#when the truth is that apparently they are INCREDIBLY well tolerated in cats | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hanshaped · 5 years

Text

Don’t Give Me Flannel (Cherik Ficlet)

[AO3 Version]

“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU

So, yeah, here we are. It was supposed to be a shorter one-shot, around 1,000 words or so, but I sort of took that prompt and ran with it, because apparently I cannot write something without any world-building in it. But it was a pure pleasure to write, even if I should've been working on my other WIPs. *sigh*

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this short—yet still somehow almost four times longer than intended—ficlet.

It's not beta-ed, just edited and proofread by myself, so you know the drill—and I'll be really grateful for any valuable remarks!

“Can you finally go to bed?”

Although Erik’s voice is hoarse, his annoyance seeps through very clearly. As a result, the question sounds more like an order, despite it not really being Erik’s intention. Nonetheless, he’s too groggy to care.

Generally, Erik Lehnsherr has always prided himself in being quite a heavy sleeper, capable of sleeping through anything and everything ever since he remembers. Even when he was just a few years old, he would occasionally wake up to hear about the storm roaring through the night, which did little to disrupt his sleep. His mother used to joke that the bomb blowing up nearby wouldn’t manage to jolt him awake. The manifestation of his powers in the early teenage years disrupted his routine for a while, but he managed to go back to it by the time he started university, and this time he hasn’t let anything get in the way of getting a healthy amount of sleep.

Willing himself to fall asleep has never been problematic either, even with a lot of background noise. Unfortunately, it seems like the light is his ultimate weakness. He’s been struggling to doze off for quite a while now, but a small lamp still kept alight turns it into a truly challenging feat. Facing the wall that his bed was pushed to, his eyes closed shut, he’s desperately trying to force his mind to finally shut down, having already given a shot to counting sheep and focusing on his breathing. Sadly, without the comforting darkness to drown out any unwanted late-night thoughts, he is unable to succumb to sleep. The worst thing is, he’s slowly growing more and more desperate and the thought to just ask Charles—the very culprit behind his current predicament—to do this for him keeps lingering at the forefront of his mind.

A quiet groan escapes his lips as Erik turns around, towards the rustle of paper behind him. Charles Xavier, his roommate, the fellow student who also happens to be a mutant, is sitting on the carpet between their two beds, surrounded by an array of textbooks and notes. He is, by far, one of the very few people whom Erik tolerates and who somehow tolerate him in return, which is still somewhat unbelievable to Erik—how such a person as Charles, so unbearably idealistic and impossibly kind, would like to as much as simply be in his presence continues to escape his comprehension.

Nevertheless, here they are, Charles spread on the floor and Erik failing to fall asleep. Overall, Charles is quite a nice roommate, certainly much better than the previous ones that Erik was unlucky to live with. (Or maybe it was them who were unlucky enough to cross his path, Erik wonders sometimes.) Although a chatter, Charles doesn’t bother with meaningless conversations and he has a quick wit, which is even more prominent over the chessboard that they sometimes use to play, all of which make him a pleasant enough companion even on the worst of days. His bright big eyes, with their remarkable blueness only accentuated by the flannel pajamas he is currently wearing and with his floppy hair falling over them, make him look rather appealing, as a quite impressive group of both male and female students can corroborate. Despite that, Charles’s favourable looks are no more than a pleasant addition, or so Erik tries to convince himself of.

He cuts that train of thought short, though. They are friends, even though this label hardly conveys the depth of their bond. Charles may be the closest person Erik has ever been to, other than his parents, which makes him just about the only family Erik has left. To ruin the most meaningful friendship in Erik’s life due to his irrational sexual urges is just unthinkable. So he proceeds to do what he’s been doing for weeks now, burying the budding attraction deep enough that the telepath won’t see it.

“I can’t fall asleep with the light on,” he grumbles, seeing that Charles has hardly reacted to his previous question. When that doesn’t work either, Erik continues, his brows furrowing, “I have an exam tomorrow, too, you know.”

Charles finally looks up at him, and his eyes are sparkling in the warm light of his bedside lamp, his liveliness evident despite the dark circles under them. Erik shouldn’t find that sight so endearing, and yet, he’s mesmerised all the same, almost forgetting his own annoyance.

“Yeah, sorry,” Charles says apologetically, gazing down at the notebook he’s just been leafing through. His lips, even redder than usual, what with the way Charles continues to chew at them, curl into a little self-deprecating smile. Erik can’t help but trace their movements when his friend adds, “Just… five more minutes.”

It’s clear how tired Charles is, leaning on his hand which is perched up on his lap and visibly fighting off the urge to let his head drop on his notes. Erik rolls his eyes, irritated with Charles’s insistence even more so now that he sees his exhaustion. It may even explain why Erik’s own tiredness feels so profound; if Charles is on the verge of falling asleep, his shields are prone to get weaker and sometimes he starts projecting his feelings, as if his mind was trying to get rid of the sense of fatigue simply by pushing it away.

In truth, Erik doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He minds feeling more tired than he actually is, that is, but not the mental contact itself. It never fails to surprise him, how much he actually enjoys having someone brushing against his thoughts. Of course, he believes that all mutants should be treated equally, regardless of the nature of their mutation; and yet, telepaths are often facing quite a lot of resentment, even within the mutant community itself. For many, it is one thing to pass someone with a tail or a pair of wings on the street without batting an eye, and something else entirely to have a stranger overhear your thoughts—something intimate and meant to exist only for you to listen.

Erik can understand where such reservations might come from, even though he himself doesn’t view telepathy as so problematic. In fact, the anti-psionic bias seems to be chiefly the product of ignorance—there aren’t that many telepaths, most of whom not even powerful enough to fully enter someone’s mind without touching that person or at least being in a very close proximity to them, but people nevertheless are afraid of feeling so exposed, with more than unfavourable portrayal of telepathy in the media as manipulative and exploitative only feeding their fear.

Not that telepaths are actually interested in reading or controlling everyone’s minds; the fact that is obvious to anyone who has actually met a telepath. It would be exhausting, after all, to listen closely to every thought that comes your way. Not even mentioning the fact that a lot of people think they’re incredibly interesting and worthy of attention, while, in actuality, their thoughts are mundane and their secrets nonsignificant.

Erik has crossed paths with enough telepaths to know that. Besides, if telepaths truly did always listen to one’s every thought, Charles would already bloody well know how annoyed Erik has been for quite a while now.

“You’ve been cramming it for—” Erik reaches out with his power, tugging at the magnetic lines surrounding him, and feels the hands of Charles’s watch which is still wrapped around his wrist.

The soft hum of its metal is pleasantly familiar. Charles takes it off only to sleep, and its constant presence allows Erik to sense him, even if his friend is out of sight. It never ceases to surprise Erik how comforting he finds it, the possibility to feel Charles’s warm skin against the stainless steel of the watch anytime he wishes, wherever he is.

Erik reads the hour and groans resignedly, “—for six hours straight. You know everything that you need already.”

“I have to ace it,” Charles mutters, his gaze fixed back on his notes.

He bites his lower lip, again, and it’s truly infuriating how captivating it is. Erik spends entirely too much time looking at those plush red lips of Charles’s, wondering distantly if they’re as soft as they look and if their redness would be even more intense after a thorough kiss…

It’s getting ridiculous. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such things, especially not about a telepath.

