told them.  Noctis made a face and ducked back inside.  Luna caught Prompto’s eye and grinned.

“What about this one,” Prompto said, and started a song of his own. Luna didn’t recognize the words but the melody was a simple one, and it was easy enough to follow it up the octave.  They traded songs back and forth until Noctis stepped out of the shower, a towel around their shoulders, shaking the water droplets out of their hair. They looked a lot like Umbra when they did that, but Luna wasn’t going to tell them in case they stopped. It was adorable.

“Miss me?” Noctis asked, sliding in behind Luna and wrapping an arm around her waist. They splayed a hand on Prompto’s stomach.  Prompto mumbled a sleepy “Mm-hmm” and Luna nodded and lifted her head to kiss them before settling back down, laying her arm over Noctis’. Noctis brushed aside Luna’s hair and pushed their face against the nape of her neck.  They were still damp, but Luna couldn’t find it in her to mind.  

“Have the two of you eaten?” Noctis asked.

“I have, but Prompto hasn’t.”

“Prompto.”

“Hey, I just woke up!”

“Eat,” Noctis said, and lifted their hand from Prompto’s stomach.  “I don’t want to hear you whining about how hungry you are later.”

“Then don’t listen.” “I already do that.”

“If you’re going to argue, get out of the bed,” Luna said. She squeezed Prompto around the waist and drew closer to him so that Noctis would have more room to sprawl out. “Only nice people get to stay here.”

Noctis kissed the knob at the top of her spine. “Oh, really?” Luna nodded. “Out.” She arched her neck for Noctis to continue. They took the hint.

“It’s a bad idea to argue with you wife,” Prompto said.  “That’s just common sense, Noct.”

It was still so new, to hear people refer to her as Noctis’ wife, or them as her spouse. Luna felt a thrill well up in her, the same way it did whenever she caught sight of the ring on her finger.  Or maybe that was the way Noctis had just flicked their tongue behind her ear.

“Go eat,” Noctis said again, and lifted their leg to shove Prompto out.  Prompto gasped in mock hurt but threw off the bit of sheet still on him and struggled to his feet.  He looked around for a likely source of food and alighted upon the cart beside the table.

“Cool, is that seven different types of bread?” “There were nine, but we ate the other ones,” Noctis said.  “Left the raisin one for you, though.”

“Don’t fight me on raisins just because you don’t appreciate them,” Prompto said, and ambled over.  Luna stretched her legs into the space he’d left to ease the cramps out. “Raisins are disgusting,” Noctis mumbled into her neck.  

She patted their arm. “I know.” “Why does Prompto like them?”

“He must’ve burned his taste buds off at some point and never told you.” “Only explanation.” “I can hear you,” Prompto said from the table.  Luna raised her and Noctis’ joined hands and waved at him.  Prompto made a rude gesture in return, turned comical by the crumbling piece of bread and jam stuffed in his mouth.

“It’s a good thing he has a nice ass,” Noctis said mournfully.

Here was—

Here was—

Here was—

Kissing, endless kissing, falling straight from one mouth into another, each as open and warm as the last.  Luna raked her hands over shoulders, and Noctis’s breath stuttered in her ear; she pushed her hips backwards, searching, and was caught by Prompto’s ready hands.

“Good?” said Prompto by her hip, stroking a finger between her legs. Luna nodded frantically and reached down to grab ahold of sweat-damp hair. She felt Prompto grin against her skin.

His finger stroked again, and again, and then moved up to circle her clit.  Luna shook in Noctis’ arms and moved her lips against theirs, sliding her free hand down their body to grip at their cock. Noctis hissed into her mouth.

“Please,” she said. “I need—“ “We’ve got you,” Prompto said.  His finger disappeared and Luna ached at the loss, but Prompto was helping her sit up, helping roll Noctis over.  Noctis’ hands slid down to knead at her waist, spasming as she guided herself down onto them.  

“Oh,” Luna said, clenching.  Noctis moaned and rolled their hips up, and they gasped together.  Prompto cupped a hand around her breast, his thumb leaving goosebumps in its wake.  He slid a hand up her thigh and laid a kiss beneath her ear, and she had to bite her lip.

“That’s good,” Prompto said, high and breathy.  “So good.”

“Please,” Luna said again, and strained her thighs to raise herself up a few inches before dropping back down.  Noctis threw their head back and scrambled with Prompto for a grip on Luna’s hip.  They set a punishing rhythm, but Luna wanted it, needed it, and from the curses streaming from Noctis’ lips they did as well.  She could feel them deep within her, and her chest felt so tight she could barely breathe.  Noctis dipped their fingers in their mouth and drew them across her nipple and she shuddered.  

Prompto wrapped an arm around her, letting her lean back against him. He slid his palm flat down her abdomen to brush his fingers again across her clit.  She heard Noctis grunt, felt them twitch inside her as she clamped down.

“There you go,” Prompto whispered, fingers working quickly.  “Yes? Beautiful, you’re beautiful…”  He had a penchant for running his mouth, Prompto did, and sex was no exception.  Luna welcomed it.  It would’ve been hard not to when so much of it was such kind things.  She wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t manage to get proper words out.

Noctis released her hip to twist a hand in their own hair.  They were watching her with those eyes, dark and flickering in the lamplight. Like she was perfect, and everything they’d ever wanted.  Like she was making them come apart.

Luna’s hips writhed against theirs and against Prompto’s fingers, seeking out the friction even as it became too much. She felt the tension in her crest and break, her spine arching and her fingers scrabbling for purchase on Prompto and on Noctis’ legs behind her.  Noctis pushed deep and Prompto worked her through it.  After a moment she batted Prompto’s hand away and raised it to press a kiss to his wet knuckles.

“I’m good,” she said.  “Thank you.”  Noctis’s hands were tight around her, and Noctis was shaking, struggling to keep from moving. She wanted to help them but this was not the first time that night they had done this, and she was too sensitive, aftershocks making her shiver.  She lifted off them, leaning heavily on Prompto for support, and collapsed beside them.  Noctis looked like they were about to start crying from the loss of sensation.

“Be patient, I’m right here,” Prompto said, and took Noctis in hand.  Noctis swore and thrust upwards.  They were perfect like this, mouth shivering around half-formed sounds, desperate.  Luna laid her hand over Prompto’s and together they jerked Noctis to completion, their face going taut and their hips lifting clear off the bed.

When they sagged back down they were panting.  Luna smiled, proud, her ears still ringing from her own release, and patted their chest.  The two of them raised their heads to look at Prompto.

He was wiping his messy hand off on the bedsheets and grimacing at the stickiness.  When he saw them watching him he heaved himself up to his knees and bit his tongue.

Luna could see wetness glistening on the inside of his thighs, and smiled again, knowing that she was part of the reason. “You’re too far away,” she observed.

“I’m still sitting on Noct’s legs,” Prompto protested, but not with any real heat.  He fell forward onto his hands and crawled over Noctis’ body to hover above them.  “Better?”

“You tell me,” Noctis said, still sounding dazed.  Noctis reached between them to Prompto’s crotch and Prompto’s head fell forward, his arms buckling dangerously.

“Fuck,” Prompto said.  

Luna stretched up to kiss his shoulder.  “That’s the idea.” Prompto managed a breathless giggle.  “Hold on, I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep myself up.”  He fell sideways onto Noctis’ other side, whimpering when Noctis’ fingers stayed on him the whole time.  Noctis had to roll onto their side to manage it, so Luna sat up and curved over them to scratch lightly at Prompto’s hip.

I never dreamed it would work out this perfectly when I met you, she wanted to say.  I never thought I’d be so lucky, to have both of you. But it’s already difficult to imagine a life without you part of it. That was too heavy for the situation and full of too many truths, however, so Luna settled for placing a hand under Prompto’s thigh and lifting it so Noctis could push deeper. Prompto cried out.

Luna wasn’t sure if she could reach Prompto’s mouth from where she was, but she wanted it enough to try.  Carefully, she tucked her legs underneath her and shuffled sideways.  Her leg had tangled in the blanket, and she had a moment of very undignified flailing before she managed to free it enough to bend over Noctis again.  Prompto’s eyes had flown open, worried; Noctis had their lips quirked in a tiny smirk.

“Oh hush,” she told them both, and kissed Noctis so they wouldn’t say anything.  They nipped at her lower lip instead, teasing, but she kissed them back hard enough that soon they were melting. From the way Prompto’s legs jerked, he had no objection to the sight. Interesting.

Noctis’ shoulder flexed underneath her.  Prompto twisted his hips, almost throwing Luna’s hand off him. “Noct!”

Well, Luna couldn’t leave him to fend for himself.  She broke away from Noctis and—with some fumbling trial-and-error— bent to kiss Prompto.  He moaned and clutched at her hair.

“Yes, like that,” he was saying, “yes, good, yes, yes—“

“Touch yourself,” Noctis said, low and fierce, and Prompto jerked again and moved his hand downward.  His face and chest were hot, almost overheated, and Luna moved a soothing hand back and forth over him, breathing praise against his trembling lips until he stiffened, gasping, and then slumped into the mattress.

Luna stroked his thigh once more, patted Noctis on the hip, and rolled onto her back with a contented sigh.  After a handful of minutes of them all lying tangled together she forced herself to sit up.  The wetness between her thighs was cooling, becoming uncomfortable, and she needed something to drink.  She knew Prompto would fetch a washcloth and water for her if she asked, but it felt mean to make him move when he was still coming down from climax, so she wobbled to the bathroom for a towel and a cup from the sink.

“You’re the best,” Noctis said tiredly when Luna returned.  They took the proffered towel and swiped at their own stomach before lifting Prompto’s head and tilting the cup of water against his mouth.  “Enough?” they asked, after Prompto had drunk deeply, and Prompto nodded.

“You two are so nice to me,” Prompto said as Luna handed him the towel.  Luna shared an exasperated glance with Noctis—of course they were— and climbed up to sit at the foot of the bed.  She felt wide awake.

Noctis took a sip from the cup and then offered the rest of it back to Luna.  When she came up from placing the empty cup on the floor she saw that the two of them had shifted to give her a place between them.

“Join us?” Noctis asked, but Luna shook her head.

“I’ve got too much energy,” she said.  “I might as well get some work done.  But I’ll be right at the table.”

“Don’t stay up too late or we’ll start pining,” Prompto said.  He smiled at her and moved back into Noctis’ arms.

“I won’t,” Luna promised. “Get some rest. It’s almost tomorrow.”

Tomorrow had the three of them traipsing down to the beach to have a picnic in the sun, making fun of Prompto for triple-checking they all had sunscreen. Prompto pushed Noctis’ head under the waves and dived out of reach when Noctis came up, spluttering. Luna pointed to where he had gone and when Prompto surfaced he was met with a two-handed splash.

How can I resent my calling, when it has led me to this? Luna thought, wading into the fray and giving back better than she got.  I must be the luckiest woman on Eos right now.  I do not regret a single moment.

Notes:

Umbra and Pryna are magical dogs who live for a long time because fuck Earth biology this is a fantasy series

After research and consideration I’ve reinforced in my mind that noble titles are needlessly complicated, lack continuity, and make no sense. I’m having two of Luna’s proper forms of address be “Queen” and “Your/Her Majesty.”

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Blushing in the Face of Royalty

Part I of Wedded Bliss (and How to Come by It) Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Spoilers: this fic is set post-game so there’s a couple

Relationship: promptisluna (Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret)

Rating: T

Word Count: 4,502

Summary: Prompto likes Lady Lunafreya a lot, but he doesn't know why she keeps asking him things about her wedding. To Noctis. Who Prompto loves.

(For this fic Noctis is non binary and uses they/them and the title “King” and Prompto’s a trans demiboy and uses he/him)

                                                 The Consort

The Lady Lunafreya was…wow. So pretty—and of course she’d be pretty, everyone always said she was, but it was different when it was in person. All that pretty pointed directly at you, and then she’d smile.  

Woah.

And well, Prompto knew he wasn’t the best at judging character—he’d almost wanted to give Ardyn a second chance, after all—but he couldn’t imagine the Lady being anything but good.  She was nice, and not just in the way that nobles were when they fancied themselves benevolent, or in the general sense of hospital orderlies. She talked to people, really talked to them, and listened, and remembered. Gave the old man who tended the roses blueberries for his birthday, because they were his favorite.  Had hot tea waiting for the heavily pregnant woman who took notes during her speeches, tried to convince her to stay off her feet.

Printed off documents in braille for Ignis, without even being reminded, right from the start.  Laughed with Gladio about what Iris had been up to, asked questions so she must’ve been really interested. Found out Prompto was getting low on developer (and who knew how she had she found that out, he hadn’t told anyone, not even Noct) and sent him up a whole rack of bottles, right to his rooms, even though the castle had its own official darkrooms that Prompto had been planning to nick—uh, borrow—the stuff from.  Touched calm fingers to Noctis’ temple when they got that wild look around their eyes that meant they were getting overwhelmed, which Prompto had never seen anyone but himself or Ignis or Gladio notice.

Lady Lunafreya loved Noctis. She loved them, and they loved her, and it made Prompto’s heart sing to look at them together, right where they should be. He was happy for Noctis, and happy for the Lady, too, which he hadn’t anticipated feeling so personally. And he was horrible, the absolute worst, for being just the slightest bit sad as well.

Prompto figured he’d mope around for a while, let himself have some nice long cries, maybe gaze at the photos he had of Noctis and set about committing to memory how their mouth tasted, how their fingers felt.  He’d settle himself in no less than a month after they’d wed and return cheerful and hilarious as ever, but with hints of a deep underlying sadness that let him be wistfully wise when asked about it and added approximately 1000 points to his attractiveness level.

He’d go down in history as the Chosen King’s best friend—or, one of them, Prompto still wasn’t sure that he counted all by himself, despite what Noct told him—and history would never know their full truth. Maybe some scholar in a hundred years would have a theory and shed a tear at the tragedy. Poor scholar.  Prompto would be fine, and he’d be happy, and so would everyone else.

The problem was—well it felt wrong to call it a problem, because Lady Lunafreya could never be a problem, except maybe to bad guys, and even then he kind of figured she’d be polite about it— that Noctis’ beloved queen-to-be wouldn’t let Prompto sequester himself in his room and sigh longingly. She kept inviting him places. Mostly with her and Noctis, but sometimes with just her. And Prompto had fun, even if it was just a walk around the walls, because the Lady was sweet and witty and altogether very good company.

It felt like a grand adventure, because this was the Oracle, and the almost-queen, and here she was talking with him. And it felt frighteningly comfortable.  Prompto had caught himself nudging her shoulder conspiratorially as they passed a man having a fight with the enormous feather on his hat, and even he knew that that was bad form, but the Lady hadn’t minded at all. She’d nudged him back.

The two of them spending time together worried Ignis and Gladio to no end. They kept accosting Prompto at random times and filling his ears with protocol and warnings that he couldn’t possibly remember all at once. Especially since he seemed to lose his head around the Lady.  She wrinkled her nose at his terrible puns and she looped her arm through his and she smelled like flowers, even better than her letter had. Prompto found himself doing things like sticking his hands in his boots and pretending they were puppets, just to make her laugh.  Or jumping up to go get her a snack when she mentioned she was hungry (even though they had servants, which was so weird to be on the receiving end of and Prompto had thanked them all so many times they were probably making fun of him).

Even with all that, Prompto could almost have forgotten that he was doomed to return to a life of lonesomeness and heartache if Lady Lunafreya wouldn’t, with increasing frequency as the date grew nearer, keep asking him things about the wedding.

Things like his opinion, which didn’t make sense because he was? Nobody? He didn’t know anything about tablecloth embroidery or silverware or whether Altissian wine was better than the  vintages from around Caem (he hadn’t had either, he’d told the Lady, and she’d started to order him both before he’d managed with some very large hand gestures to stop her. The last thing he needed was to be drunk in front of her.).

He could say whether Noct liked the beach or the mountains better (didn’t matter, as long as they could sleep enough), but surely the Lady could’ve asked Noctis on her own?  It was kind of embarrassing to hear about your best friend and king’s honeymoon, wasn’t it? Especially when Prompto had a particularly, ah, intimate knowledge of what exactly would be happening then.  Not that the Lady knew that! He hoped. She was very smart.

In any case it hurt, to think about, and so for the past few days Prompto had been hiding from her.  He’d started out in his rooms (rooms, plural! like he was someone special!) and when he’d gotten too antsy had started sneaking out when he knew the Lady was off doing her Oracle duties or her royal ones.  To make extra sure, he had taken to going the long way around whenever possible, and as a result Prompto had found many odd and interesting parts of the palace that he wouldn’t have seen otherwise.  Not that he would’ve seen any of the palace at all  if Noct hadn’t let him tag along for that ill-fated road trip, and that thought was always present and always panic-inducing.

Today he’d found a library, which was great, because today was one of the days that he felt like he was going to cry.  Libraries were quiet, and nobody bothered you unless you bothered them, and if they were small, like this one was, then you might even be able to be alone.

Prompto crept across the floor, peering between the shelves, and saw no one. Perfect.

He skipped past the books that looked political and boring and made for the flashes of color he saw near the back.  Children’s books he saw, and selected one at random.  It was a fairytale he’d known growing up, except that he’d never been read to from a book with real gold lining the illustrations like this one.  Sometimes Prompto wondered how kingdoms had any money at all when royalty kept buying things like this.

There was a window over to his right, with a deep red cushion set into the sill and a collection of overstuffed pillows arranged artfully across it.  Prompto took the book and sat down on it, trying to disturb as few of the pillows as possible, and crossed his legs to read.

“There you are,” said a familiar voice.

Prompto yelped and scrambled backwards, upsetting the book and knocking several pillows onto the floor. “Hey there, Ladyship!” he squeaked. Wasn’t she supposed to be with Gentiana now? Um. He could probably play his fear off as just being surprised, but something in the Lady’s face told him he wouldn’t get away with it.

“I haven’t been able to find you, lately,” Lady Lunafreya said, moving closer.  Prompto took a good grip on his knees and forced himself to breathe, to stop trembling. Nope, he hadn’t been avoiding anybody, he’d just been minding his own business. Nothing to get suspicious about.

“I wanted to talk to you about the guard, for the honeymoon,” the Lady said, settling herself on the edge of the cushion.  Her hair was the slightest bit mussed, like she’d been outside and tried to pat it back down.  It looked soft, falling against her face, and Prompto had to duck his head.

“What—what about it?” Prompto asked. His voice was still higher than usual, so he coughed into his fist and then thumped it a few times on his chest. “What can I do?” “I was wondering if you thought we should have a guard inside the room, as well as the ones without.  It isn’t customary, but considering the circumstances of Noct’s ascension…well. Which would you be more comfortable with?”

“Um,” Prompto said, and twisted his fingers in the fabric of his pants to distract himself from blushing. Lady Lunafreya was always frank about this…kind of thing with him, which was not at all good for his heart. “I…don’t know? Wouldn’t…what does Noct think?” Lady Lunafreya laughed and moved closer.  “They wanted to ask you.”

Why him and not Gladio? “Uh, I mean…Noct has all those swords and wouldn’t a guard inside be…embarrassing?”

“That’s what I thought, but we wanted to make sure you were comfortable with it,” said the Lady, and tapped a finger against Prompto’s knee.  Prompto felt his face flush darker and folded his hands in his lap before he was tempted to return the gesture, or worse, catch the Lady’s rising hand.

“Prompto? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Prompto said automatically, meeting her eyes to prove it.  He hunched his shoulders at the concern on her face, suddenly guilty. “Yes? I…why do you keep asking me about these things? It’s not like I’m going to be there.”

He’d asked Noctis if he could take the time off, during the honeymoon (“Of course,” Noctis had said; they had looked confused that Prompto had even thought to ask. “Did you think I was going to make you guard me for that? Prom.”).  

“Not going to…Prompto,” Lady Lunafreya said, and her finger returned to his knee.  “What exactly did Noct tell you about our honeymoon?”

“Nothing really? I, ah, don’t really…it’s kind of your guys’ thing, isn’t it? Married? King and Queen?” He wanted to look away again, but the Lady’s eyes had him, and he couldn’t.

The spot between her brows furrowed. “Oh,” she said.  “Oh, I am going to have a talk with Noctis.” “No!” Prompto leaned forward, clapping his hands over hers. “I mean, it’s not like I was asking them!” Oh Gods, if he’d gotten Noct in trouble…!

“Don’t worry,” the Lady said, and smiled. It looked like one of her real ones.  “I won’t scold them. Much. But I do have to ask them,” and she took her other hand and brushed it lightly under Prompto’s chin, “why they didn’t make it completely clear that you’re coming with us?”

What?

“Only if you want to.  But I was given to believe that you and Noct were no strangers to this sort of thing?”

Prompto’s brain grated back to life, oh shit she knows warring against wow her fingers are cold and what exactly going on?  He continued to gape at Lady Lunafreya until she shook her head in a way that looked positively indulgent and closed his mouth for him.

“Don’t let the flies in,” she said, still smiling, and left her hand where it was now curled around his jaw. Prompto found himself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.  Her hand was soft, same as it had been when he’d kissed it upon meeting her, same as the silk sheets that they’d put on his bed here like he was important and hadn’t been sleeping on bedrolls and stony ground for the past decade.

Prompto hadn’t even known the sheets were silk. Gladio had had to tell him, laughing at him when he’d shown up after the first night talking about how the sheets were so smooth.

What exactly was Lady Lunafreya telling him?

“Prompto,” she was saying; her thumb was stroking back and forth against his cheek, trying to soothe him. “Dear Prompto.  I’ve always known. I think I may have known even before you two did.  I’d always assumed you’d be coming along. What, did you think you were bedding Noct under my nose, and you’d continue on that way?”

“Didn’t think I’d be bedding them all, anymore,” Prompto managed. Dear Prompto had joined the flurry of thoughts swirling around his head, and he focused on it, because it made him feel warm and not like he was about to start screaming.

“Oh, you’re sweet!” Lady Lunafreya said.  “But no, no I don’t think either of you would be happy that way. I know I certainly wouldn’t. Noct loves you, and I can see very well that you love them.”

Prompto blinked and realized he was crying.  He moved to wipe at his face and found that his hands were still on top of the Lady’s on his knee when she turned her wrist to hold him fast.  With impossible gentleness she lifted her knuckles and swept them under his eyes, again and again, catching the tears and brushing them away.  Prompto let himself shudder, once, twice, three times, and when he could trust himself not to sob let out the rest of his breath in a gasp.

“All I want is for the two of you to be happy,” Lady Lunafreya said.  Her voice was almost a whisper.  “And I know that that means together.  I love Noct, and I’ve come to care about you quite a lot.”

“Ladyship,” Prompto croaked, because that was too much and he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t have her caring this much about him.  His nose was getting plugged and he knew he was a mess, but she just kept wiping away his tears, cupping his face like something precious.

“Lunafreya,” the Lady said firmly. “Or Luna. You don’t call Noct ‘Majesty’ but rarely, and I prefer the same with my friends. I hope we are friends?”

“Yes, yes of course, absolutely,” Prompto said, and closed his eyes around a fresh burst of tears.  His chest felt like it was vibrating, sparking sharp joy all through to his belly and throat.   He got to keep Noct. He got to keep them. And Lady—and Luna knew, and she approved. And she was his friend.  And he got to keep Noct.

“Come here,” Luna said, and Prompto felt himself being gathered up.  Luna guided his head to her shoulder and let him cry into her dress.  His arm was squashed at an awkward angle between them, going numb, but Prompto didn’t mind if Luna didn’t.

“Sorry,” he said when he’d calmed down enough to speak. Luna took a breath, and Prompto hurried to continue before she could say he didn’t have anything to be sorry for. “Thank you.  It was difficult, you know?” “I do,” said Luna.  Her grip tightened on Prompto.  She’d had her own share of thinking she’d never be with, or even see, Noctis again, Prompto remembered.  Slowly, because it felt like he shouldn’t be allowed, he reached up to rest a comforting hand on Luna’s arm.

“Can I kiss you?” he said, because boundaries were important.

Luna pulled away from him slightly, her eyes going wide. Prompto frowned, confused, and then turned red and buried his face back in her shoulder. “On the cheek!” he said, muffled by the fabric. “I meant—because—to help you feel better, and you’re really nice, and—”

“It’s all right,” Luna said.  She sounded amused, and Prompto tilted his head enough to glare at her.  Oh, except he probably shouldn’t have done that to the Oracle. But maybe he was allowed, now? This was very complicated.

“I wouldn’t have minded the other kind,” Luna said.  Prompto jerked back and saw that Luna was blushing as well.  She tried to lift a fist to cover her mouth but Prompto was too close and she smacked him in the chin. Hard.

“Ow!”

“Oh my goodness I’m so sorry! I didn’t—do you need ice? You should have ice, I’ll have some sent up—“

“No, no it’s all right, I’m all right!” Prompto grinned, and then winced, because damn Luna had a good punch for someone whose job was mostly non-physical.  It sent Luna fluttering all over again and it took Prompto several fumbling moments (“You’re good! I’ve had much worse!” “I know!” “I mean, my job it—things happen!” “They do!”) to convince her that he was, in fact, fine.

“Aren’t we a sight,” Luna said.  Prompto tried not to snort (he did, Ignis) and touched his definitely blotchy face and his probably red jaw, using his other hand to pat his vest for a tissue to blow his snotty nose.  Luna looked pink and sheepish and wonderful, and he told her so.

“Oh!” Luna said, and squeezed her eyes shut.  When she opened them again they were bright.  “I can see why Noctis likes you, you flatterer.”

“Isn’t flattery if it’s true,” Prompto said, and poked her in the cheek, like he would to Noctis.  Then his brain caught up with him and he yanked his hand away. “Uh, was that all right?” Luna rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’m not that easily breakable.” She took a deep breath.  “Actually, what I said earlier…may I?” Oh! “Yes, I…yes, very much, thank you! Please, I mean. Yes please? I mean if Noctis is okay with it. I’m very okay with it.”

Luna wet her lips, and Prompto tried to be a gentleman and not stare.  “Noct’s actually been asking me for weeks if I want to do anything about the crush you have on me, and assuring me that I can,” she said. “So I have it on rather good authority that they will be pleased.”

Prompto did not shriek, but he did have to clench his teeth to stifle a small scream. “They…how could…I can’t believe they told you. They’re never getting my dick again.” Luna doubled over in helpless giggles, and Prompto gasped, horrified. “Oh, fuck, I didn’t mean to say that in front of you, I’m so sorry—“

“I’d rather hope we’re past that point,” Luna said, breathless.  “Considering the fact I came in here to ask about the honeymoon you’re going to be a part of.” She hiccuped once, loudly.  Prompto was delighted.

“There you are,” Luna said, reaching up to thumb at the corner of Prompto’s mouth.  “Feeling better?” “Definitely, so much,” Prompto said, and then Luna was leaning up Luna was leaning up and—oh—soft—

“There you go!” Luna said, drawing back. “Verdict?” Prompto scratched the side of his neck, biting at his lip to keep the bubbly feeling rising inside him from boiling over.  “Run that by me again?” “You’re terrible,” Luna said, and wrapped her arm around his neck to comply.

When Noctis came out of the meeting with the Minister of—actually, Prompto wasn’t sure, Agriculture maybe? He knew the woman’s guards, schedule, weapons prowess, and the name of her cat (Snowboots) but not what her actual job was— they were frowning.  Luna reached out automatically for their temple and Noctis sighed in relief.  “Thank you,” they said, with feeling.  “She always has so many questions.”

“Aren’t questions good? It means she’s doing her job,” Prompto said.  Noctis flipped him off and nuzzled further into Luna’s hand.  And stilled, their brows drawing together again.

“Yes, dear?” Luna asked sweetly.

Noctis pointed at Prompto’s arm, which was around her waist.

“Was wondering when you’d notice that,” Prompto said.

Noctis’ face lit up.  “You finally?” “Luna, actually. Because you told her I liked her. You’re never getting this dick again,” Prompto said, and tilted his head into Luna’s to laugh at the look of extreme distress that crossed Noctis’ face.

“You really didn’t know we were taking you?” Noctis said, later, when they and Prompto were curled up on their couch in front of their fireplace; no fire, now that the palace had the sun during the day to warm its stones.  Luna was not permitted in Noctis’ chambers this late at night, which was incredibly old-fashioned and also pointless, given the fact that Prompto had once run into a flustered Ignis walking as fast as he could away from the King’s bath in the middle of the day and answering all questions about where Noctis or Luna were with a clipped, expressive “Hmmm!”

Prompto shrugged, careful not to let the motion jostle Noctis’s head from its place on Prompto’s thigh.  “I figured I’d just stop, you know? I’m a little in the way.”

“No you’re not,” Noctis said.  They sounded angry. Prompto lifted his hand from where it was stroking Noctis’s hair and looked down at them, curious.  Noctis whined, and Prompto resumed stroking, muttering under his breath about kings who never gave anybody a break until Noctis punched him in the shin.

“You’re not,” Noctis repeated after a time.  They were half to sleep now, and Prompto would have to make them get up and stumble to bed before they became impossible to move.  “I don’t see why you’d ever think you were.  You’re the only thing that makes me happy, some days.  I wouldn’t be here without you.” “Without Ignis and Gladio and Luna, more like,” Prompto said.  He swallowed to try to ease the lump in his throat.  “And yourself.  You’re amazing, Noct.”

“Mmm,” Noctis said.  “You too, though. And you’re…” They flexed their hand in front of their face, flicking the fingers outward and trailing them away to hook under the cuff of Prompto’s pants. “Sparkly.”

“Sparkly?”

“Like you always try to make people feel better, or make a joke.  And you’re always bouncing around. And your freckles. And sometimes when you look at me I feel…” Noctis dropped their hand to the floor, pressing it flat against the rug.  “I want to be everything people need me to be. Everything you think I am.  You make me feel I can, sometimes.”

Prompto bent to press a kiss into Noctis’ hair, because he had to, after that.  Noctis turned their head to catch his mouth, and that continued for a good while.