“Did you even touch the tea I made you?,” Erik demands instead, resisting the temptation to ask another question that sits at the tip of his tongue, one that is as improper as it is stupid.

A quick glance at Charles’s nightstand confirms what Erik has already suspected. The green mug with a cat and a silly chemistry pun printed on it is standing exactly where Erik put it three hours ago.

Charles looks up once again, his lips rounding in a way that is both adorable and infuriating. What’s more, the sudden movement makes his hair, ruffled from the way Charles runs his hands through them every now and then, fall down his forehead, and Erik barely battles the urge to reach out and gently brush them away.

“Oh,” Charles breathes, his wide eyes making him look like a puppy whose owner has just scolded them for something that they are absolutely guilty of. “I’m terribly sorry, my friend,” he says sheepishly, averting his gaze. “I’ve got too immersed in all of this.” His hand flies around over all the books, the sleeve of his slightly too big flannel pyjamas tumbling down his forearm and falling over his wrist.

Why Charles insists on sleeping in that atrocious thing, whose only saving grace is its nice blue colour, remains a mystery to Erik. Their dorm room is relatively warm, even in winter, and yet Charles seems to be perpetually cold at night, sleeping under a pile of blankets all year long. Erik is reluctant to admit it, but it worries him that although the summer is about to start, Charles’ nightwear hasn’t yet changed. If he’s so cold, perhaps there could be a way to warm him up a bit. Which is hardly the best line of thinking for now, because the only solutions Erik can think of involve things that he’s pretty sure Charles wouldn’t want.

A small shudder runs down his spine, and Erik has to clear his suddenly dry throat, forcing his mind to think about something else—anything else, really. He ends up recalling the details of a few cases which will most probably prove to be useful during tomorrow’s exam, trying not to wonder how it would be to wrap his arms around Charles and pull him under the covers.

Frustratingly, even repeating in his head what he already knows by heart isn’t tedious enough to put his mind to sleep.

“You can’t keep doing that.” Erik’s voice sounds annoyed even to his own ears, more so than before.

“I know, I know…,” Charles says under his breath, clearly having completely recovered from his previous mortification.

“You should’ve started earlier.” Erik’s tone might be a bit too harsh, certainly more than he intended. He can’t help himself but be frustrated, though, what with everything that watching Charles raise his hand and gently tap his fingers against his lips does to Erik’s insides.

Charles sighs, burying his face in his hands. “I know that too.” Erik can barely hear him, his voice muffled by his fingers, but he can tell that Charles must be annoyed with himself too. “Just… this isn’t half as interesting as the project I’m working on,” he explains, with an edge to his tone.

Erik rolls his eyes, though there’s hardly any malice behind the gesture. “I can believe that, but it’s getting annoying,” he says a little less sternly, despite his patience seriously dwindling.

“Sorry.” But Charles doesn’t look so sorry as he grabs one of the textbooks and opens it, back in that study mode of his.

Taking a deep breath, Erik barely refrains from raising his voice, his irritation only worsened by the worry about Charles’s awful sleeping habits. “You know all of that. Go to bed already.”

Charles’s thoughts are clearly far away from their conversation when he mumbles, “Just… let me finish—”

“Charles, you’re overtaxing yourself.” Erik’s tone is yet again harsh, though this time he can’t keep worry out of his voice.

The telepath doesn’t even respond, his whole attention at the textbook on his lap. Despite his immersion in the text, Charles’s head continues to be drooping, his back leaning heavily on the frame of his bed, and Erik doesn’t know what to do anymore to make this man finally get some sleep.

It’s still somewhat bewildering to him, to care for another person’s well-being so much that he starts completely brushing aside his own. It’s not like he is uncaring, but ever since his parents passed away Erik hasn’t allowed himself to get too close to other people. His wounds haven’t properly healed yet, and the thought of losing anyone else is so unbearable that he’d rather isolate himself than face the prospect of going through that again. Yet, he finds himself growing more and more fond of Charles with every passing day.

Although everyone seems to love Charles—that goes without question—Erik isn’t like everyone and a creature of very little trust, so he can’t be easily swayed into liking someone, even if confronted with the smoothest of flattery. But Charles isn’t like anyone else either and hardly an overconfident and snobbish smooth talker that Erik thought he was upon their first meeting. It took more than a couple of heated discussions during quite a few classes and the mutant rights club meetings and one memorable party, however, for Erik to start appreciating Charles’s seemingly endless enthusiasm, his infuriating idealism and the admirable faithfulness to his own ideals, and, most of all, his unconditional kindness.

As a cynic and a firm believer in the need for separation between baseline humans and mutants, Erik naturally would never agree with Charles’s integrationist ideas, though deep down he has to begrudgingly admit that such an approach might be beneficial in some instances. Besides, it’s not his fault, really, that Erik can’t resist that warm laughter, the playful quirk of that red mouth, and the mischievous glint in those hauntingly blue eyes. If he didn’t know much about telepathy, he’d think that this endearing charm is just a trick, but he knows better. Charles really happens to be just as charming, as if having the magnetic personality of an opposite pole, whose call is quite hard for Erik to resist.

Which doesn’t make Charles’s late-night study sessions any less irritating.

Erik must do something to make Charles finally go to sleep, and if the Charles way of talking and negotiating doesn’t work, it’s time for the Erik way. He slips from under the covers and jumps to the floor.

“Erik, give it back!,” Charles shrieks the second Erik snatches the book away from his hands, though his protests are much weaker than usual.

“I need sleep and so do you,” Erik says stubbornly, hugging the book to his chest. “So, just put it all away, or I’ll do that for you.”

Charles looks at him for a long moment, the exasperation in his expression mixed with something else, something odd. There’s a heaviness to his gaze that makes Erik shift minutely, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those brilliant eyes.

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Charles says eventually, although he doesn’t sound resigned, only mildly amused.

“You’re the one to talk,” Erik snaps back, albeit good-naturedly.

Signing once again, Charles just shakes his head, a small smile creeping on his lips. Then, he fixes Erik with a stern gaze.

“I’ll go to sleep when I finish this chapter,” he says seriously, and the determination that is colouring his eyes suggests that he won’t step down this time.

Erik purses his lips and regards him for a moment, contemplating the offer. The chances for negotiating conditions more favourable for Erik are scarce, and now is not a good time to pick up a fight. It seems best to relent.

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Erik decides, slowly releasing the book from his grasp.

Charles quickly goes to grab it before he can even let go of it, the telepath’s fingers brushing against Erik’s forearms and leaving a trail of the pleasant tingling sensation behind. Erik can’t help but sit here transfixed, the plush carpet soft against the bare skin of his shins, as Charles goes back to studying. There’s something enthralling in watching him in his element—because as exhausted as Charles is, there’s still so much passion in the way he’s practically devouring what is written on the pages before him. His eyes are alight again, and his lips are moving—lightly, captivatingly—as he’s quietly repeating the crucial tidbits of information.

Erik has never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life.

Although the book is once again laying open on his lap and stealing all his attention, Charles looks up from it, apparently having noticed Erik’s dumbfounded expression. “You can go back to bed now,” he points out lightly, his brows drawn in mild confusion.

“Not until I tuck you in first,” Erik responds before he has time to think much about his words.

He doesn’t even get a chance to start feeling self-conscious, however, as Charles is seemingly taking it all in stride. “That won’t be necessary, my friend,” he says, giving Erik an amused look, the corner of his lips—so distractingly red—rising in a half smile, and Erik finds it hard not to stare at them.

Instead, he narrows his eyes. “We’ll see.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Charles snorts and glances down at the book, his fingers finding their way back to his mouth.

The tip of his thumb begins to slowly trace the outline of his lower lip, back and forth, drawing all of Erik’s attention to that one delicate motion. He cannot help but be hypnotised, wishing against his better judgement that he could reach out and replace Charles’s fingers with his own. To map those lips with his touch, to explore the softness against his fingertips…

Erik looks up abruptly, his eyes boring in the ceiling. Breathing out, he almost groans, but refrains from doing so not to distract Charles. It’s really of no use, allowing himself for such mental escapades. This absurd infatuation has already made Erik’s life miserable enough, there is really no need to add fuel to the flames.

Except, he finds himself unable to stop. Everytime he sees Charles, hears his warm laughter, feels his fingers brushing against his own arm, is confronted with a clever and spot-on counterargument during their arguments, or witnesses a particularly cunning move during the game of chess, Erik can’t stop his mind from being consumed yet again by the thoughts of his best friend. It’s truly a miracle that Charles hasn’t picked up on those thoughts yet, and for once Erik is grateful for Charles’s strict moral code.

Nonetheless, Erik knows he has to put an end to it. It’s just a silly crush, after all, nothing worth putting their friendship on the line. No more foolishness from now on—he’ll just focus on getting through his studies, pushing all the other matters aside.

After some time, which seems to have stretched from mere minutes to long hours, Erik abruptly hears Charles close the book. He drops his gaze in time to see his friend put it down and then proceed to gather all the rest of the study materials into a pile.

“Okay, I’ve finished, happy?,” Charles says, pushing the pile closer to his bed. “You can tuck me in now.” He looks up and momentarily furrows his eyebrows. “Erik?”

Somehow, the earnest look of those beautifully blue eyes makes Erik’s resolve snap. So much for an end to all the silliness. Before he can stop his traitorous lips from moving, the question is already leaving his mouth, the one he’s been longing to ask for so long.

“Can I kiss you?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Charles’s eyebrows slowly rise, disappearing underneath his dishevelled hair. He’s still for what feels like an eternity, and Erik can feel the tendrils of the telepath’s thoughts retreating from his mind, folding in on themselves, which can’t possibly bode well.

Panic begins to rise in Erik’s chest. With his breath quickening, he does his best to slip on a mask of indifference over his face, hoping against hope that Charles hasn’t seen anything damning in his mind, especially not any of those lewd thoughts he’s been having lately. But before dread can consume his mind like a wildfire, Erik sees Charles’s expression soften and then the telepath is leaning in, stopping only when his face is a few mere inches from Erik’s.

He’s so close that Erik nearly goes cross-eyed, Charles’s breath ghosting over his lips. Erik remains frozen, waiting for his friend’s response, anticipating and dreading it in equal measure. He sees that Charles’s eyes are flickering all over his face, filled with… Is it excitement, or rather nervousness? Regardless, his look is clearly inviting, so Erik lets himself hope that maybe his friend does want the same thing.

“Yes.”

For a second, Erik isn’t sure if he has heard it correctly. It was barely a whisper, and Charles agreeing to such a ridiculous request sounds too good to be true. It soon becomes clear, however, that Erik’s ears were not playing tricks on him when Charles gives him one last smile and leans in farther to close the distance between them.

Erik’s eyes close on their own accord, and it takes a heartbeat for their lips to meet. It doesn’t feel like a particularly world-changing moment—or maybe it does, just not in the way Erik expected. It’s not like a lighting strike, turning his world upside down and igniting a raging fire inside of him, but it rather feels as if long-lost puzzle pieces finally fell in their proper places.

Kissing Charles feels like coming home.

His lips are just so soft, pliable against Erik’s, the warmth of their gentle touch spreading through Erik’s whole body like little electric shocks. The kiss is rather chaste, close-mouthed; even so, Erik can feel the air between them slowly changing and starting to crackle with the kind of tension that has barely reached the surface before. The wave of excitement mixed with lust that swiftly encompasses his mind proves that he’s not the only one who notices it.

Erik senses something else, however, something much deeper and warmer, as his hands find their way to Charles’s face. He runs his fingertips over the expanse of smooth skin, gently stroking Charles’s cheeks, and he can feel the warmth rising there. He can’t help but smile against his friend’s lips, feeling an affectionate nudge in his mind in return.

And then Erik hears it, a soft murmur permeating his thoughts.

I thought you’d never ask.

If anyone's interested, here's the mug Erik was reffering to (I found it funny, don't at me ^^').

And I'm considering perhaps writing more in that 'verse, so if any of you has any ideas, prompts, or requests, I'll be more than happy to oblige ;)

(Generally, I have more in store for Cherik, especially after Dark Phoenix (we'll always have Paris, after all), but those works are also getting longer than expected. Still, I'm cautiously optimistic about finishing them in August.)

#cherik #erik lehnsherr #charles xavier #x men #xmcu #x men: dark phoenix #xmdp #fluff #fluff with traces of plot #kissing #cherik au #cherik college au #cherik fanfic #my fanfiction #my writing #hanshaped writes #and mumbles

44 notes · View notes

theskyexists · 5 years

Text

she-ra season 3

i LOVE scorpia

this show has a bit of tonal issue in my opinion. they keep going back to a very teen-parent relationship between the trio and mum - when there’s a terrible war on.

people get killed but generally it really does just feel presented like a game or a fight about curfew and sometimes thats a bit jarring. (or is it strange to expect the graveness of situations to bring out a quality of sincerity even during puberty?)

i don’t really understand why Adora would jump to the conclusion that Shadoweaver showing up means she’s changed

but Adora, you ARE stupid. lol

but the rest is too. ‘don’t listen to her Adora’ why not? is it so terrible to be from another world? the stakes are quite murky

Entrapta’s comments really go to show how shit of a leader Hordak really is. HOw the hell did he manage to create this empire when he’s so damn incompetent? OOOHHHHHH CATRA SAID IT!!! just after i wrote that sentence she SAID IT

Hordak is an idiotic beserker

so why didn’t they take their unicorn flying steed?

‘well yeah - but you said that while saving us - so - you can’t be all bad. what do ya say’

i love the voice actor for Adora lolololol. she is clearly having SO much fun.

and Adora has a small crush on Huntara and absolutely ruins her chances with the barmaid by popping up. totally did not expect that voice for Huntara tho

entraptak is.....real. wtf. it’s.....cute. Hordak is just trying to be Prime. Failing at it miserably, lashing out. jfc it’s an endless cycle isn’t it.

‘know about she-ra? ahahahaha! I AM she-ra!’ THAT WAS BADASS. i love it when Adora is being rowdy and cocky

oh wow reversed chin-tilt with sword, and then lifting her head and soulful look? She-Ra really has chemistry with ALL the Princesses.