“Up you get, Noct,” Prompto said, when Noctis started yawning between kisses.  “You’ve got a long day tomorrow of being boring.”

“Can’t I just stay here?”

“Your neck won’t thank you. You’re o-l-d now, Noct, you keep forgetting.”  Prompto grabbed hold of Noctis’ shoulder and shoved until Noctis rolled off his lap and onto the floor, groaning the whole way down.  

“Come on now.” Prompto leaned down and threw one of Noctis’ arms around his shoulders—Noctis wasn’t helping at all—and braced his knees to lift them.  Noctis hung like a sack of potatoes until Prompto had nearly stood up, and then swept a leg under Prompto’s and tackled him back onto the couch.

“Wait! Noct! Breathing!” Prompto kicked and wiggled until he’d found a position where Noctis wasn’t elbowing him in the lungs or throat and then relaxed into the cushions, sweeping a hand down Noctis’ back.  Noctis made a small noise of contentment and snuggled further into Prompto, going boneless and letting him take their entire weight.

Prompto thumped his head against the arm rest.  “This isn’t getting ready for bed.” Noctis grunted.

“I know, but you really will feel better in the morning.” Grunt.

“You’re even still in your clothes, you know you want to put on a t-shirt.”

Grunt.

“And if you don’t take your medication Ignis is going to murder me—“ “Ugh, fine,” Noctis said, and levered themselves up.  “But I’m holding you accountable for making me leave warmth and comfort.”

“Your bed’s a lot more warm and comfortable!” Prompto called after Noctis’ retreating back.  Noctis waved a dismissive hand and slumped into the bathroom.  After a moment Prompto heard the sound of running water.

He looked up at the ceiling, tracing the intricate, gilded swirls.  Since they’d arrived at the palace  he’d been trying, with varying success, to make a habit of leaving for his own rooms for the night. He had been wanting to make the final separation easier when it came.  But now that he knew there wasn’t going to be a separation, that he was going to stay with Noctis, and Luna, and be a part of what the had—

“Hey, Noct? Can I stay the night?” “Sure.” Noctis sounded like they had toothpaste in their mouth.  “You’ve never asked before, you know you don’t have to, what’s up?”

“Nothing, just checking!”  Prompto drew his knees up to his chest and turned onto his side, smiling against the upholstery.  “You know, this couch is pretty comfortable…” “Fuck off, if I have to get up to go to bed, you do too,” Noctis said.  “You know where my shirts are, go get one to sleep in and I’ll be out in a sec.”

“Don’t drown,” Prompto said.  He waited for Noctis to mutter something that sounded like an insult and then stood.  By the time Noctis had finished washing up Prompto was dressed in one of their t-shirts and a pair of their sweatpants.  He threw another t-shirt at Noctis’ head as they exited the bathroom.

“Thanks.” Noctis unbuttoned their shirt and shrugged out of it right there in the middle of the floor, stepping out of their pants beside it.  Prompto shook his head and wadded up the clothes to throw them in the hamper just inside the bathroom door, closing the door with his foot behind him.

Noctis was dozing when Prompto lifted the covers to slide in beside them, but they roused enough to flop an arm over him and pull him close.  “Love you,” they murmured, laying a sloppy kiss on Prompto’s neck. “G’night.”

“Love you too,” Prompto replied. He stuck his cold nose in Noctis’ hair to warm it and tangled their ankles together, his socks sliding against the bedsheets.

Silk sheets. Noctis’ arms. Prompto got to have this, and not just for the time being.  Noctis’ kisses, that still made his heart beat fast, even after all this time. Luna’s now, too, new and shining with possibility.

The King and Queen and me, Prompto thought as he drifted off. Who would’ve thought, all those years ago?

Notes:

The working title for this was “Kingsglaive Sucked Fuck You”

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Fandom: Yuri!!! On Ice

Spoilers: up to Episode 8

Pairing: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov

Rating: G

Words: 1,607

Summary: Viktor Nikiforov wore clip-on ties. Yuuri had somehow failed to notice this. (Thanks @samumenco for the idea <3)

Viktor Nikiforov, five-time Grand Prix gold medal winner, hero of Russia and veritable prince of the international men’s competitive figure skating circuit, could not tie a tie.

Yuuri had learned this, as he learned most things about Viktor, completely by surprise.  The two of them had been trying to leave the hotel for dinner when the ubiquitous mob of press had surrounded them, and Yuuri had been tired, and hungry. He hadn’t eaten much that morning, over-correcting for the nervous pull to eat too much. Viktor, smiling to pretend he wasn’t worried, had forked his own eggs over onto Yuuri’s almost-empty plate before Yuuri had noticed and rapped Viktor’s knuckles with his spoon.

He’d wrapped his hand around Viktor’s tie and given it a pull. Because he’d liked it, that first time, had liked how it made him feel steadier, in control, had liked how it had made Viktor pay attention to him. Because, after the shy, stuttering question in the spaces between the cameras and the noise, Viktor had told him how very much he’d liked it too.

So Yuuri was not prepared, then, to find himself in sudden possession of Viktor’s tie, with Viktor unattached to it, and twenty flash-bulbs going off at the stunned expressions on both of their faces.  Yuuri stared, uncomprehending, at the tie in his hand (why did it look so oddly-shaped, was that a clip on the back) and then at Viktor’s empty collar, and then back at the tie and then up to Viktor’s bright-with-laughter eyes.

I can’t deal with this right now, Yuuri realized, and reached for Viktor’s hand instead, and tugged at it until Viktor detached himself from the knot of reporters and took Yuuri along with him in the direction of food.

“But how,” Yuuri said, after scraped-clean plates and a healthy glass of the wine Viktor had ordered. “You’ve been wearing suits since—since before you could buy your own passport, how on earth—”

“There was always someone to tie it for me,” said Viktor, shrugging. He’d had more of the wine than Yuuri had, unsurprisingly, but not enough that he was trying to wiggle out of his clothes, just comfortably loose-limbed and chasing Yuuri’s feet with his own under the table (which, to be fair, he did while sober).  “Yakov, and then—well nobody ever minded, when I asked them.  Your mother told me I was sweet,” he said, and smiled at Yuuri’s sputter. “When did— my mother—”

“She told me about your first tie, how proud you were in your school uniform…” “Oh my god,” Yuuri said, and covered his face with his hands. “I’m going to die.”

“No don’t, I’ll waste away without you,” Viktor said, pouting. Yuuri kicked him in the shin. Not even hard, but Viktor yelped and put a hand to his chest as if he’d been deeply wounded. “Ah, Yuuri!”

Yuuri held up his palms, apologetic, and then shook his head at himself once he realized what he was doing. He clasped his hands together on top of his crumpled napkin. “But a clip-on? Viktor, really? Was there nobody around this time? I could’ve—you could’ve asked me!”

How had he managed to miss this, all the months he’d been training with Viktor, living with him, sharing—well, almost every waking hour, and now some of the sleeping ones, too? How had he been so utterly unobservant as to not notice that Viktor Nikiforov, who he’d been watching almost since he’d put on his first pair of skates, never tied his own ties?

“I thought about it,” Viktor acknowledged. “But you seemed so grumpy, and I had the clip-on anyway! It’s so much easier!”

Yuuri hid his expression behind another sip of wine before he did something ill-advised like reach out in the middle of a crowded restaurant and tangle his fingers in Viktor’s hair, which had parted artfully around Viktor’s upturned cheekbone because of course it had, and Viktor knew it.  Clip-on tie, you’re in shock, he reminded himself. Viktor had grown up surrounded by stylists.  Yuuri wanted to track every one of them down and give them each a bouquet and an apology note.

One of Viktor’s gestures caught the lip of the wine bottle and sent it teetering. Viktor and Yuuri reached for it at the same time, hands overlapping on the glass, and Yuuri smiled and tried not to blush when Viktor took the chance to lace their fingers together.  You’re silly but you’re mine, Yuuri thought, and then he did blush, and Viktor teased him, even as he brought Yuuri’s hand up to his mouth to kiss.

“Okay,” Yuuri said.  The morning light that streamed in through the window was bright, blinding; he squinted at himself in the mirror and adjusted his position so that his back was blocking the brunt of it. The tie around his neck was red, because Viktor had tried to set fire to his blue one (“Viktor!” “It’s terrible, Yuuri, I’m doing you a favor!”) and Viktor was decked out on one of the real ties he’d packed in his suitcase, slim and black.  “Ready?” “I’ll keep my eyes on you,” Viktor said, and laughed when Yuuri fumbled buttoning the top of his shirt. “But Yuuri, is this truly necessary?  I’ve managed until now just fine.”

Yuuri ignored him, because he and Viktor had had that argument last night, and because #ViktorNikiforovTieFail had been trending for the past several hours (Phichit had been delighted). “You’ve got to start with one end longer than the other, like this.”  He adjusted his tie and waited for Viktor to do the same; Viktor caught his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “Now you cross the long end over the short end.”

Viktor’s nimble genius on the ice did not translate over to neckties, Yuuri quickly learned.  Eight misshapen attempts later, with Viktor looking as amicably baffled as he had at the start, Yuuri called a halt so he could tilt his glasses up and pinch the bridge of his nose. “Let’s try something else,” he said. “You do it and I’ll guide you?”  He grasped Viktor’s wrists and drew them toward him so Viktor would understand. Viktor brightened under his touch. “You’re still trying too much for an old man,” Viktor said, token resistance that didn’t mean a thing, but Yuuri heard the bite under his words like he always did. How could he not? He was twenty-four, he’d felt it himself.  Yuuri concentrated on making Viktor cross his hands, right over left, and didn’t ask the question, because he never did, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the answer.

Viktor misjudged the slide of fabric under his fingers, dropped it down onto his chest; Yuuri watched helplessly as the almost-decent knot the two of them had managed to make drooped and unfurled back to nothing.  He stared at the trailing ends of the tie, wondering if maybe he ought to demonstrate again; was brought back to attention by the gentle press of Viktor’s thumb at the corner of his jaw. “You’re scowling so hard you’ll scare the poor thing,” Viktor said.  His tone was light but his voice was too soft to mean just joking, and Yuuri found he had to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

He let himself slump forward to rest his cheek on Viktor’s shoulder, and Viktor did the rest for him, wound his arms around Yuuri’s torso and stroked a soothing arc across the nape of Yuuri’s neck.  

“My Yuuri,” Viktor said, even softer than before.  Yuuri closed his eyes.

“It’s just a tie,” he mumbled, when he was certain he could speak without wavering.  “C’mon. Let’s try it again.”  He forced himself to push away enough to get his hands between them again.

“If I never get it at least I’ll have you to help me every time I need to get dressed up,” Viktor said, petting the back of Yuuri’s head.  His eyes were warm and melting and just a little bit worried, and Yuuri leaned in to kiss him because he suddenly couldn’t do anything else.  Viktor made a small noise of contentment and kissed him back, his other hand sweeping up to join the first one in Yuuri’s hair.

When they drew apart, finally, Viktor’s lips were wet and swollen, his breathing ragged. Yuuri knew he looked the same. He drew his tongue over his bottom lip, self-consciousness creeping back in, and flushed at the way Viktor’s eyes followed the motion.

“We really ought to get going,” Yuuri said, and he could hear how breathless he was.  He tried to step back but was stopped by a sharp tug from the front; he looked down and saw that Victor had closed his hand around his tie. “I’m beginning to see the appeal,” Viktor said, sparkling. Yuuri groaned but Viktor had already let him go, and then before he could respond Viktor turned him around and gave him a shove in the direction of his suitcase. “You’re right, we’re losing daytime, go go go!”

Small piece at the bottom of the Sports Section—Tuesday FIT TO BE TIED

Viktor Nikiforov has added a new and valuable skill to his repertoire: tying a tie.  The decorated skater surprised reporters and bystanders last night by announcing that he no longer had to resort to clip-on neckwear and then undoing and re-doing his own tie in front of them for proof.   Yuuri Katsuki, Nikiforov’s protégé, was present at the scene and stated that he was proud of his coach, a statement that Nikiforov found warranted another demonstration, despite Katsuki’s protestations.

Notes:

And then when they get married Viktor asks Yuuri’s mother to do his tie again “for tradition” and Yuuri shoots them exasperated-yet-fond glances over the top of his glasses

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Non-Commercial Break

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs Spoilers: For the manga, as Poe is a manga-only character right now Relationship: Edogawa Ranpo/Edgar Allen Poe (RanPoe)

Rating: E Words: 2,859 Summary: Inset for @meridiangrimm‘s “Unscheduled Interruptions.” Poe and Ranpo finally get some time alone.

Waiting for Ranpo is something that Poe is used to.

It’s not something that he minds.  Ranpo, proud, ingenious, whirlwind Ranpo, would be suffocated if he had to adhere to the constraints of something silly like time. Poe recognizes that he’s romanticizing a character flaw. He doesn’t much care. 

 It would be different, of course, if Poe weren’t utterly sure that Ranpo would come back.  It’s something that he’s only ever doubted once, after that fateful reunion where Poe had embarrassed himself with the “unsolvable” mystery. Then Ranpo had returned, eager and with his glasses already in his hand, and Poe had thought oh and he really did mean he’s interested and somehow this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

Leaning half-crouched against the door is a lot less agreeable without the distraction of a willing partner, so Poe straightens up and makes his way across the room to the chair set before the small wooden desk. It’s the kind of high-backed padded chair that’s supposed to spin and go up and down, but, Poe finds when he leans down to try to adjust it, it no longer does either.  Not entirely unexpected for a hotel found to meet two meager salaries. Poe slides off his boots and sits down in the chair anyway, tucking his legs up beneath him so that his knees don’t hit him in the chin. Arousal still buzzes in his veins.  It’s frustrating and comfortable all at once.

Poe’s not sure how long he waits there; he’s facing away from the clock on the bedside table.  At some point he slides over the monogrammed notepad from the corner of the desk and starts making loops and angles with a pen from his pocket, digging deep to trace over words he scribbles because he likes the shape of them: abeyance, evinced, stertorous.

There’s a crash from the direction of the door and then the muffled tones of a familiar voice. Poe looks up and realizes that Ranpo probably doesn’t know how to use his key card.  He shuffles over and swings open the door to find Ranpo with his foot raised and his arms thrown back for balance, obviously intent on attempting to kick down the door.  Which would do nothing but dent the door, injure Ranpo, and get them charged extra for damages, but well. Ranpo is Ranpo.

“It was his wife,” Ranpo says, lowering his foot and careening forward into Poe’s arms. “How dull.”  He tilts his head up and Poe has the presence of mind to drag him around and elbow the door shut before they’re kissing again.  Ranpo hums appreciatively and sneaks his hands up the back of Poe’s shirt before pulling back to grin at him.

“I hope you missed me while I was gone,” Ranpo sings, tapping his fingers down the knobs of Poe’s spine.  Poe feels himself smiling— he can’t help it, around Ranpo— and nudges Ranpo backwards, further into the room.  Ranpo goes easily and turns to fling himself across the bed, rolling back and forth across the coverlet without even taking his shoes off. “Poe,” Ranpo whines when Poe doesn’t immediately follow. “Pooooe. PoePoePoePoePoePoePoe—”

Poe has to take a moment to hide his burning cheeks in his hands because Ranpo is adorable and also in their (their!) bed, and also incredibly attractive right now wow, his hair mussed and his mouth red and his shirt rucked up to expose several inches of bare stomach.

“Pppppppoooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—“

Poe jerks up and stumbles forward, catching his toes on the carpet and falling with a fwump half on top of Ranpo. All the air goes out of his chest and his left arm’s squashed uncomfortably against Ranpo’s midsection. His feet barely clear the ground and Poe flails for a moment, feeling himself slipping.  Then Ranpo scoots backwards and hauls Poe up with the help of a generous handful of Poe’s vest, collapsing backwards once Poe’s out of danger with a long-suffering groan.

Poe’s nose is squashed into Ranpo’s collarbone. Quite pleased with this development, Poe kisses the skin there and then all the way back up to Ranpo’s mouth, leaning heavily on his now-almost-numb left arm to reach. Halfway through he finds that he’s giggling helplessly.

He’s happy.

“Nooooo,” Ranpo complains when Poe pulls back to readjust how he’s lying. Poe finds himself kept in place by two surprisingly strong hands tangled in his hair.  Ranpo’s mouth is sweet and wanting. Familiar, which is a thought that often makes Poe do silly things like pause in the middle of his kitchen floor to press a hand to the fluttering in his stomach. Now it makes Poe want more,  and he smooths his free hand down Ranpo’s side to grip his hipbone and lets the kiss turn filthy.

It takes a bit of wiggling, but they manage to get their legs to slot together just so, and the first big roll of Ranpo’s hips has Poe gasping down into his mouth.  It doesn’t take long for Poe to get lost in the motion, rocking together with Ranpo deeper and deeper into the mattress. It’s good, so good, but Poe’s arm is cramping horribly by now. After one more kiss he forces himself to break away to sit back on his heels, roll his shoulder and shake out his arm.

“Sorry,” he says. He can hear that his voice has gone breathy.  Ranpo pouts and slides a hand up to help knead the ache out of Poe’s bicep.

“Don’t be sorry, come back,” Ranpo says, all clever dancing eyes. But instead Poe reaches out to pluck Ranpo’s hat and glasses from where they’ve miraculously managed to hang on to Ranpo’s head and shuffles to put them safely on the bedside table.  The last thing he needs is to get Ranpo’s all-important glasses broken.

“We should take the covers off anyway, if we don’t want them to get messy,” Poe says. Then his ears catch up to his mouth and it’s like something has locked his limbs in place, kneeling on the bed with one hand under the sheets and all the anxiety he’s ever felt rushing through the space in his chest.  

I’m about to have sex with Ranpo, Poe thinks, as his vision narrows down to the indent his fingers are making in the mattress. He swallows. He hasn’t had a lot of sex, and what if he’s horrible at it, what if he messes it all up, what if Ranpo never wants to sleep with him again—

“—ey. Hey.” Fingers curl under Poe’s chin and force his head up. Ranpo’s eyes swim into focus, concern writ clear in the furrow of his brow.  “What’s the problem, E.A.? Did I lose you?”

Ranpo uses Poe’s last name, mostly. Once Poe had asked why and Ranpo had said he liked the way it sounded like his own, which was, all things considered, not surprising.  The only time Ranpo calls Poe something else is when it means something; E.A. is what he uses when he’s happy but he wants Poe to listen to him.  Poe blinks and tries to duck his head, reflexive, but Ranpo’s fingers hold him fast.

Ranpo stares at him for what feels like an age, and Poe realizes that he’s not going to say anything unless Poe does first. “Ah,” he says, and then has to work his tongue around in his mouth for a moment because it feels too clumsy to go on. “I am….I’m very….” he can feel himself blushing, but Ranpo won’t judge him for that, Ranpo’s waiting patiently the way Ranpo almost never does, and Poe takes a breath and tries again. “I’m very lucky that you….I mean, I may not be the best at this.”

Something that looks like anger or maybe frustration crosses Ranpo’s face. He cups Poe’s jaw in both hands and presses a kiss, hard and fast, to Poe’s mouth. “You,” he says, and continues, punctuating each phrase with another kiss, “are brilliant, and handsome, and way too tall, and we can definitely stop if you want but if the only thing making you worry is that you think you’re going to disappoint me then that won’t happen and can we please get naked now please.” He lingers on the last kiss, tugging Poe up gently so that their chests are almost touching.  When they break away Poe knows that the flush has spread over his entire body, but he’s smiling, and Ranpo is too.

“You’re the one still wearing your shoes,” Poe says. Ranpo sticks his tongue out and Poe presses his lips together to keep from dissolving into giggles again. “Yes. Okay. Yes,” Poe says, and tugs at the laces of Ranpo’s cloak, which he’s also still wearing. Honestly, this man.

“Yaaay!” Ranpo cheers, dropping Poe’s face to throw his fists up in the air.  Poe snorts and wonders why he was ever worried in the first place.

“No sense wasting time then,” Ranpo says, and then because Ranpo does things one hundred percent or not at all, pushes away to strip off his vest, tie, shirt, pants (which he tries before the shoes, to disastrous results), shoes and even underwear, so when he bounces back down in front of Poe he’s got nothing on but his socks.  Poe would be sent into another round of paralytic blushing but for the fact that Ranpo’s so unselfconscious about it.  As it is Poe just reaches out and snaps the elastic of Ranpo’s sock against his calf, pursing his lips pointedly. “My feet get cold, you know that. Shut up,” Ranpo says, but ruins it by stroking gently through Poe’s hair. He’s just reached for the first of Poe’s buttons when the shouting starts up from the end of the hall.

“No,” Ranpo breathes. The look of horror on his face would be comical except that Poe can feel it mirrored on his own.

If this is another murder, Poe thinks, I am going to scream.

They wait in tense silence, Ranpo’s fingers just brushing Poe’s collar, as the shouting comes closer and closer; crescendos outside their door; passes them by and continues to where it gets swallowed up by the elevator.

Poe sags in relief. “Oh thank god,” Ranpo says, and suddenly his hands are at Poe’s shoulders, twisting him around and pushing him into the mattress.  Ranpo kisses him with more force than either of them have shown all evening.

The arousal that had banked when Poe had started panicking flares to life again. He tries to unbutton his shirt but Ranpo bats him away. “I want to do it,” Ranpo says,  and Poe can’t do anything but nod and sink back as Ranpo makes quick work of his buttons. When he reaches Poe’s belt his smile turns sharp and he presses down against him through his pants, laughing delightedly when Poe can’t keep from bucking up into the friction.

“Good,” Ranpo says, and hums a little tune as he finishes divesting Poe of his clothing. He wiggles his fingers against Poe’s bare feet and Poe squirms, wheezing, and leans up to retaliate by poking at the spot between Poe’s ribs that he knows is especially ticklish. They’re both laughing and snatching at each other’s hands and when Ranpo makes a lunge for Poe’s armpits the only logical thing to do is to grab Ranpo by the waist and pull him down against him so Ranpo can’t move and oh, oh that feels good.

“Wait,” Ranpo says, and dives towards the edge of the bed. Poe props himself up on his elbows, confused, but Ranpo pops back into view, tugging at one of the inside pockets of his cloak until he manages to extract two little packets of—

“Have you been carrying that around the whole time?” “You never know when the opportunity’s going to come up to use them,” Ranpo says, waggling his eyebrows.

Poe flops back against the pillows and covers his face again.  “Oh my God.”

“Yours is probably stored in a tomb and smells like ghost farts,” Ranpo says, throwing the packets onto Poe’s chest and sliding back over him. “Or the desperation of a sad and lonely man. Oh wait! You can’t say you’re lonely anymore!” Poe peeks through his fingers to see Ranpo striking a pose, one fist propped on his hip and his head thrown back in triumph.  Poe wrinkles his nose and stuffs the packets of lube into Ranpo’s hand, yanking him down for another kiss.

“Aw, Poe, don’t you appreciate me?” “Of course I do,” Poe says, and Ranpo wiggles his hips in delight (ohhh) and fumbles open one of the packets between them.  The shock of cold makes Poe hiss and then gasp as it turns hotter, slicker, and now Poe can pay attention to the slide of Ranpo’s cock against his own and it’s wonderful.

Ranpo ruts against him quickly, greedily, his arms on either side of Poe’s chest for leverage.  He closes his eyes, his face tight with pleasure, and he’s beautiful.  Poe realizes that his hands have become claws, digging into Ranpo’s back, and quickly flattens them, but Ranpo shakes his head and swoops down to mouth against Poe’s sternum. “No, keep doing that,” Ranpo says. Poe’s about to ask him if he’s sure and then Ranpo twists his hips and by the time Poe’s stopped seeing stars his nails are back to biting Ranpo’s flesh.  Poe shudders and cups the back of Ranpo’s head to bring him down flush against him, because he can’t not, after that. He licks against Ranpo’s neck, whimpers a little at the taste of skin and sweat and the way he can feel Ranpo’s pulse against his tongue.  Bites down to muffle the noise he makes when Ranpo changes to moving his hips in small, tight circles.

I should be saying something, Poe thinks, I haven’t been speaking at all, but he can’t work out how to string words together around the hazy edges of pleasure and the way Ranpo’s panting in his ear.  “Okay,” he manages, and no that’s stupid  “perfect,” that’s better “please, yes, please.” The lube’s getting tacky between them but Poe can’t find the other packet so he spits in his palm and reaches down to wrap his hand around both of them; his back arches so hard he almost throws Ranpo off but Ranpo fastens his arms around Poe’s neck and drives back down.

Poe knows when Ranpo’s about to come because Ranpo goes taut, all the way down to his toes, and gasps Poe’s name into the pillow over Poe’s shoulder. Poe tightens his fingers around Ranpo’s cock and Ranpo’s teeth snap together around a groan as he spills hot over Poe’s hand and stomach.  He goes boneless after, resting his entire weight on Poe without even trying to support himself. He’s heavy, but that doesn’t dampen the swell of accomplishment that rises in Poe’s chest.  Poe pets Ranpo’s back and presses kisses against his ear and tries not to feel impatient about the fact that he’s gone from having lots of stimulation to having none, and he’s still so hard he aches.

At last Ranpo rallies enough to heave himself up on one arm and press his mouth to the corner of Poe’s jaw. “Stay right there,” he whispers, and then eases himself down Poe’s body to— “Ranpo,” Poe says, and swipes his sweaty bangs out of his face because the sight of Ranpo swallowing around his cock is obscene. Ranpo winks up at him and hollows out his cheeks, and Poe barely gets his fist up to cover his moan as he comes down Ranpo’s throat.

Ranpo wipes his mouth neatly with the back of his hand and snuggles up against Poe’s side, pulling Poe’s arm around him.  He looks pleased with himself.  Poe swipes his thumb absentmindedly back and forth on Ranpo’s shoulder and closes his eyes.  He thinks he might need an hour, or maybe an entire week, to recuperate. Lying here with Ranpo tucked against him, warm and sated, seems like a good way to spend all that time.

Ranpo shifts.  “Do you think there’s any dinner left downstairs?”

“The restaurant closes at ten,” Poe says, not opening his eyes.  “What time is it?”

There’s a pause while Ranpo sits up, presumably to check the clock.  When no answer is forthcoming, Poe reluctantly rolls over onto his side.  “What?” Ranpo presents the bedside clock to him with both hands.  “It’s the kind with the numbers all around the edge,” he says cheerfully. “I can’t read it.”

Poe gapes at him. “How do you—at the Agency—“

“I can tell the time from the way Kunikida’s jaw twitches.”

It’s 9:30. If Ranpo went downstairs now, he’d annoy the wait staff, who would have no choice but to serve him and then spend time past their shifts cleaning up after him.  “It’s ten-oh-four,” Poe lies.  He opens his arms.  “Bring the covers back with you?”

Notes: Ranpo totally knows that Poe’s lying. They argue about it long enough that the restaurant actually does close and they have to leave the hotel to find a corner mart RIP

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Resource Allocation

Relationship: kuramiyusawa

Rating: T

Words: 1980

Summary: Kuramochi decides that two boyfriends are better than one. And if Miyuki weren’t such an emotionally constipated ass, maybe he’d be able to tell him.  Sequel to “Pursuit” by @meridiangrimm

By consequence of them both dating Sawamura, Youichi ends up spending a lot more time with MIyuki. Or rather, that’s not it—there’s not much time outside of baseball and class, and what time he had was already usually spent with one or the other of them, but it’s that he spends a lot more time a lot closer to Miyuki.  Definitely hanging out with Miyuki, and not just happening to be in the same place. Sitting within arm’s reach of him.

The effect is that Youichi almost feels he’s dating Miyuki as well as Sawamura, and, not quite to his surprise, he finds he doesn’t mind it. The opposite, in fact. It’s not like they haven’t discussed it before—him and Miyuki, with him and Miyuki and Sawamura—and he gets the feeling Miyuki might be amenable. It’s that he can’t figure out how to bring it up.  There’s no perfect, music-swelling moment to break out the “Do you know that dating thing we’re both doing to the same person? We should do that, too.”

And there’s always that trickle of doubt that Miyuki will say no that comes over him whenever he thinks too seriously about saying anything.

Sawamura notices.  He doesn’t know the reason, but he notices that Youichi’s freaking out, because Sawamura is good at noticing things like that. Sometimes Youichi lies in the circle of Sawamura’s arms and thinks about how lucky he is that this boy likes him back, how perfect it is that they’re allowed to take care of each other. He never says that out loud, because it’s sappy and gross, but he holds Sawamura tighter and strokes his hand over the curve of his spine, and he thinks maybe Sawamura knows.

“You should tell me, so I can help,” Sawamura says now, frowning and pressing his thumb into the crease between Youichi’s eyebrows. Youichi smiles and turns his face into Sawamura’s palm. He wants to tell him, he does, but the words are like too-sweet toffee in his mouth and he can’t get them out.  It’s frustrating, and Sawamura—Sawamura is so good at feeling things, lets them take him and transform him, and his attempts to hide them are, to put it short, hilarious. Youichi kisses the side of Sawamura’s thumb, his wrist, and grins triumphantly at Sawamura’s sharp intake of breath.

Later, he lies on his stomach above his history textbook, trying desperately to absorb the chapter he was supposed to have read yesterday.  It’s not working. He groans and flops face-first onto the pages, closing his eyes against the pounding in his head.

There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” Kuramochi says, but the door’s already opening, because Miyuki never actually waits for an answer when he knocks. Dick.  Kuramochi waves a bleary hand in greeting.

“Where’s Sawamura?” Miyuki asks.

“At the baby Kominato’s. I think he was gonna teach him and Furuya how to sew. Something about a ripped seam.”  

Miyuki shuffles around the room, making far too much noise, and flicks on the overhead light. Youichi groans again and covers his head with his pillow.

“Where’s your aspirin?”

“What?”

“Your headache’s not going to get any better if you just lie there,” Miyuki says, his voice getting snottier by the second. Youichi considers kicking him. He’d have to move, though, and that doesn’t seem like a fun idea right now.