I LOVE scorpia. i loved that moment when Catra pushed her away nobly - i love how Catra has plausible deniability to herself. Love how the narrative reinforces that Catra is literally the most competent person around etc. (if they could get her for the Rebellion it would be over and out but hey)

surely Mara cut Aetheria off to save it from Hord-Prime’s war? Light-Hope wanted She-Ra to join the other She-Ra’s (’this world’s she-ra’) in the battle but she decided to hide the world and people she loved, breaking most of the magic-tech system. What I don’t understand is - the First Ones lived on Aetheria, but the people that populate it now are a different quality of organics, they can only survive in a specific atmosphere. The princesses are living components in the balancing of the tech-magic system...what are the people of the world? We don’t realise this most of the time, but all of them except for princesses, are animal-humanoids (and...kyle.....). What does this mean? Did the animal life unintentionally evolve? Were they an underclass - simply part of the system? (seems too edgy for this show).

‘why was i taken from my family? why was i forced to become a soldier?’ this line was GOOD

yesss!!! Mara! i love her already.

Scorpia is blushing lol. I am also liking Catra being completely off her shits careless and powerful.

Catra and Scorpia bonding yesssss!!!

ohhhhhHHH the magic of the planet is something of Aetheria itself! the tech is just latched on??? First Ones were colonisers (’settlers’)! but AETHERIA is what’s dangerous to the rest of the universe!!! (because it can be used as a weapon??) probably Aetheria would die as a result?

‘maybe it’s been a week, maybe it’s been thousands of years’ that is so fuckin sad

Catra being so hung up on acknowledgement is her greatest tragedy.

wow Scorpia really proposed a super cool thing and it could rearrange Catra’s WORLD

I want this show to stop repeating the same cycle after this last one time of Catra going: WAAAAHHH Adora made my life so hard now im going to do something inadvisable that might destroy us all as payback

Adora’s greatest tragedy is that she’s so self-centred that she doesn’t understand Catra at all.

if they have Angella and Glimmer fight and then have her mum die before they’ve made up i’ll be very upset (i’m not really loving Glimmer and Bow in this so far - they’re toeing the edge of annoying). and the fights about having to have plans and fighting or not fighting due to the fear of losing people - that’s always been uhhhh - well they always got away safe with shit plans and i just really don’t think that they’re meshing the commander-queen and daughter-mother stuff well. because there’s literally NO ONE ELSE in charge. there’s some magical queen and some villagers and a barely present guard. where’s the court, the advisors, anybody??

it would be silly to trust Shadoweaver (she did mercilessly torture you - no psychological effects from that stupidly enough), but i am hard-pressed to think of a reason she’d betray them.

still don’t understand how Frosta went from icy, frosty queen to idk a kid. i mean she can be both, but it was weird to see no uhhhh connection at all

I think this show is about how every single character is held back by their inability to grow and grow closer to others. Glimmer has disobeyed Angella SO often, why is she surprised at all? Why can’t she be honest and say: I am afraid! I am afraid I will lose you! I am afraid of that pain and I want you to take the risks seriously, to plan for them. I want to protect you!

That Glimmer would work with her torturer is of course a ridiculous notion. that is to say - if that kind of thing was properly given weight.

why fight Catra??? Why not just teleport to Hordak’s inner sanctum?? it’s stupid. why waste all the damn power

glad entrapta finally heard from Adora that she didn’t mean to leave her behind though.

‘you can’t fight them they’re too strong!’ ?? Glimmer just got sucked dry tho? like what. the way this show always postpones its fights on shitty pretexts is ....acceptable but pretty roll-eye-y

Catra burning all her bridges.

“there’s no choice” fucking bullshit, just teleport lol.

lol Catra feeds the anti-princess propaganda right back to Hordak. that’s poetic but jfc i really hope next season is going to be a little less *shuffles deck, cards end up in a million different hands, literally all cards feel betrayed*

so catra is willing to pull the annihilation switch on the universe just to one-up Adora just this once LOLLLL. if only somebody hadn’t ingrained a deeply seated inferiority complex in this cat

anyway i want her to feel the consequences of all that for a change

that animation on everything going VWWWWWWOOOOOOMM darkness was awesome

OHHHH the next episode has an awesome premise.

can i just say that i LOVE this episode. it’s so damn creepy and cool and kind of nostalgic. and i LOVE that it’s Scorpia and Adora who are remembering things - the ones closest to Catra. AND THEN THEY BOND!!!! and hold hands!!!!

reliving the betrayals. love the way the memories hit people, the way Catra goes from her old self, their playfulness, their casual violence ratcheting up at each other because that’s how they’ve been trained - to defend themselves, and then - the true Catra, the hysteria, gone so far off the deep-end. “i’d rather let the whole world be destroyed than let you win.” geeze that’s rooted deep.

angella and mica are so cuteeee. but angella really hasn’t changed has she? no tolerance for difficulty. she honestly is a bit of a shit queen. thought that was bc of grief and trauma but eh

he puts a truth spell on her but then he doesn’t believe her? does he think she’s crazy?

don’t think i’ve ever shipped something as hard in this show as Mica/Angella. i just LOVE royal woman x good man apparently. I LOVE IT SO MUCH. god why didn’t she kiss him on the lips>????

oh SHIT, MARA IS STILL TRAPPED INSIDE THE PORTAL LIKE ENTRAPTA SAID - THAT’S WHY SHE SAID: HAS IT BEEN A DAY OR THOUSANDS OF YEARS?

so...is there a reason that Angella is not faded?

wow that speech about bravery and cowardice. she truly. TRULY, ok they made something of her. I HATE losing Angella because the voice acting is INCREDIBLE. but that was actually an amazing end. (and she got to see Mica for the last time, at least)

ok so if i lost my mum forever i would be SCREAMING in pain but i guess these itsy bitsy tears from Glimmer will do?

that look of pure determination and anger and mercilessness in Adora’s eyes at Catra? nice. wish Catra didn’t go into a sulk at it but kept her goddamn FEAR (Adora was totally right, she vanquished another demon from her past - everything Catra did, she CHOSE to do. and her keeping on blaming others is simply - cowardice)

#anyway #that was a very good season #but i am not sure about this glimmer and angella thing #it still feels totally fuckin #weird #even more so now #kdslabf #sdjabj #sdjakfj #my stuff #she ra #vidi

4 notes · View notes

uldren-sov · 5 years

Photo

AAAA so my lovely rp partner @s0tc commissioned the LOVELY @cytharat with our agents in some not so wintery wonderland conditions and s0tc surprised me with these today and they’re so incredible!!! AAA look at them ;;;

Thank you so much, both of you! Below is my part of our gift exchange.

Out of any assignment they’ve had so far; the jungle, the desert, the interrogation, the poison - this may yet stand to be the worst. It’s been a week and there still hasn’t been any safe weather to go check out their post yet. A blizzard had torn through, nearly crashing their transport shuttle from the space station to the main base here on Hoth upon arrival. And since then, it had not let up for a full week.

Some planets should just be better left unsettled.

Evacios and Evelyn had made due, kept focus on their objective here, and trained … for the first five days. Past that and it was beyond the pail of what they needed to do and what Imperial Intelligence wanted them to do. Besides, it wasn’t like there was any communication out of the base during the blizzard, no one to report on what they could, or couldn’t do.

And what didn’t they do.

But even that became boring, became inconvenient and more hassle than it was worth. But on the seventh day, the comms crackled to life with the broken up voice of a petty officer on the other end. Communication at last which meant …

Evacios was one of the first to see just how the landscape has changed as a result of all the snow, and after being the one to hit the massive cargo bay doors he -- couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised. The snow had piled up, perhaps 20 feet, along the edge of the door. Some of it started to crumble, to fall into the hangar that led out, but sunlight flooded the room, sparkling off the mostly fluffy snow.

“Well, shit,” he heard Evelyn suddenly grouse beside him. They were both ready in their winter gear to set out, to finally get started so they could leave the planet; Evelyn in appropriate white-and-light-blue accented gear, to camouflage in the snow. Evacios? Evacios already had a stealth generator, so he wore his signature black.

“If they ask us to shovel we’re-” he started, cut off from the base commander emerging along with most of the retinue here.

“All right! We’ve confirmed the storm has passed and has continued South-Southwest which means we need to clear a landing area immediately! New oil for the droids and a shovel for every able hand,” she said and there it was, the pointed look towards them, “and may I remind you that while you two might be Intelligence; here? You’re still under my command.” A quick standoff, as Evacios settled a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, if looks could kill she’d have probably run the commander through in a heartbeat -- much like how he wanted to. Yet he had to play his part, the responsible one, the leader, so while he might have glared he still snapped to attention.

“Yes, sir,” he managed. It satisfied the commander and he felt, rather than heard, Evelyn deflate beside him.

“So you just get to sign us up for volunteer service?” she said, turning her perturbed gaze his way, crossing her arms and scowling. She wasn’t pleased, that much was certain, but he nonetheless settled his grip on her upper arms, massaging them slightly.

“The sooner we help, means the sooner we’ve finished, means the sooner we can get to work,” he explained but smiled just enough for her to narrow her eyes.

“I don’t believe that for a second and remember I know when you’re lying, now,” she warned - interrogation training; both of them were given separate and unique “win” conditions, and while she at least knew he had been feeding her false information she couldn’t get him to give the answers she needed. A win and a loss, perhaps, but he nonetheless let her think she knew his tells.

“True,” a sigh and then a twitch of a grin in truth. “It’s just, you said you’ve never seen snow before and-” oh, but she looked outraged in an instant.

“This is your fault,” she started, as people began to move about them, around them, the soldiers starting to go through procedure to start clearing the wall of snow.

“It is,” he agreed and leaned in just close enough to only not be kissing her, the steam of their breath floated up between them, “and I promise I’ll make it up to you later.” It mollified her immediately, still upset yet nowhere near the anger he saw.

“You better.” And he sealed the promise with a quick kiss.

Most of the snow was cleared by the droids, while it wasn’t impossible to get up so high for the soldiers, and two would-be Ciphers, to start assisting, it was high enough to warrant caution, especially as more of the snow crumbled in large chunks and scattered across the floor. A small avalanche would ruin equipment, so best let the droids do it up to a certain point.

And that certain point apparently was midway and midday, the droids having pushed the snow aside, meant there were now dizzyingly high walls of snow on either side of the hangar entrance. And while they didn’t need to clear much space, there had to be enough for a fighter and a shuttle to land. The snow wall was some ten feet up, high enough to still warrant a ladder and before long, white-clad soldiers skittered up them like ants up an ant hole to begin work digging out the entrance the old-fashioned way.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Evelyn said from below him on the ladder. He stopped at the top to offer her his hand - which she took.

“It’s your first time seeing snow. How could I possibly pass up the opportunity for you to experience it hands-on?” He smiled and she shook her head. And while he spun his shovel, the loathsome task he signed himself up for as well was one more thing he had to tolerate with this training, he did at least catch Evelyn look out with wonder.

Indeed, spread out before them was a verifiable sea of white, a desert where instead of sand, was ice. It rolled and crested with where the wind found and built dunes upon. The mountainous peaks dotting the horizon were frosted along the peppery black stone and silvery ice as the wind dipped down to woosh gently through the man-made tunnel they were all now creating. The kicked up snow caught the errant flakes, pinwheeling them through the icy-cold air, sparkling in the sunlight of a clear day.

It was hard for Evacios to not share, at least a bit, in the wonder he saw in Evelyn’s expression. Still, he stalked over and pulled the yellow-tinted goggles down over her eyes - snapping her out of her reverie.

“Let’s get to work.”

And what work it was. For hours they toiled, heave-hoing snow off to the side for the droids to push away. The whole platoon, even the commander, took up a shovel to start clearing the area and then create a ramp up to the rest of the world on the far side of the landing. It didn’t have to be completely clear, the whole base was no doubt situated on centuries old ice and snow, and should they dig, they’ll no doubt just find the ice shelf. No, they just had to clear it to an even level of the base. It took the full day, the sun now starting to fall into the horizon - perhaps giving them an hour, maybe two, before it would sink past the mountain ranges and once again make the temperatures unbearable and inhabitable. Evacios tossed his, then Evelyn’s shovel to a passing droid and sighed heavily. His arms, shoulders, and back burned from use - yet even that was not enough to say he was truly warm. Hoth may not have been the worst place for an Imperial to be stationed, that award belonged to Korriban beyond a shadow of a doubt, but damned if this place wasn’t at least top three.

“This might be my first time seeing snow,” huffed Evelyn, as tired soldiers trudged past them, back inside, “but you know what? If I never see any snow ever again, I’m good.” She worked her shoulders out, and then her neck.

“No love for it anymore?” he crossed his arms as she emphatically shook her head.

“I’ve dug trenches in the jungle during the rainy season,” she started and shook her head, “and honestly, I think I like that better.” She huffed. “I can’t wait to get off this planet.”

It wasn’t that much of an issue … yet Evacios knew that so long as she held this animosity, it was only likely to grow. He couldn’t have her frustrated or angry when they haven’t even started their mission. They had bunks here, they had heating here, they had food, and blankets, and warm ‘freshers, and all the amenities of an altogether comfortable - despite the environment - outpost. Evacios himself, as spec ops, have seen and lived through far worse and knowing that their mission took them far outside any kind of military outpost? This was as good as they were going to get, and he couldn’t have her start out like this when morale would probably be the only thing that got them through this test.

He wandered away from her innocently enough.

“Surely you can’t miss the rain, the humidity, the bugs,” he started, just trying to get her going - keep her talking and if not distracted, then at least focused on something else.

“The rain you can keep out, the outposts had dehumidifiers, and there’s bug spray for a reason,” she checked them all off. “I even prefer the vine cats, at least that gave us something to keep an eye out for.”

“You want there to be some kind of deadly creature out here? Lurking just behind any errant snow drift to kill us?” he asked jokingly as he turned his back to her and squatted down.

“Just something to break up all the monoto-” ironically that was when the snowball had hit her chest. She was stunned as she looked down to see the smear of snow clinging to her suit and slowly looked to him, the snow clearly on his hands, twisted on one knee to get the bead on her and throw it.

“I’m sorry, what was that again?” He grinned, giving her his best mischievous look before she snapped back to it and started sprinting at him. He scooped up another handful before running, himself, away from the base, off to the side - where the massive wall of snow would hide them from curious onlookers.