“Under the—top drawer, left desk, under the papers and crap,” Youichi says.  He finds himself relaxing a little against the book. Aspirin is a good idea.  He can hear Miyuki trying to be quiet, fumbling around, but then there’s a shuffle and an earsplitting screech and Miyuki hisses a curse. Youichi growls and shoves the pillow tighter around his ears.

“Oh come on, you big baby,” Miyuki says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from right above him, and Youichi has a second to prepare himself before Miyuki yanks the pillow away and pushes the side of a water bottle against his forehead. Youichi makes another half-enraged, half-pitiful noise and shoves himself up on his forearms. A page sticks to his chin. He swipes his fist across his mouth to wipe off the drool.

“Attractive,” Miyuki teases, and Youichi scowls and snatches the water bottle. It’s Miyuki’s, which is nice, because his own is empty and somewhere under the bed. A hand appears in front of him, cupping two small white pills. Youichi picks them up and chases them down with the water, wincing at the taste when one of them sticks to the back of his tongue.

“He’ll be back at some point,” Youichi says to Miyuki, and gives another hand-flap.  “You can wait for him. I know you don’t have any friends to go see.”

“Says the man trying to French his textbook,” Miyuki says.  This time Youichi does kick him. It connects with a satisfying thump and a yelp from Miyuki, but jostles his head in the doing so. It must show on his face, because he feels Miyuki’s fingers touch his temple, light and still cold from outside. Youichi can’t help his sigh of relief.

“You should take the aspirin before it gets this bad,” Miyuki says in his best know-it-all voice, but his fingers start rubbing in soothing circles, and Youichi almost doesn’t care. He feels his jaw slacken and his brow un-knit.  His eyes have closed again. He opens them.

Miyuki’s looking at him with unmistakable fondness, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bed.  He’s wearing a sweater in deep red. It looks good on him. When he sees Youichi watching him, he freezes.

“The huh?” says Youichi. Brilliantly.

“…the huh?” Miyuki repeats after a moment, twisting it to be mocking. A touch too mocking, actually, the slightest bit over-exaggerated, and if Sawamura is good at emotions Miyuki is hands down the absolute worst.  Youichi takes in a breath to say something (he’s not really sure what) and then Miyuki’s fingers start circling again and all that comes out is a moan.

“If you wanted my hands on you that badly, all you had to do was ask,” Miyuki says, sing-song. Youichi doesn’t have the energy to deal with this right now.  With Miyuki right now.  

“Gurrgarh,” he says, to let Miyuki know that he is not appreciated.  Miyuki strokes once through Youichi’s hair before resuming his temple-massage, and Youichi tries very hard not to read the gesture as indulgent.

When Youichi wakes up his mouth tastes like a rat’s hairball.  His headache has lessened, but it’s not gone, so it’s with a great deal of care that he cracks open his eyelids.

The room’s dark. The overhead light and his beside light have both been turned off.  Miyuki sits in Sawamura’s desk chair, thumbing idly through a manga volume in the light of his desk lamp.  He’s lost his sweater, and his t-shirt is emblazoned with a frankly quite disturbing cartoon of an anthropomorphic pizza.

Nerd.

It’s a comfortable sort of scene, and Youichi lets it wash over him.  He feels dull and fuzzy from sleep, as if wrapped in gauze, and his head is dangerously tender.  It’s nice to lie there and look at Miyuki and think of nothing.

Of course the silence is broken. That happens when you room with Sawamura Eijun.  The door shoots open with a bang that makes Youichi cringe into his mattress and Sawamura skips in, his hair a whirlwind and his jacket hanging half-off his shoulders. Before he can say anything Miyuki shakes his head and gestures to Youichi’s prone form.

“Ohhhh,” Sawamura says; his tone is a whisper, but his volume’s no lower than normal, and Youichi has to keep himself from smiling. Sawamura’s hopeless. “Is he all right?”

Miyuki mouths something. Headache, probably, because Sawamura’s face clears.

“Aspirin?”

“I gave him two,” Miyuki says. He closes the manga and leans forward to set it back on the shelf.  “Don’t wake him.”

“As if I would!” Sawamura huffs.  He turns toward the bed and Youichi hastily shuts his eyes again.

Footsteps, and then: “You didn’t even take the book out from under him, Miyuki?” Sawamura sounds affronted, and Youichi bites the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. He holds his breath as Sawamura lifts his head and slides the textbook away, and replaces it with a pillow. It’s much more comfortable. Youichi sinks down into it gratefully.

He likes being fussed over by the two of them, he realizes.  It’s an embarrassing thought.  Youichi fights the urge to turn and hide his face in the pillow.

“Come here,” he hears Miyuki say, softly. When Sawamura’s footsteps retreat Youichi judges it safe to look again.  He’s just in time to see Sawamura settle on Miyuki’s lap, Miyuki’s arm around his waist.  They look so sweet together that Youichi wishes he wasn’t pretending to be asleep so that he could take a picture.

Sawamura ruins it in the next moment by recoiling and nearly falling over when Miyuki leans up for a kiss. “Kuramochi’s right there!”

“He’s seen us kiss before.”

“Yeah, but….” Sawamura ducks his head and mumbles something that Youichi can’t hear, but has Miyuki laughing.   “All right,” Miyuki says, and nuzzles against Sawamura’s neck.  The motion makes shadows spill over Miyuki’s cheekbones and down into the hollow of Sawamura’s throat, and suddenly Youichi wants.

“You go ahead,” Miyuki tells Sawamura, and Sawamura nods happily and leaps up, pausing only to tug his jacket back on properly before skidding out the door.  The chilly outside air washes in, damp and fresh. It must’ve rained while Youichi was asleep.

He’s preparing to drift off again when Miyuki stops, his hand on the doorknob, and turns back to him. Youichi wills his breathing back into rhythm, but it’s too late: he hears Miyuki walk toward the bed and then something lands on his shoulder and he doesn’t manage to catch himself before he jolts.

“I knew you were awake,” Miyuki says, smug.  Youichi gives up the pretense and opens his eyes fully.  Miyuki’s hand is resting on Youichi’s shoulder, a steady weight. Youichi lets himself enjoy it.

“Go on,” he says. “You don’t want to keep Sawamura waiting, do you?”

Miyuki snorts, but his expression has gone tender, and Youichi raises his eyebrows knowingly.  And immediately regrets it. His head.

“Go back to sleep,” Miyuki says. His hand lifts and tugs at something on Youichi’s back, and Youichi realizes, his body suffusing with warmth, where Miyuki’s sweater has gone.  A red sleeve flops in front of his face.  He’s probably blushing.

It’s that—the knowledge that he’s blushing and that Miyuki can see it—that pushes him to do what he does next. He reaches back with his hand and catches Miyuki’s wrist, brings it up to his lips almost the same way he had Sawamura’s, earlier.  He can feel Miyuki tense, see the way his eyes go wide.  Miyuki’s hand is perfectly still.

“When we get back,” Miyuki says, and it has a question in it.

“I’d better still be asleep,” Youichi answers. In a fit of bravery he kisses the inside of Miyuki’s wrist again. His heart has crawled up into his throat but there’s a cautious celebration there amidst the jitters.  “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Miyuki agrees. Now his fingers twitch, nervous, and Youichi smiles and shoves him away.

“Go make out with our boyfriend. I have a headache.”

Miyuki lingers for a moment but Youichi makes a shooing motion and he rolls his eyes and leaves, clicking the desk lamp off before he does. For a long time, Youichi stares after him into the darkness, warmth still trickling from his chest all the way down to his toes.

Tomorrow, Youichi is wearing a sweater, deep red. It looks good on him.

[usefulthumbs-blog]

A Kiss For Every Strikeout

Rating: G

Words: 535

Relationship: Miyusawa (written for @meridiangrimm)

There are four, this time. Four batters out, four kisses, in the quiet of Kazuya’s room after the game. Two for the left hand, one on the palm and one on the spaces between his fingers. One for the right. And one for Sawamura’s mouth, soft and sweet and breaking only because Kazuya is smiling too much to go on.

“I’ve done better than that,” Sawamura says. It’s a few shades too vulnerable to be teasing. Kazuya tightens his hands around Sawamura’s and looks at him, steady as he can, until Sawamura’s eyes come back into focus.  Until Sawamura is here, now, with him, and not glaring through the hot sun eighteen meters to the plate, throat dry from the dust and the nerves and the sweat.

There’s still a crease between Sawamura’s eyebrows. Kazuya kisses it away.

“I haven’t earned that one,” Sawamura says, shifting as if to move away. Kazuya keeps himself from smiling—as if kisses had to be earned, silly boy—because this is serious, because once again Sawamura’s come up against the walls of his own potential and once again can’t understand why he’s still not the better he knows he can be.

So, “It’s a loan,” Kazuya says, forcing his voice away from lightness, where it wants to be, happy and safe. Forcing himself to let Sawamura know he means this. “For the next game.” He runs his thumbs over Sawamura’s knuckles, back and forth. He wants to kiss every one of Sawamura’s fingertips, trail his mouth up those beautiful arms to the ticklish place behind Sawamura’s ear, to his freckles, to the tip of his nose.  But this kissing idea is new between them, and he can’t, anxiety a sharp shiver high in his chest. He holds Sawamura’s hands. And looks at him. And waits.

Finally the corners of Sawamura’s mouth turn up, the right a half-second after the left, and he lets his shoulders fall from where they’ve been hovering up around his ears. “I did a good job on them, though!”

He did. Kazuya wonders, sometimes, if he’ll ever stop having to catch his breath when Sawamura looks at him from the mound, in the seconds before his arm whips forward and Kazuya closes his mitt around the ball.  It would be better for his lungs, probably, but Kazuya doesn’t think he likes the trade-off.

“You put too much weight on your front leg,” he says, instead of any of that.  Sawamura huffs and shakes his head, and then huffs again when his hair falls in front of his eyes. Kazuya grins at him.

“Need a haircut?”

“Shut up,” Sawamura says. His bangs flutter out in front of his face when he speaks. Kazuya tries to raise a hand to tug at them, but Sawamura holds him fast.

“It wasn’t just me, getting them out,” Sawamura says.  “It was the both of us. Together.”  His eyes are blazing now; Kazuya can feel the back of his neck getting warm, and now he’s the one who wants to drop his gaze, turn away.

“Oh?” he manages.

“Yes,” Sawamura says, and gives him back four kisses (plus one on a loan), one for every strikeout.

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Arguments of Inclination

Pairing: Miyusawa (Miyuki Kazuya/Sawamura Eijun)

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,330

Summary: The shed scene from meridiangrimm’s “Lines of Communication.” Miyuki and Sawamura settle a few things between them. Kissing is involved.

For @meridiangrimm, of course.

Sawamura’s frequent cries of “HELP!” and “OUCH!” and “SAVE ME!” don’t die down when Kazuya closes the door of the shed behind them; if anything, they get louder, and the flailing of his limbs gets wilder. Not that Kazuya expected any different. If this were a normal day, he’d step back and laugh at Sawamura’s theatrics, but nothing’s been normal since he refused to catch for him and Sawamura subsequently stopped talking to him.

Kazuya knows that at least half the reason he’s annoyed is that he hasn’t got to feel Sawamura’s pitches in his mitt for more than twenty-four hours and it’s his own fucking fault, and the other half is something uncomfortably like jealousy for Mi-whosawhatsit and that Nishiura catcher Sawamura is so hung up on, but as he’s viciously denying both, that hardly matters right now.  

He’s felt angry and tired and weird, itchy under his skin, and it pisses him off.  So instead of dropping Sawamura he shoves him towards the wall of the shed, grabbing another fistful of Sawamura’s shirt to keep him there.  It feels good, to get put some of that anger-itchy-restlessness into physical form.  

Sawamura’s still shouting up a storm, but Kazuya’s stopped paying attention.  He releases one of his hands to clap it over Sawamura’s mouth. Sawamura tries to continue his pleas for help—gets a pretty good volume still, though the words are unintelligible—so Kazuya steps closer until the toes of his cleats are nudging right up against Sawamura’s own and glares into Sawamura’s eyes.  He tries to put as much of his bottled-up frustration as he can into that glare.  It’d probably be more effective if his sport goggles weren’t in the way, but he can’t release Sawamura to lift them, so this will have to do.

Sawamura finally realizes his yelling isn’t getting him anywhere, so he shuts up and tries with renewed enthusiasm to wriggle himself out of Kazuya’s grip.  Kazuya clamps down harder with the hand on Sawamura’s mouth and twists up Sawamura’s shirt as tight as he can, and he’s definitely overthrowing ten different rules against fighting between students, but he doesn’t care.  Now that he’s doing something about the last day-and-a-half, now that he’s got Sawamura under his hands, warm and solid and paying attention to him, he feels like he’s got his head underwater, or he’s standing at a great height: it helps that Sawamura’s stopped fighting and has gone limp, blinking curiously back at him.  

“You can’t let a catcher from a rival team catch for you,” Kazuya says. He’s surprised by how steady his voice is, though it seems to be much lower than usual. Sawamura notices, if the way his eyes go wide and his mouth softens in surprise against Kazuya’s hand is any indication.  Whatever. Better this then uncontrolled shouting, like some people.  “He’ll figure you out.  He’ll know your strengths, and your weaknesses, and he’ll tell his team and they’ll be prepared for you. They will be able to beat you.”

Sawamura mumbles something, lips moving across the creases of Kazuya’s palm. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to make a scene again—yet— so Kazuya warily lifts his hand.  

“I’ve got you, though,” Sawamura says, his eyebrows drawing together in… confusion? It’s difficult to tell. This shed isn’t exactly a well-lit gymnasium.  “Mihashi and Abe, they haven’t seen you play! What does it matter if Abe sees a couple of my throws if he can’t guess what you’re going to call for, huh?”

Without Kazuya’s hand in the way, Sawamura’s breath huffs out to hit Kazuya in the face, short little bursts of heat. It tickles. It also makes Kazuya’s stomach jolt pleasantly, but that’s an issue for a time that is not right now. “It’s still data, idiot. Anything they have on you—on us—on the team—they can use against us.  You know that. I can’t believe you’re putting this entire team in danger just because you want some shiny new catcher to catch your pitches.”

“Because you won’t!” Sawamura says hotly.  His hands squeeze Kazuya’s arms, and when had they gotten there?  “I told you Mihashi’s a friend, I told you I’m not telling him anything, and you wouldn’t even believe me, you just…!” He makes a hissing noise through his teeth.  Probably supposed to indicate Kazuya’s refusal to catch for him. Because why would a moron like Sawamura use actual words?

“That’s your own fault,” Kazuya says, knowing it’s a lie.  “If you hadn’t been spending all your time texting who-knows-what to an enemy—“

“He’s not an enemy, he’s a friend!” Sawamura tries to cross his arms, realizes he’s still holding onto Kazuya, and stamps his foot instead. It’s ridiculously childish, and completely fucking adorable, and Kazuya has more important things to think about right now. Even if Sawamura’s pout is a particularly pretty one.

“You can’t be friends with everyone,” Kazuya says, more softly than he’d intended. He can tell what Sawamura’s response is going to be before it comes, and he feels the anger draining out of him, from his shoulders down his back all the way past his heels. He closes his eyes and knocks his head on the shed wall beside Sawamura’s and catches the end of Sawamura’s shout right in his ear.  Which is unpleasant. Ow.

“YES I CAN!”

“Actually,” Kazuya says, “I think if anyone could, it’d be you.” He laughs into the dark splintery wood, feeling his chest shake against Sawamura’s sternum. Somehow his left hand has become clasped in Sawamura’s right, hanging beside them, and Sawamura’s right hand has found its way to Kazuya’s shoulder.  Kazuya pulls back to wrap his free arm around Sawamura’s neck in a squashed hug.  It’s not an apology—not a proper one—but he thinks Sawamura gets it, because Sawamura hugs him back.  Too tightly, but Kazuya doesn’t mind.

God, he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to talk to Sawamura again. He’d missed him, he realizes, which is stupid, because they’d seen each other just as much and it had only been a day. It’s because he’d gotten used to Sawamura’s clinginess, that’s why. Pitchers.

“…Miyuki-senpai? Are you going to let me go? Wait, you’re not trying to trick me into suffocating me, are you?”

Kazuya forces himself to loosen his embrace, extracting a hand to finally lift his goggles.  “Nah, that’s Kuramochi’s job,” he says. The face Sawamura pulls is so disgusted and terrified that it makes Kazuya crack up all over again.

“We should probably go back out there,” Kazuya says, when he’s calmed down enough to speak again.  “Let them know I haven’t killed you.”

“You wouldn’t kill me, you need me,” Sawamura shoots back, and goddamn, Sawamura doesn’t know how true that is.

Neither of them move.

Kazuya is Sawamura’s catcher, he spends the entire time they’re on the field together staring right at him, but it’s not often that he gets to look at him.  Even now he can’t really; it’s too dark in the shed, with the half-hearted light from the single bulb and the little slivers of sun through the cracks between the boards. He can tell that Sawamura’s pulled his pout back in and is looking back at him, he can tell that Sawamura seems content to stay exactly where he is (though to be fair, most of that Kazuya can feel from the closeness of their bodies), but he can’t see the freckles that scatter across Sawamura’s face and condense on the bridge of his nose, and he’s not confident that he’s getting all the nuances of Sawamura’s expression.

That’s the funny thing, with Sawamura. Well. One of many funny things.  He’s so much, all the time, that if you don’t pay attention it’s easy to think that everything he’s feeling is right there on the surface. And that’s true, for maybe ninety percent of the stuff. As close as Kazuya can guess, anyway.  But there’s always something a little bit more, if you look close enough, and sometimes that makes the difference in telling if Sawamura’s upset or just tired, or hungry.  Or the hint to whatever the connections are between the seemingly random thoughts that happen up in Sawamura-land.

Maybe that’s why it surprises him when Sawamura starts talking again.  Usually Kazuya can tell when Sawamura’s about to drastically change the subject.  Not this time.

“There’s a scene just like this in one of the manga I read last month,” Sawamura says. He tilts his head, his eyes drifting to the side as he remembers.  “The girl confronted the guy, saying he didn’t really like her after all! She cornered him right up against the side of the school building.  And yelled at him! A lot. But he apologized! He was rescuing cats, I think.” “And then they confessed their undying love and made out, I suppose,” Kazuya says, his mind on the line of sunlight that’s now cutting right across Sawamura’s cheek. “Would you?”

“Hm, what?”

Sawamura’s face scrunches up, the way it does when he’s blushing. “I mean! If you had. Never mind. I was just. You…ki…well but! Kissing. No. You wouldn’t. I’m. Go.”

But Sawamura doesn’t make any move to leave, just hunches down into himself and looks up at Miyuki with big eyes.  His face is scrunching even more. He’s going to look like a raisin if he keeps this up. Kazuya raises his eyebrows. “Are you asking if I’ve ever kissed anyone?” He hasn’t, but there’s no reason for Sawamura to know that. It’s not as if…well.

“No,” Sawamura says, and then mumbles something at the dirt on the floor.  Kazuya’s about to demand clarification, his best bastard grin already in place, when Sawamura shoves him in the chest—hard enough to hurt— and says, in the loudest whisper Kazuya’s ever heard, “Would you kiss me?”

Wha—

What?

Kazuya stares for what might be a full minute before he realizes that Sawamura’s expecting an answer. “If it were the choice between that and something worse, I guess I wouldn’t be opposed,” he says.  He realizes too late that he should’ve played up the joke more. Deadpan too easily turns honest.  

“So,” Sawamura says. He coughs a little on the word, has to swallow.

Kazuya watches Sawamura’s throat bob. His extremities are feeling strangely numb. “So.”

Sawamura reaches up, slow as can be, and flutters his hand around Kazuya’s head before resting it gently on the side of his neck. Kazuya can feel it there, like it’s burning through him. He  moves, feeling like he’s in a dream, to touch the side of Sawamura’s face.  Sawamura closes his eyes.

Kazuya has never felt more awkward in his entire life.

He’s expecting them to stand there like that for a while until they break apart, laughing and agreeing never to speak of it again.  It’s not the first time he’s gotten jokingly kissing-close to one of his friends before, after all.  It used to be one of the games he and the rest of them played in middle school, see who chickened out and broke away first.  

He’s going to lose this round, he can already tell. He sighs and leans back to step away, but Sawamura’s hand tightens and digs into his shoulder and there’s a sudden rush of movement in front of him and—

Oh.

Sawamura’s lips are as soft as they look.

What a clichéd thing to think. You can do better than that, Kazuya.

Kazuya jumps his hands up to Sawamura’s hair and slots his mouth back over the one pressing against him.  He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’s going to make and awful fool of himself but god fucking damn it he’s thought about this for months and whatever he’s doing, he’s going to do it with enthusiasm.

Sawamura doesn’t taste like anything, not like the stories he’s overheard classmates sigh about in class would have it.  It’s not a disappointment. Not when Sawamura’s crushing himself close to Kazuya and responding to every movement of Kazuya’s mouth with one of his own, like he’s trying to outdo him (he probably is), and not when Kazuya can feel the way Sawamura’s smiling, that ear-to-ear grin that could light up the entire sky.

They bump noses. Sawamura apologizes. Kazuya doesn’t. Sawamura doesn’t let him.  There’s a lot more spit involved with this than Kazuya had imagined, but that makes sense, now that Kazuya thinks about it, and it’s definitely a non-issue considering he’s getting to kiss Sawamura and get kissed back. It actually makes it easier to slide against Sawamura’s open mouth, and he makes full use of this, tilting his head the other way to see if that makes things better (it might; Kazuya can’t tell, his brain doesn’t seem to be working very well) before kissing his way down to Sawamura’s jaw and then back up again, just because he wants to.

Sawamura’s rubbing wide circles on Kazuya’s back, and it feels wonderful.  He thinks maybe he should try something similar, but he’s worried that if he takes his hands out of Sawamura’s hair it’ll fuck everything up and Sawamura will stop, and Kazuya does not want this to stop.  Also Sawamura’s hair is really soft.  Kazuya will definitely be touching it again the next time he has the opportunity.

“Does this mean,” Sawamura says, between kisses (which means there’s a long time between words, but that doesn’t bother Kazuya at all), “That you’re going to catch my pitches again?”

“…mmm. Maybe”

“MIYUKI—mmph—KAZUYA!”

(Kuramochi shows Kazuya the picture on Sawamura’s phone before he hands it back to Sawamura after practice, sniggering the whole time.  Kazuya grins at him and asks for a copy.  The look of horror on Kuramochi’s face is almost worth the glare Rei gives them for dawdling during clean-up.)

(The screech Sawamura gives when he sees his new phone wallpaper is just the icing on the cake.)

[usefulthumbs-blog]

A Kiss for Me Is a Kiss for Three

Relationship: Kuramiyusawa (Kuramochi Youichi/Miyuki Kazuya/Sawamura Eijun)

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,215

Summary: Miyuki and Kuramochi get into a little competition as to who can kiss Eijun best (for @meridiangrimm because who else :D )

It was Eijun that interrupted Miyuki’s studying by clambering up over him on the rickety desk chair, but it’s Miyuki who’s in control of this kiss, slow and deep and thorough. Miyuki’s got one hand cupped against Eijun’s cheek and the other carding roughly through his hair, and Eijun’s just barely keeping his balance by clutching at Miyuki’s shoulders and straining his toes toward the floor.

He doesn’t register the door slamming open—not until Kuramochi’s voice comes through, predictably loud and predictably pissed-off.  “You put your fucking sport socks in with my laundry again, bastard, I know it was you!”

Eijun makes a noise of greeting and tries to get up to hug Kuramochi, but Miyuki traps him with an arm around his waist and leans back as far as he can in the chair without tipping over.  “I thought you were too busy to study with us tonight, Kuramochi.”

Kuramochi narrows his eyes at the two of them and the incriminating situation they’re in.  Miyuki’s smirk widens. Kuramochi snorts and steps inside to drop the armful of blue socks he’s carrying, kicking it half-heartedly towards Miyuki’s hamper.  “It doesn’t look like you’re getting much done.”

“That’s not true!” Eijun cries, offended.  “I finished all my math and all my history, too! Most of it.” He looks guiltily at the papers spread across the floor.  Come to think of it, it’s probably time that he gets back to that… “No, come on,” Miyuki says when Eijun tries again to stand.  “Let’s show Mochi what he’s missing, huh?”

Eijun has no problem with that. Not when Miyuki curls his fingers around Eijun’s jaw and tugs him back in, mouth opening over his as if they’d never been interrupted.

“Missing? You implying something, Miyuki?” Kuramochi’s voice is closer. Eijun can feel Kuramochi’s body heat right beside him, electric, but he’s distracted by the way Miyuki’s thighs tense under his own when Eijun shifts to move closer.

“That’s it,” Kuramochi says, and suddenly Miyuki’s mouth is gone, and Eijun’s being shoved backwards.   “Hey!”

“Stop whining,” Kuramochi says, and then it’s Kuramochi kissing him.  Eijun immediately reaches up to fasten his arms around Kuramochi’s neck, more than pleased with this development. The squared edge of the desk is poking into his back, but between a little discomfort and the way Kuramochi’s sucking on Eijun’s bottom lip, Kuramochi wins every time.

“I wasn’t finished,” Miyuki says.

Eijun twists his head so that Kuramochi’s next kiss misses and gets the bottom of his ear. “Could’ve fooled me,” he says, because he knows it’ll piss Miyuki off. Sure enough, there’s a tug around his elbow and then Eijun’s toppling forward again, groaning as Miyuki slides his tongue past his still-parted lips.

“Oh don’t go acting like you’ve won, Eijun makes noise at everything,” Kuramochi says.  Eijun starts to deny it but Kuramochi captures him again, this time digging his nails into the base of Eijun’s scalp, just the way Eijun likes it. He lets out another, louder groan.  Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kuramochi flip Miyuki off.

It doesn’t take long to figure outside their strategies.  Miyuki is concentrating on kissing Eijun the way he was before, aching sweetness that makes Eijun strain forward for more. Kuramochi, on the other hand, is using a force that’s almost bruising, and the wildness of it has Eijun shivering and clutching Kuramochi tighter. The contrast between the two of them makes Eijun dizzy.

At some point Kuramochi apparently decides that simply rocking Eijun back from Miyuki’s chest is not enough, because he hoists Eijun up onto the desk. Not prepared, Eijun shrieks and topples backwards to slam his head into the wall. There’s a flurry of movement and Miyuki shouting, but Eijun shakes his head and reaches out and is rewarded by a kiss not only on the mouth but on also on the inside of the wrist. It tickles, and Eijun laughs.  The mouth kissing him laughs too, and then Eijun is pulled sideways into another mouth, and that one’s laughing as well.

I love them, Eijun thinks, and it reverberates through his chest, buzzes out to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes, warm and true. He feels so full of the warmth that he thinks he’s going to burst. I love them I love them I love them—

“Woah woah woah, Kuramochi wait!” someone’s saying, but the person kissing him is already pulling back, a blurry shape that sharpens into Kuramochi’s worried face.

“What’s wrong?” Kuramochi asks. One of his hands is still in Eijun’s hair. He uses it to smooth Eijun’s bangs back over his ear.  “You sounded upset.”

“Was it too much?” Miyuki slides in next to Kuramochi, touches his knuckles to Eijun’s chest.  “It was just a silly competition, you could’ve told us to back off.”

Eijun looks back and forth between them, foreheads furrowed in identical concern, and realizes he’s about to cry. From long experience he knows that there’s no stopping it, so he tries to force the words he’s been thinking out past his quickly-closing throat. “Iloveyou,” he manages, and then bursts into tears.

“Did you just—“

“I can’t tell if those are happy tears or—“

“Come here—“

Two pairs of arms wrap around Eijun. He buries his face in the closest neck and stays there until he stops sobbing, relaxing into the bodies cradling him and the soft, comforting murmurs passing over his head.

Eijun doesn’t spend a long time crying. It’s a common response, but not one that he lets disrupt his day, so after indulging himself for a few minutes he sits back and wipes his snotty nose in his shirtsleeve.

Kuramochi and Miyuki are staring at him. He gives them a smile and a small wave. “Hi.”

They don’t say anything.

“Um,” Eijun says. He’s not good at controlling his feelings, but he’s heard that stuff like this can be alarming to hear, and the last thing he wants to do is to scare his boyfriends away.  “So about what I said—“

Miyuki cuts him off by clearing his throat.  “I can’t speak for Kuramochi, but I…I mean. I guess I. I feel the same way. I’d say. Yeah.”

“Of course I love you back,” Kuramochi says, shooting a glare at Miyuki before softening his gaze for Eijun.  “What was that, acting like you thought I didn’t? Idiot.”

Eijun was right, before. He has to have burst open. He can feel himself floating above himself, like he’s too happy for his body to contain it.  And there’s got that feeling he gets when he smells fresh green grass or passes through the gates of a game field, like his veins are vibrating right out of his skin.  “I’M GOING TO BE THE BEST BOYFRIEND YOU TWO COULD EVER HAVE!”

“You already are,” Miyuki says, rolling his eyes, his ears getting redder at every word.  “Now get back here and kiss us some more.”

Kuramochi whoops. “I can give a second to that!” “It’s ‘I second that,’” Miyuki says, know-it-all smugness in full swing.  Eijun shares a wrinkled-nose look with Kuramochi and hauls Miyuki in by the back of the neck.  He’s done enough studying for tonight.

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Scenario for a first kiss

(for @meridiangrimm)

Miyuki should expect it. He’s attuned to Sawamura’s moods, now, from the slight fluctuations that signal an imminent outburst or sulk to the tipping point between frustration and anger, happiness and frenzy, embarrassment and upset. He has to: he’s Sawamura’s catcher, and he needs to understand him from his cap to his toes. You take chances with the other team, Chris-senpai told him once, over the creak of an oiled glove, the scrape of cleats too-loud on the ground after the rest of the team had left. Your pitcher, you learn him inside and out, so the only way he can think of you is as a sure thing.