He snapped to a turn and threw the snowball back towards her, it was sudden but she was quick enough to duck and curl, the snowball glanced off her shoulder but she gave a surprised yell at the impact. A new sensation, one she was unaccustomed to, of course her body would react that way but the smile was unmistakable in a second. It even grew, unbidden, from him as she quickly reached down to arm herself as well. He took off and lept over a haphazard pile of snow he thought he could use as cover.

Instead, his feet met with unpacked snow and he sank a solid two feet behind the pile with a surprised gasp. His legs caught very nearly painfully, yet all that happened was give Evelyn time enough to make her very first snowball and launch it at his head. He brought his arm up in time to brace his face but he felt it skid across his hair. He scurried to get out of the hole but by that time she made another and caught him in the back with it.

“This is called payback!” she shouted without any hint of malice as another one caught him in the side before he could finally pull himself out. And when that one hit he even heard a peel of laughter coming from her.

All right then. He may have gotten out of his hole but he kept low and pushed the loose snow up into a small hill - some cover as he kept prone and worked some snow loose around him so he could get even lower.

“You know, I think you’re a better shot with these than you are with a blaster!” he called, and when he looked to gauge her reaction he had to duck at once to avoid a streak of snow - a poorly compacted snowball.

“Real funny, at least i'm not using tactics to win a snowball f-” and from his cover he launched one, two, three more snowballs which caught her in her hip, her side, and her chest. Her eyes widened, her expression a mix of outrage and perhaps exhilaration as she quickly ran behind some cover herself and they began the assault in truth. It wasn’t long before every throw, every connection, was met with shrieks of laughter and tapered chuckles. It was a complicated game of cat-and-mouse with snowballs as the former soldiers and Ciphers in training ducked and moved between covers, between volleys, and admittedly stumbling and tripping over the soft powdery snow where it wasn’t packed down correctly.

It all came to a head when Evacios peeked out over a small hill and saw that Evelyn was not but a few feet in front of him, sprinting as hard as she could and seemed to have no intention of stopping. He could step out of the way, he could slip out of the grasp - perhaps - but he let it happen. She crashed into him, nearly folding him in half as they both collapsed into the soft snow in a plume of flakes.

“I win,” she said between crests of breathless laughter. Poised above him she kept him down with hands firmly on his chest, not that he was making any effort to change that.

“This time,” he conceded, surprised, at least, to find himself smiling. He would have been content at that, but then he remembered - had to always remember and keep up his ploy. He covered her hands with his, his black gloves covering her white ones in their entirety. He met her energized grin with a sly smile of his own, one he knew spoke of promises only he could keep. “Take what you want as a prize.” An obvious invitation but one she nonetheless took.

She kissed him immediately, hotly, full of an aggression and possession she no doubt used with plenty of men before him - men that easily and eagerly wilted from. He, on the other hand, slowly wound his arms around her body, covering over the white of her jacket, and his gloved hands disappearing into her black tresses. He gripped her behind her head and held her back just enough to reply, slower, deeper, languid enough to where she sighed gently through her nose and was compliant in a matter of seconds. He angled her head as he drew her in closer, brushing his fingers down to the base of her skull, keeping her to him, as he kissed her methodically, slanting his lips against hers until he pulled her back and she gasped softly for breath.

“Come on, it’s going to get dark soon and I’m not entirely convinced the commander won’t lock us out on principal,” he whispered with a smirk. She huffed in response, another shake of her head.

“The faster we’re away from her the better, definitely,” she agreed as she unwound herself from his embrace and offered him a hand. He didn’t take it and stood on his own, to which she just shrugged, “by the way. I’m not done with you yet.” She made her own promise in her own way and he had to smirk, raising his split eyebrow in amusement.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” he commented airily, as he started brushing himself off. “But, hm, humor me for a second.” He fished through his pocket as she crossed her arms and watched him curiously. He found his holo, hit a button, and tossed it gently. It landed just a couple of feet from them and began hovering.

“Really? A picture?” she questioned dryly.

“To commemorate your first foray into the elements,” he said glibly as he stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “As I said, humor me.” He smiled and gave a quick kiss to her cheek. She rolled her eyes but she was having a hard time fighting off the smile on her face.

“Fine. One picture,” she relented but snatched the holo from its position to hold it up higher.

1 … 2 … 3 … He smiled and held her close and as soon as it was taken she quickly reviewed it. He watched her from behind, the earnesty of her excitement was touching but the sun was now low, the day was ending, and work would begin again soon. He pressed his cheek against the crown of her head and she leaned back into his embrace, yes - Intelligence work would begin again soon, his work, though, was never done.

#i wish i had money or could draw but below the cut is long!#ly soph!!!#this is so lovely ty guys sm!!! ;;;;#SWTOR #Eve and Eva

105 notes · View notes

hellfire-damnation · 5 years

Text

The Morning After the Night Before || Marginally Catholic

Backdated: June 16th, 2019

Following the events of JUNE PROM 2019, Claude and Gaston have a conversation regarding the previous nights’ events.

TW: Mentions of violence (Al)

@every-last-inch-of-me

GASTON:

Gaston woke with the pressure of something warm and fluffy sliding under his arm and licking his hand with its barbed tongue. Given another ten minutes, the headache or perhaps the urge to piss might have woken him up anyway. Or the fact that there was something on his chest, jabbing into his ribs.

His eyes peeled open and focussed on the mess of brown hair in front of him. In the light, however unwelcome to his dehydrated brain, the strands glowed a deep honey gold and he smiled softly to himself. Perhaps the night hadn't ended so badly after all. Someone had come home with him. And sure, he might not have remembered round one, but there was a chance he'd be able to slip in a quickie before they left.

The hand that the cat had been licking raised and he tenderly stroked away the hair to reveal the beautiful sleeping face of- Father Frollo.

"Fuuuuuuuck," he groaned, as the memories flooded back to him. Nothing incriminating, of course. They were simply so mundane it was painful. He'd fought Al. He'd gone to get drunk. The priest had hauled him home and, while he'd been checking to make sure Gaston hadn't hurt himself too badly on Al's blubber, they'd passed out on the couch.

And now, like a couple of old people, Claude was dribbling on him. Great.

CLAUDE:

The sunlight that streamed in from somewhere rather unpleasantly onto his face made the priest groan and press his face into whatever he was laying on, hands tightening for a moment to gather purchase so that he could burrow closer. And, then, his brow furrowed. Those were arms. And ribs. And his head was laying on someone's chest, rising and falling as they breathed...where the fuck was he-

Still almost half-asleep, Claude registered a hand pushing through his hair, leaning into it almost on instinct, and something warm pressed against his side, rumbling as it pressed close. A cat, then, for one. The other was discovered a moment later when he heard his companion curse with a groan.

Gaston.

How they'd ended up like this he did not know but, even still, the pounding in his head was a much bigger problem, for the time being. He remembered helping the man home, cleaning up his hands from where they'd split open hitting Al. Gaston had passed out, at some point, and Claude had maneuvered him onto the couch. Somehow, he'd ended up there as well, sans, he could now tell, waistcoat, shoes, and, apparently, the buttons on his shirt.

"Please do not make so much noise," he mumbled, wincing as his head throbbed. "I do not know how I let you talk me into this, and I hardly drank. I do not know how you do it."