But he doesn’t, for all Kuramochi will later tell him it was obvious.  Miyuki is prodding the skin of Sawamura’s forehead, teasing him about the freckles there, and then Sawamura surges forward, eyes wide and defiant, and pushes his mouth against Miyuki’s.

Miyuki’s never been kissed before.

He doesn’t know how this is supposed to feel, if the fast-tight-flutter in his throat or the sudden buzzing in his ears is normal or a result of the world being turned ankles-up because this is the one thing he’d convinced himself Sawamura would never give him.  Miyuki has Sawamura’s brown hair in his eyes and Sawamura’s nose digging into the soft flesh of his cheek and Sawamura’s full lips pressing hard enough against his to make his teeth ache, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

He feels the warm breath against his lips before he realizes that Sawamura has pulled back.  Miyuki stares at him until his face makes sense as a real thing and not a guilty dream; it takes him a moment more to read the confusion and hurt there.

No, Miyuki thinks.  His hands twitch, one at his side, the other in the circle of Sawamura’s fingers.  He’s wanted this for so long, helplessly, hopelessly, and he needs Sawamura to know this.  Needs him to see how Miyuki’s breaking, falling apart so sweetly and reassembling full of hot, fierce joy and how he needs Sawamura to stay possibly more than he has in his entire time of knowing him.

There are tears forming at the fringe of Sawamura’s lashes. Panic strikes through Miyuki’s chest, sour and stinging. He forces himself to move, cups Sawamura’s face in both hands so that Sawamura will look at him and not turn away.  

“Again,” Miyuki says. His voice is hoarse, too tender, not his own.  Sawamura’s eyes widen and then crinkle up, the tears spilling over onto Miyuki’s fingers as he starts to laugh.

“You scared me,” Sawamura accuses.  He is too loud for their closeness but Miyuki is used to this, and when Miyuki fits his nervous, unpracticed mouth to Sawamura’s once more, neither of them can stop smiling.

[usefulthumbs-blog]

My first attempt at a sketch of the the legs in Mikasa’s studio in And Pose On Four.  Counterclockwise from top left: Mikasa, Eren, Jean, Armin.  Poor Jean can’t point his feet at all. Aw honey.

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Just a Little Excitement (To Get Me through the Day)

Pairing: Sebastian Castellanos/Joseph Oda

Warnings: Choking, Breathplay

Summary: Sebastian is restless.  Joseph helps.

Rating: T

Also on AO3

Used to be, Sebastian would wake up and he couldn’t breathe.

Sometimes it was the dreams.  Creatures with too many limbs and not enough skin, chasing him through endless tunnels; drowning in a river that didn’t have a bottom, and when he opened his mouth it was blood that poured into his lungs; blank-faced nurses that turn out to be wooden dolls, but it was Sebastian who was held up by strings.  

Sometimes it was the sound of branches on the window, knocking clumsily with the rain, and he’d be convinced it was shotgun barrels and gunshots, and that there’d be bodies when he went downstairs, staring up at him with wide glass eyes and shirts that should have been white.

Sometimes it was nothing at all, but he would lunge forward anyway, scrambling for the knife under his pillow and the revolver on his bedside table before he realized, panting in the middle of his room, that the only thing he had to worry about was a headache from squinting too hard in the sun.

That doesn’t happen anymore.  Not most days, anyway.  And he’s grateful. He’s not stupid, he knows what the dreams and the scrambling meant, and the faster he can get rid of them for good, the happier he’ll be.  

But there’s something about the few seconds afterward, when he’s realizing the threat is gone but he’s still sharp-eyed with the rush of it, that makes him restless on the days he wakes up calm.  It’s like he’s not fully alert yet, like he’s waiting for something to happen that he can’t see and the fear of it is clouding over everything else.

His therapist says it’s a normal response, and that it will pass.  But Sebastian works with frantic mothers and racists with hit lists, and he can’t afford to be distracted. Not when he’s finally getting his goddamn feet back under him again.

“Try doing something outside of work,” the therapist tells him, which is a nice way of saying get a fucking hobby. “A sport, perhaps?”  But everything Sebastian can think of sounds tedious or too much commitment for a job that keeps him with such long, odd hours, and he’s not keen on paying money for classes he doesn’t know that he’ll like.  It’s not like he’s swimming in cash, after all.  He also doesn’t want to be with other people after a long day, and that’s the only time he’d be free to do anything.  Besides, they’d ask him about his life, which he’s not going to tell to fucking strangers, because have you seen the way his life has been.

He wakes up in the morning, breathing, and thinks, Joseph.

“I’ve got a request for you, if you don’t mind,” Sebastian says over stamped manilla folders and scribbled pads of looseleaf.  

“Hmm?” says Joseph.  He jots down something on the back of a page and flips it over, sliding it beside one of the piles that’s been building up on his desk.  

They’re alone, Sebastian made sure, but he still gets up and leans into Joseph’s ear to say it, because it’s not really the sort of thing you say in a workplace.  Joseph turns his head toward him and taps his pen once in the center of his chin.

“All right,” he says.

It’s the drive home when it creeps up on him.  Knowing Joseph is in the car right behind him.  Following him.  Sebastian has to force his hands to relax on the wheel time and again. His head feels strange, heavy and light at the same time, like something’s muffling it.  But then again not, because every sound seems louder.  Have the stoplights always been this bright?

The feeling stays through the normal pleasantries— do they want to eat now, no, but there’s meatloaf in the fridge; Connolly was more of a bastard than usual today, but what else is new; hanging up the coats and taking off their shoes.  Carpets, Sebastian learned in college, stay cleaner a lot longer when you don’t go tracking mud all over them.

Then there’s silence, an uneasy one that Sebastian doesn’t like.  He figured this would happen, but he doesn’t really know what to do to break it, so it goes on for a long time before Joseph clears his throat.

“So,” he says. He pushes his sleeves father up his arms. “Where do you want to do this?”

“The couch is fine,” says Sebastian.  Joseph knows where it is, of course, but he waits until Sebastian starts moving and follows him.  Sebastian sits down immediately because he doesn’t want another round of standing staring at each other. After a moment of hesitation, Joseph sits down beside him.

“Right,” says Joseph.  Only the way his eyes are slightly too wide lets Sebastian know that he’s not perfectly calm.  Well, that and his voice.  “Tap my knee to stop?”

“Sounds good.” Sebastian tugs the knot on his tie farther down. His collar’s already open, but it wouldn’t hurt to make things easier, so he undoes another button.  There’s a kind of a buzzing feeling in his chest, and it’s not comfortable, but it’s not really uncomfortable, either.  He frowns when Joseph starts rolling down his gloves.

“No gloves?” Sebastian’s aiming for joking, but it comes out a little more plaintive than he’d like.

“I can’t feel as well through them,” Joseph points out. “It’s kind of important for me to be able to feel your pulse.”  He reaches forward to place his gloves on the coffee table, one on top of the other.  “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you know.”

There’s no reason at all why that should be surprising.  Joseph’s personal life is is own.  There’s also no reason why it should make Sebastian have to swallow, hard, but that’s not important right now.

“Ready?” Joseph says, sitting back up.  His hands are in his lap, relaxed and pale against his slacks.  Sebastian realizes that he’s been staring at them and jerks his head up. 

“Go ahead.”  There’s no possible way Joseph can hear how hard his heart is beating.  He’s not close enough.  He’s getting closer though, and—ahhh.

The first touch of Joseph’s fingers on his throat makes his breath hiss sharply, and Joseph takes a minute to rub the skin there, comforting little circles, before sliding forward so that his palms rest flat over Sebastian’s windpipe, overlapping so that his thumbs press into the underside of his chin.  This has been in his dreams too, Joseph with his hands around Sebastian’s throat, his face all veins and boils.  But it’s different when he knows Joseph has control of it.  When Sebastian has asked for it.  Feels like a good middle finger to those dreams, too, for fucking him up so badly.  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, waiting, and then—

“No,” says Joseph;  he’s pulling his hands away.  “I’m worried about your neck at this angle, you’ll be straining.  Might hurt something.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point? I know, it isn’t,” says Sebastian, before Joseph can correct him.  And you know what, fuck it, they’ve come this far and it’s not like things aren’t weird already, so he leans back and pats his thighs.  “Just sit in my lap.”

“Father Christmas, wonderful,” says Joseph, and Sebastian has a moment of panic— shit, maybe that was too much, what if he leaves— but Joseph is shifting to his knees and crawling over onto him.  They have a bit of a struggle figuring out where all the legs are going to go  (“Shit, fuck,” “Ow, not there” “How old are these couch cushions, Sebastian”) but they get Joseph settled in, his legs folded on either side of Sebastian’s and resting back on his heels.  A piece of Joseph’s hair has come free in all of it, and he wrinkles his nose at the way it flops down over his forehead.  It’s cute, but Sebastian’s not going to tell him that.

“Okay?” Joseph asks, and Sebastian nods.  He closes his eyes at once this time.  Joseph’s hands are soft, so soft, and warm. He can feel the pulse through his fingers, or maybe that’s his own pulse and they’re— stopping.

“Open your eyes.”

Sebastian does, impatient, and Joseph’s looking at him.  “I need to watch your eyes, it helps. This is not a thing you take chances on. I thought you said you’d done this before.”

“I have.”  It’s true.  Myra— but he doesn’t want to think of Myra now.

“Fine.  Eyes open.”  

Joseph presses forward again. It makes Sebastian want to laugh, to see him staring like he’s comparing handwriting samples, and is that a blush?  Oh, he’s definitely going to tease him about that later. 

There’s something about being the reason for that focus, though, that keeps Sebastian from complaining.  He’s always liked being looked at.

He can feel his breath gathering in the top of his chest, under his breastbone, and the fingers against the tendons in his neck are merciless. The skin on the underside of his chin is pulling taught and that’s it— he gasps in one last time and then he can’t anymore, he can’t, and the pressure in his chest is building, and his hands start to claw at Joseph’s waist— when did they get there?— and nothing matters but breathing, breathing, he can’t breathe, he feels as though his head is floating away and his vision’s blurring with tears—

The pressure lets up abruptly.  Sebastian blinks his eyes clear and sees Joseph with his elbows bent, his hands up by his ears.

“Why’d you stop?” Sebastian says; his voice comes out hoarse.

Joseph glares at him.  “You weren’t tapping.  Your hands weren’t even near my knees.”

“So? I was fine.”

“No, you weren’t,” Joseph says, and shifts a little in Sebastian’s lap. Sebastian tightens his grip on his waist instinctively.  “I’m not going to do this if you’re not going to pay attention.”

“I was paying attention,” Sebastian snaps. Then he sees the way Joseph’s lips are pressed together, the furrow in between his brows, and drops his hands back down to his sides.  “Look.  Joseph.  You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that.”

“You don’t trust me, then?”

“I trust you!” Joseph says.  He sighs.  “With everything except yourself.  And I believe I have the right not to trust you for that last one.”

This is probably about the drinking, again.  Sebastian does not want to have this conversation. Especially not when his partner is perched on his lap in his empty apartment, because his brain decided this shit was a better adrenaline spike than jogging. 

He hates jogging.

Fuck it.  He needs this, and if Joseph’s only objection is that he’s absentminded, then that’s nothing at all.

“I’ll tap,” Sebastian says.  “I promise.  Look,” he puts his hand on Joseph’s knee.  “All ready to go.”  It’s a bit of an awkward angle for his wrist, so he moves to cup the top of Joseph’s thigh instead, but Joseph doesn’t object.

“You’d better,” he says.  “Ready?”

“If something’s actually going to happen this time.”

Joseph snorts, but he reaches out again.  He doesn’t spend as long massaging his throat, starts almost immediately, and Sebastian can hear the whine he gives, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to be embarrassed at how high and needy it sounds.  It may be his imagination but his throat feels more tender, and his breath thicker, pressing down on his lungs, burning.  He swears he can feel each one of Joseph’s fingers individually on the sides of his neck and his chest jumps uselessly, there’s no air, and there’s that high, the crest of it up and just out of reach, and this, this was what he needed. He can’t breathe and he can feel it in his entire body, and every cell is fighting for him to push Joseph off and suck in as much oxygen as he can but he can’t, he can’t do anything but sit there and not breathe.

He jabs his fingers into Joseph’s thigh and Joseph releases.  Sebastian coughs and gulps at the air, wheezing a bit when he takes in too much. Joseph rubs one of his hands up and down Sebastian’s chest, soothing, and Sebastian raises his head, expecting him to look worried. 

He doesn’t.  He’s staring at his hand moving over Sebastian’s chest, rasping against his waistcoat.  He’s smirking; Sebastian can see the flash of teeth.  “Good,” he says.  Mumbles it, really, so far under his breath that Sebastian’s sure he wasn’t meant to hear it.

Fucking hell. The dryness in Sebastian’s mouth has nothing to do with lack of air.

“Thank you,” he manages, and Joseph’s eyes jump to his so quickly it makes him dizzy.  His hand clenches on Sebastian’s chest.

“Can I…” Joseph says, his fingers twisting deep in fabric. His eyes flick down. Sebastian barely has time to finish his “Yes” before Joseph is leaning in.

His mouth is already open when it finds Sebastian’s; it’s wet when Sebastian follows suit, and Joseph slides his tongue down the length of Sebastian’s, presses hard against him, and God.  There are hands in Sebastian’s hair, two of them, and he kind of wants Joseph to yank his head back, but when he tries to goad him to it by biting, Joseph pulls back.  “Slowly,” he says against Sebastian’s lips, and he keeps to it, even when Sebastian wraps an arm around him and tries to move his mouth faster. He cups a hand around the back of Sebastian’s head to hold it still, trails the other one down over Sebastian’s shoulder and strokes at his arm until he relaxes it.  Sebastian can’t bring himself to complain, not when Joseph is curling his tongue against the roof of Sebastian’s mouth and humming deep in his throat, and it’s sweet, ah, hot and addicting, and when Joseph’s wandering hand touches the side of Sebastian’s neck he groans.

Despite all their earlier floundering, it’s still not the most comfortable position how they’re squashed together on the couch, so it’s far too soon when Joseph pushes himself away with a wince and stands up to shake out his legs.  He holds a hand out for Sebastian, automatic, and Sebastian uses it to pull himself up and then kisses Joseph again, for no other reason than because he wants to.  The smile Joseph gives him afterward is almost shy.

“Will you need me to help you with this again, you think?” He asks, and Sebastian has to admire how mild his voice sounds.

Sebastian grins. “That I might.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Wow, you don’t like jogging, Sebastian?  I never would have guessed from your superb stamina for sprinting.

Disclaimer, for my peace of mind: If you’re going to try breathplay, please do a ton of research and be very careful.  You can die.  Self asphyxiation is even more dangerous, and you should have somebody nearby if you’re going to do it. There’s a reason Sebastian asked Joseph over to help him, and it’s not just because he likes his ass.

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Sometimes They Don't

For imperialharem's idea, here. 

Pairing: Joseph Oda/Sebastian Castellanos

Warnings: Strong thoughts of suicide, near-attempted suicide

Summary: Sebastian does not recognize the man at his door.

Also on AO3

The knock on the door is awful loud for three AM, and by all rights Sebastian should just roll over and ignore it.  But he’s too much himself to do that, to be able to close his eyes as if someone’s not right outside, someone with a gun, maybe.  Or something worse.

There’s three deadbolts above the lock, because he’s a paranoid motherfucker, and he sees no reason to take them down even if he did put them up in hysteria.  Sebastian presses the barrel of the gun to the back of the door, quiet as you please, and eases it open a few inches.

Shadows; something moves in them and Sebastian fumbles for the light switch with his free hand, wedging a foot in the door to keep it from closing and blocking his vision now that whoever out there has seen him. The light goes on, a sharp brightness that sends the person stumbling backwards and covering their face with their hands.  Sebastian sees dark, matted hair and a shirt unbuttoned to the waist. The “Who the fuck are you?” is half-way out of his mouth before the person’s head comes up and fuck, those gloves.

“Joseph?”

“Shit,” the person says, and yeah, that’s Joseph, though he sounds like he’s been putting nails down his throat.  He wrenches his hands down and holds them rigid behind his back, his neck straining with the effort.  

It’s a shock, once Sebastian gets a look at him.  He finds himself recoiling, pressing the gun harder against the door, and forces himself to tuck it into the back of his sweatpants.  He’s seen his partner desperate, bloody, dying: this shouldn’t affect him so much.  But it does, the stubble on Joseph’s cheeks, the the red around Joseph’s eyes. The wildness in them.

“This was a bad idea, Seb, I’m sorry,” Joseph is saying, and he’s nearly all turned around before Sebastian catches up to what he’s doing and shoulders the door open to grab him.  His arm’s not trembling in Sebastian’s grasp, it’s fair jumping, and it’s been a long time since Sebastian’s likened Joseph to a cornered animal.  

Now’s the first time it’s been true.

Fuck.  He is bad at this, always was, even when his life was peaches and gumdrops.  “Like hell I’m letting you go home looking like that,” he says finally, and yanks Joseph backwards into the house, catching him when he stumbles over the doorframe.  Joseph shrinks down under his arm, warm against Sebastian’s side but probably colder than he should be— did he walk here in that shirt, Jesus—and Sebastian tucks him up close to him as he does up the locks again, pats his shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting way.

“C’mon, couch now,” Sebastian says, and drags Joseph with him to the beat-up couch in the middle of the living room.  It’s yellow, which is Joseph’s least favorite color, and why the fuck is he thinking of that now.  

“Sorry,” says Joseph again, once Sebastian has him settled into the cushions; he ducked out from under Sebastian’s arm willingly enough, but he doesn’t seem to want to let go of him completely, so he holds one of Sebastian’s hands in both of his own.  Sebastian crouches down in front of him.  Make yourself smaller, some part of his brain thinks, pulled from some cub-scout lecture on not getting mauled by wildlife. Don’t be threatening.

He’s based his entire career on being threatening.  Joseph’s the nice one, the one that children talk to and old ladies make tea for.  But Joseph’s hunched over on his couch like a goddamn invalid, clutching Sebastian’s hand too tightly and panting out short, tight little gasps, and Sebastian is the one who has to make this better.

“Joseph,” he says, and slow, because he’s taken care of his partner before but he’s never seen  him this feral, and it scares him.  “Hey. Joseph. You gotta talk to me.”  The fact that Joseph isn’t, yet, is terrifying too.  Joseph always talks to him, always tells him what’s going on.  Whatever this is is big, bigger than getting shot, at least to his partner, and fuck.

Joseph opens his mouth and meets Sebastian’s eyes; flinches and closes it again, looks away.  Tightens his mouth and looks back.  His glasses have slipped down to the edge of his nose, and this close Sebastian can see the smudges on them.  He hates having dirty glasses.

“You remember that shit I said.  In the—in the hospital.” Sebastian reacts before he can stop himself, feels it in his face, but Joseph doesn’t seem to notice.  That’s not like him, either.  “The church, I think it was, or at least it was for me.  That was you, Seb, right?” He laughs, high and brittle. Maybe it’s a sob.  “Shit. I’m messed up today.  I can’t get my words right.”

“That’s okay,” Sebastian says, because it seems the right thing to do, but Joseph cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“Don’t.  Not yet.  I need to—you’re right, I need to fucking talk.” He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.  “You can’t be mad at me, okay? You can’t be mad.”  He’s bent almost double, his knees pulled close together, the tilt of his head making the shadows under his eyes that much darker.  Sebastian thinks he knows where this is going.  It stops his breath, closes it right off in his throat.  He couldn’t move now even if he tried.

“You know the doctors gave me anxiety meds, right?  You got them too.” Sebastian nods.  “So.  I was taking mine tonight and I got to thinking, what if I just took them all?  It would be.  Easier.”  He brings one of his hands up to his mouth.  “Oh my God.  I can’t—I can’t be like this, Seb, I need to be fine, I have to be fine!”  He’s breathing faster, muffled in his glove, and Sebastian has to lean in closer to hear the rest of his words.  “You told me never to do this again and I thought it was over, I told myself it was over, but I don’t think it is.”  He’s crying, thin, clear tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.  Sebastian can count the number of times he’s seen Joseph cry on one hand and still have enough fingers left to load a gun.

He should’ve fucking seen this, should’ve got to Joseph before it went this far, how can he have been so stupid—

Even after Lily, even after Myra, it was always about the anger, about finding her, about forgetting when it became too much; he’s never quite wanted to go that far, not really.  Joseph needs professional help, needs it badly.  Sebastian starts to pull away, to find the phone and call someone who knows something—but Joseph shoots out an arm and wraps it around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.  It’s uncomfortable, and Joseph must realize it, because he releases Sebastian almost immediately. His hand, too, and Sebastian shakes as surreptitiously as he can to get the feeling back into it. 

Even without the look Joseph is giving him that’s more than enough to tell Sebastian to stay, so he settles back on his heels— easing the pain in is legs as much as he can, what is this, he’s not even forty—and puts his hands on Joseph’s knees, looks up right into his eyes.

“I’m here,” he says.  “I’m not going to leave you, okay?  But you’ve gotta tell someone besides me about this.  I’m glad you told me!” he adds, when Joseph jerks, like Sebastian’s pushed him nose first into live wire. “God.  Please— please tell me when shit like this happens.  But you need—deserve someone who knows what they’re doing.”  He’s fucked that up, he’s fucked it up beyond repair, but Joseph is nodding.  

“Gonna get you well again,” Sebastian says, and cups Joseph’s jaw as gently as he can.  Joseph closes his eyes and leans into Sebastian’s palm.  His breath hitches once, twice, and he swallows.

“That’s what you always do,” he says, quiet enough that Sebastian can pretend he didn’t hear it.  He’s still shaking, but the tremors are smaller now, further between.  Sebastian’s still terrified, but he’s going to make that call as soon as Joseph falls asleep, and the it’ll be—well, not okay, but something will be getting done.

“I’ve got you now,” Sebastian says, and leans up to nudge Joseph’s head down onto his shoulder.  “I am not ever letting you go.”

[usefulthumbs-blog]

Perfect

For northerndownpour!

Pairing: Lardo/Shitty, mentioned Jack/Bitty and Ransom/Holster

Word Count: 1,512

Rating: Eh, G-ish?  There's a lot of f-bombs, that's the thing. 

Summary:  Lardo and Shitty do not watch Star Trek, and do not say "I love you," and somehow it all works out.

Despite what Holster said to Dex when he was complaining about being kicked off the couch, Lardo is not watching Star Trek with Shitty.

The TV is on, yes, and Kirk is doing something emotion-fueled and shirtless.  And Lardo’s sprawled out on the couch next to Shitty.  Not on him, because there are certain drawbacks to nudity that even Shitty has to admit.

(“Woah, get the spiky hair away from the squishy bits!” 

 “I usually make ‘em buy be dinner first, Shits.  And seriously? ‘Squishy bits?’”)

The thing is, it’s impossible to actually pay attention to something when Shitty’s spouting social commentary and oddball factoids two feet over her head.  It’s more of listening to the way Shitty’s voice slides between excitement and sarcasm while Kirk and Spock and the rest of them angst over Technicolored aliens in the background.

It’s this very reason that led to the Great Duct Tape Incident of Twenty-Twelve, but Lardo’s seen all this before, with her Dad on the nights Mom worked so late Lardo thought she’d never come home, and she likes the sound of Shitty’s voice, besides.  Also she didn’t know that thing about the transporter beam being aluminum powder.  Maybe she’ll use that in a piece.

She can make the title obscurely nerdy.  Like about Bones’ hair trimmer or something.  Shitty’d like that.

The door opens, letting in a gust of wind that rattles the pictures Bitty’s hung in the entryway.  It’s got to be Jack.  He’s the only one that opens the door slowly, like a normal human.  

“Shits, have you even moved since I left this morning? Hey, Lardo,” Jack says, when Lardo raises her hand to wave at him.  “Is Bittle—oh!” His voice goes up, like, an entire octave, and he turns a sharp ninety degrees into the kitchen without even looking at Shitty’s half-hearted thumb-jerk.

Shitty lowers his head and fixes Lardo with The Look. The my-teammates-totally-want-to-bang-and-you’re-the-only-one-I-can-talk-to-about-it look.  Lardo wiggles deeper into the couch cushions and does her best bad impression of a sympathetic listener.

“I can’t stand this,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchen.  “Lardo.  Can you just smush their faces together or something?”

“I’ve got a—”

“—strict no-meddling policy in the possible homoromantic interactions of this team,” Shitty finishes, and it’s a testament to how much time they spend together that she’s said “homoromantic” enough times for him to imitate her.  “But this is desperate, Lar.  I think it’s actually making me sick.”

In the kitchen, Bitty bursts out laughing.  There’s a sound that may or may not be somebody hitting somebody else with a dishrag.  Shitty uses The Look again.  Holds it.  Lets his left eye twitch dramatically.

“Hmmm…nope.”  She toasts him with the empty beer bottle she’s been balancing on her stomach.  “I told you when you got on me about Rans and Holster, dude.  They’re gonna deny it even more if I point it out to them.”

“Rans and Holster are like.  A five.  On the scale of unresolved-desire-for-sucking-face.  Hey,” he says when Lardo snorts, “I’m tellin’ you, bros who have hit No-Homo Nirvana don’t spend that much time trying to drunkenly convince me how to proposition their best friend in a threesome.”

“Shits, that was one time.”

“Which is more than not-digging-each-other dudes do!  But anyway.  Jack and Bitty are an eleven.  No.  A nineteen.”

“Yo, I know Jack and Bits are bad, but if R&H are a five there’s no way they’re up to a nineteen.”

“Fine.  FINE.”  Shitty throws his hands up in the air.  “How would you rate our repression-stunted non-couples-of-the-year?  Who’s got the most—” he drops his voice down, so low he’s growling, and waggles his eyebrows “—unresolved sexual tension?”

And there it is, like the perfect place to score sculpted iron, like just the right color purple on her oils brush.  Lardo’s ab muscles clench, and the beer bottle wobbles, but she made a promise to herself at the beginning of the semester, and well.  Fuck it.  She clears her throat.  “Um.  We do?”

Shitty doesn’t spit out his beer.  Only frogs are allowed to spit good beer on the Haus rug, and  this is good beer, because Shitty brought it up for her.  Which he always does, and which they never talk about.  Shitty does, however, swallow very abruptly and take a few moments to figure out how to breathe.

“I guess we do, huh,” he says, once his lungs are working again. Lardo lies back down, the top of her hair poking into his thigh.  After a few minutes Shitty drops his hand down to cup the back of her head, scratches a little at the base of her neck—like she’s a cat, goddammit, but he knows that it relaxes her, and she starts pointing out the holes in Shitty’s the-Enterprise-is-sentient theory, and that’s that.

---------------------------------------------------------------

It probably should be awkward, but neither she nor Shitty have much patience for that, so it isn’t.  She just walks up behind Shitty the next time she sees him and slips her hand into his, and he squeezes back without pausing his gesticulations for whatever he’s explaining to Chowder.  Chowder doesn’t react to it, but Bitty sure does, when they walk into practice still holding hands.  He covers his mouth and honest-to-god squeals, and all the boys go wild.  

Between Holster thumping her on the back and Jack elbowing Shitty in the gut and Rans screaming and the frogs getting trampled and Bitty hopping around like a delighted rabbit, they don’t stay holding hands for long.  Then Coach Hall comes over to yell at them to get changed, and they don’t even get to do their handshake, which blows.  She thought up a new way to do the upside-down bit.

 (“Yo but wait, can Lardo stay now?”  

“Fuck off, Holster.” 

“It’s not like she’s never seen Shitty naked before.” 

 “Fuck OFF, Jack.” 

“Holster, if you think I want to see your wrinkled-up old man dick then you—”  

“MISS LARISSA.”  

“Right, sorry, leaving, Coach.”) 

Lardo double-times it out of there and is immediately accosted by Coach Murray, and the walk to the bleachers is spent juggling receipts and projected spending charts and trying to get him to chill long enough for her to dig her rink jacket out from under the uniform order sheets in her bag.

(She wonders, fifteen minutes before the end of practice, if the soft-eyed looks Bitty keeps shooting her have anything to do with the fact that the jacket is Shitty’s.  Whatever, she stole it from him months ago, because he’s got like five and she was too lazy to walk back for her own, and she’s been wearing it on and off since then so Bitty really has nothing to stare at.)

It’s completely deserted in the locker room when she goes back.  She’s got a list of fundraiser notes for them, and some shit from the coaches about behaving responsibly—whatever Rans and Holster have done now, she doesn’t want to know—and they know better than to leave before she sees them, so she’s confused and not a little pissed off when Shitty comes out of the bathroom.  Alone. Oh. Those smug little fuckers.

“…yeah,” Shitty says, when he sees her looking pointedly around the empty room.  “The guys kind of, ah, left.  They’re really happy about this.”  He waggles a finger between the two of them. Tugs at the corner of his mustache. 

But if it wasn’t awkward before Lardo sure as hell isn’t going to let it be now, so she sets her clipboard down on one of the benches and marches up to him.  “So,” she says, and her hands are on her hips without her remembering putting them there, “Are we gonna make out or what?”

Shitty grins at her and bends down (and down—stupid short genetics) and then that, yeah, that’s pretty amazing.  Turns out Shitty likes biting, which is fine because she is 150% into biting, and they end up with Shitty slumped against the wall and Lardo hanging from his neck. As far as first make-outs go, nice.  She can’t stop smiling when they break away.  Shitty looks dazed.

There’s nothing else to do but kick him in the shins.  Shitty goes down with a “FUCK” that rings off the tiled walls, and Lardo’s so busy laughing her ass off that she doesn’t see him snake a leg out to trip her until it’s too late. 

“Lardo, you fucker.”

“Don’t you dare try to kiss me when we’re on the locker room floor, that’s nasty.”

“Your face is nasty.”

“That’s not what your mom thought last night!”

And they’re wrestling and they’re laughing and Lardo thinks, I guess I’m in love with this asshole, and maybe it’s just a little bit perfect.