GASTON:

Gaston lolled his head back and continued groaning, only slightly quieter this time. True enough, he'd had a lot more to drink than Claude. But he'd developed something of a tolerance for the stuff. He woke up most mornings feeling a little like this and once you got used to it, it just felt like 'waking up'.

Though he had to admit, this was a little worse than usual. Probably because he'd gone back to the drinks table after the fight and decided to drink the best part of whatever was on it. And also because the part of his cheek that the comic book guy had punched was actually starting to hurt now. Just a little. But enough to piss him off.

"Force of habit," he mumbled, twisting his head into a nearby pillow in search of some comfort. "Can you turn your cheekbones off? They're digging into my ribs."

CLAUDE:

"Tolerance is shit," he mumbled, cringing at the way the noise of his own voice ricocheted around his head. He whined softly at the pounding behind his eyes, scrunching up his face and burrowing further into the place it was resting on Gaston's chest.

Still, when the man asked him to move, he did. Dragged himself upwards a bit and twisted his face to find somewhere comfortable again. That means, approximately, up somewhere underneath Gaston's chin but, really, he couldn't care at the moment. Somehow he'd managed to get an arm wedged between the other man and the cushions of the couch and, wiggling around a bit, freed it after a few moments of precarious difficulty. He fixed the leg that had been wedged between Gaston's, no longer draped in such a way that he could knee the man.

"I am going to blame you for the mass that is not happening today, then," the priest continued as he sunk back down into the couch and the body beneath him, forehead pressed into the space just at Gaston's collarbone. "Or, at the very least, not happening until this evening."

GASTON:

Something between a laugh and a grunt escaped Gaston's body as the other man bore into his side. Despite the ache in his bones and the throb in his head that aged him a thousand years, it almost made him feel like a boy again. They'd once huddled like this as children, teens, fresh to the world with no concern for how things looked. They'd get drunk and sleep in piles. Or sleep in piles anyway. Young skin on young skin. A mess of legs and hair and breath.

With time they all grew out of it (save, it seemed, for on the occasional stag do) and, though he'd never admit it to the open air, the barman had almost missed being a pile on a couch somewhere.

"What can I say?" He said, peeling an eye open to look at the priest. "You're more than welcome. Mass is overrated anyway." He stifled a yawn. "The price you pay for a good time."

CLAUDE:

The priest huffed a laugh into Gaston's shirt, scrunching up his face after a moment when even that hurt his head. Fuck, he didn't know how people woke up like this. He sighed quietly, still half-asleep. He didn't even know what time it was, just that the sun was up and it was being a bit of a bastard at the moment.

"You would be proud of yourself," he mumbled, cracking an eye open and tilting his chin so it came to rest somewhat upright on Gaston's chest. "How is your face feeling? It looks a bit worse." Though it was harder to tell, given he was looking at it with only one eye open, Claude could see that the skin on the other man's jaw was an angry red, slowly fading into a dark bruise beneath the five o'clock shadow.

Opening his mouth to say more, the sun chose that moment to shift and settle right on his face. Flinching away from the light, Claude groaned and burrowed his head back into the other man's chest, cursing quietly under his breath. Sooner or later one of them would need to move, to get something for their heads and maybe a glass of water or two, food, showers. But it would be a moment longer, yet.

GASTON:

Gaston pulled a face, eyes closed. He couldn't see the mark and frankly he didn't want to. It didn't hurt much, not unless he put pressure on it. But to him, it stood as an embarrassing symbol of a fight that he won but somehow lost at the same time. After all, his date hadn't gone home with him. As far as he could tell by the lack of notifications on his phone, she hadn't texted him either. And worst of all, he'd seen people actually comforting and cheering on the fat nerd. If there was anything that served as a mark of his own failure as a human being, it'd be that bruise.

"My face is fine. Always fine. Damn fine, some would say," he answered, in an attempt to deflect the conversation to something he'd rather talk about. Like how beautiful he normally was. Or everything that hadn't gone wrong that night.

He flopped his head over. "Probably should've just outright asked Adella. Fuck Lady. Fuck Al." He licked the inside of his mouth to stave off some of the dryness that talking had brought. "And fuck you for not being a woman. You know, I'd really thought I had it in the bag for a moment there."

CLAUDE:

"You are lying," he mumbled, tilting his face back up to look critically at the other man, voice still sleep roughened and accent-thick. He almost had the urge to poke him in the face but settled, instead, for somewhere along his ribs. "It is a sin to lie to a priest, you know, even a hungover one." His voice was teasing (as teasing as it could be at a time like this) but Claude was also being incredibly serious. It was his way of asking the other man to tell him the truth, to talk about it, and if he didn't want to, well, Claude could forgive him that.

Still, as the other man continued, the Frenchman found himself settling down again, still mostly asleep and not really wanting to move. He could bitch all he wanted, as far as Claude was concerned, he could just keep listening through the rumble in his chest.

Face curled half on an arm and half in Gaston's shift once more, Claude did not let the comment get to him. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder, cracking an eye open again to look at him, a hand fisting into the side of his shirt as he patted at his side. "Je suis désolé, nounours. You know...it is not Al's fault. Not really. She came with two dates. Things were bound to go poorly." He did not know how else to say it. Claude did not usually blame someone. Why was there a reason? But now? Well, it was just a bit different here wasn't it. Instead of continuing, he offered a smile, pitching his voice lower to tease at him again, fingers nudging at his ribs almost unconsciously.

"Remind me to take you with me whenever I decide to act like a normal human being. If someone gets fresh I can just have you hit them."

GASTON:

If it wouldn't make him look like a petulant five-year-old, or likely rip his mouth in half considering how dry it was, he probably would have stuck his tongue out. To both the fact that apparently, the whole of him wasn't good enough for her and the reminder that he was hanging out with a priest. Not that there was much wrong with it. The second part, at least (the first, he'd never get over). But he preferred to think of the other man as a human being, not a limb of the church. After all, the church probably had a lot of thoughts about him and frankly, he didn't want to hear any of them.

He rolled his head to one side and opened his eyes again. The light had shifted slightly, glowing gently over his chest and the pale hand prodding at his side. It might have been beautiful if the movement wasn't making him feel queasy.

"Oh," he said, managing a smirk that didn't seem to hurt his skull too much. "So you're planning to act like a normal human being more often then? You're really enjoying this that much? I guess I should be flattered. I can add Gaston: ‘Holy Protector’ to my CV. Do you think the Vatican would pay me for it? I feel like they have enough money."

CLAUDE:

Claude could feel the petulance from where he was sprawled but he chose to ignore it. It was far too early to acknowledge something like that, really. He had much better things to do. Like go back to sleep. He was already halfway there anyway. And who could begrudge him that? The pounding in his head had inky barely subsided, still a dull throbbing behind his eyes, and the Frenchman had no problem burying his face half under an arm to get it to go away again.

When Gaston spoke again, however, he could hear the smug smirk in his voice. It made him frown, a bit, and when he answered it was half-hidden by the skin of his arm and a good majority of Gaston's shirt. "I do not enjoy the headache but I am enjoying sleeping in. Actually sleeping in general. I do not get much of it, these days." He snorted when the topic of money was brought up and shrugged a shoulder. "If they do I see very little of it. I am required to take an oath of poverty. The church is meant to provide us with the necessary resources we need to survive."

Even tired, scepticism colored his words. It was hardly one of the things that bothered him though. What bothered him was the amount of money, influence, and power the church itself had and how very little of it, at least to Claude, that was spent outside of them. It was as though they could only do so much when, in his opinion, there could be so much more they could do.

GASTON:

The more he heard about it, the more he was certain that priesthood was just the theft of a good life. Of course, religion was useful. When it came to righteousness and dealing with the impending doom of your own mortality. But he wasn't sure he could very far behind an organization that aspired to put people in poverty - and worse, forced them to wake up before midday. Even if it was as much a part of his blood as it was everything else.

Much like a lot of people in Catholic countries, his family had projected the religion. They went to church sometimes, they confessed when they needed to. But once they were home, they never let it stop them having fun. Even Papi, who was by far the strictest in their family, only seemed to care so much when it was gays or foreigners.

"Good thing I haven't taken a vow of poverty then, isn't it? Also, a good thing I'd be asking them, not you," he said, stifling a yawn and bring his hand into the fur behind Zoom Zoom's ears. "They'd do great things if I was the poster boy for Catholicism, you know. They could bring out 'sexy priests' posters with me posing in a dog collar." He shuffled his arm under Claude. "Still think I'd look pretty hot in one of those shirts."

CLAUDE:

Wrinkling his nose at the mental image of Gaston posing in a dog collar, Claude half-heartedly swatted at him when he started moving. "It is not a dog collar. It's called a clerical collar. Or a Roman collar." Gaston's chest expanded from the force of his stifling a yawn and Claude squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position while holding in a yawn of his own. "Stop yawning. And for the record you would probably be held to something if you are taking money from the church."

Fingers toying absentmindedly with the sleeve under his hand and the blanket that had been wrapped around them sometime during the night, the Frenchman heaved another small sigh. "No, you are right. I would not be asking. And you would not be giving me any money. So there is no point in talking about it." He knew the other man was stubborn but Claude could be as well and there was something about the idea of taking money from the other man that, while not unpleasant, was not the aim of his relationship with him.

The rumbling of Zoom Zoom pressed up somewhere against Claude and Gaston's sides, coupled with the steady breathing of the person beneath him, was lulling the priest into a steady feeling of tiredness once more. Still, he tried for a moment to keep himself lucid.

GASTON:

Gaston rolled his eyes at the technicalities. It was a dog collar if he thought it was a dog collar and that was the end of that. After all, Claude himself said they'd tie you to something if you took money from them. To the younger man, it sounded a lot like a dog collar to him, regardless of what the actual terms were.

"Wouldn't stop me looking good in it. And really, who said I'd give you any of the money anyway? I could keep my calendar money and get myself something nice. Like a suit." His hand curved around the cat's face and he paused for a moment, tempted by sleep’s pull. "Or a half-decent date to prom." He nuzzled his head into the arm cushions. "Never got you that corsage, did I?"

CLAUDE:

"I could hear that from here," he murmured, nudging Gaston in the ribs for whatever face he'd pulled. Claude sighed, forcing down a groan, before looking up at the man again. "You would. I know you would. And if you're so worried about finding a suit, I know plenty of places."

He laid his head back down then, sleepily grumbling, before he caught the end of what Gaston had said. The priest shrugged a shoulder, a bit of an amused tilt to his lip. "Make it up to me later. Starting with letting me sleep."

GASTON:

Gaston mouthed sloppily along with the other man's comments. He was a child at the best of times, especially when it came to mocking people, and the combination of a hangover and the priest only doubled the urge.

Besides, he never really knew what to do when people actually believed in him, believed there was a spark of goodness left inside his rotten soul. It was easier to deal with life when people didn't have great expectations for you.

For a moment, he shifted down into the pillows, dragging a nearby throw up, to offer them some coverage. Zoom Zoom nuzzled into his armpit and Gaston yawned. "Whatever you say, Father Frollo. Whatever you say."

#ch: gaston #p: the morning after the night before #r: marginally catholic

2 notes · View notes

lazywonderlnds-blog · 6 years

Text

FIC: What’s My Age Again?

Pairing: Harry/Draco Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 12,249 Kinks/Tropes: Top!Harry, Bottom!Draco, Quidditch Player!Harry, Ministry Worker!Draco, Confident!Harry, Bisexual!Harry, Hung!Harry, Rimming, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Rough Sex, UST, Flirting Warnings: Minor recreational drug use Summary: Harry Potter has had enough of pleasing the public, and his reckless tendencies are finally getting out of hand. The Quidditch World Cup is only a week away; as Captain of the English National Team, Hermione has assured him that his immaturity won’t be tolerated by the Ministry. And then Malfoy shows up. (Inspired by the blink-182 song of the same name.) Links: AO3 Notes: WOW, I’ve been working on this forever and here it finally is! Likes and reblogs are, of course, greatly loved and appreciated. ❤️

* * *

“ No one should take themselves so seriously With many years ahead to fall in line Why would you wish that on me? I never wanna act my age

What's my age again? ”

- blink-182

* * *

Harry’s flat was in utter shambles; Hermione had come by in the middle of her work day to help him restore order.

Some time last night while he had been out having a pint with Ron and Dean Thomas, somebody had come into his London apartment and trashed the place.

Not just somebody, though — it had been Emily, the cute little blonde-haired witch he’d been dating a year now, who had turned out to be not so much cute and little as she was needy and suffocating. This disaster was the proof, if he’d needed it.

With a wave of his wand, Harry repaired an electric lamp that had smashed into a million pieces across his hardwood floor, sending it flying back into place on an end table. The leather couch beside it had been slashed to ribbons, as well — the stuffing had been everywhere — but Hermione had already taken care of that one, and an hour later it looked good as new.

“I suppose this means we’re not dating anymore, does it?” said Harry, lifting an eyebrow as he surveyed the flat, trying to spot anything they’d missed. Hermione finished straightening the clock that sat on top of his mantel and then turned to look at him.

“That seems like a safe bet considering the 'WE'RE OVER' in red lipstick on your bathroom mirror,” she agreed sardonically, looking exasperated. “What happened? Just a fortnight ago Emily was telling me she thought you might be thinking of proposing. How do you get from that to this? I mean, my goodness, Harry.”

“Proposing?” he echoed, latching onto the word and ignoring the rest of Hermione’s question. “She said she thought I’d be proposing?”

“Well, yes.” Hermione took a seat on the newly-repaired sofa, brushing some hair out of her eyes and fixing Harry with a probing stare. “You’ve been together a year and a half now, she seemed to think that was the direction it was heading. I did, mind you, bring up the fact that you continue to refuse to move in with her, which hardly bodes well for a marriage, but you know Emily.”

“Selective hearing,” said Harry dourly. He felt his irritation mounting. “Well, bollocks to her, then. Crazy wench.”

“Harry!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, though he wasn’t. He was confused, yes. Monumentally pissed off, absolutely. But sorry? Not even a little bit. “Good to be rid of her, to tell you the truth. Couldn’t bloody stand it having her here every time I came home from practice. Didn’t even let me take a bath without bringing me a sodding tray of tea and biscuits. Like I can be arsed to eat biscuits when I’m trying to have a fucking soak.”

Hermione, to his surprise, had started chuckling.

“It’s not a bloody joke, Hermione! You try having a relaxing bath with soggy bits of food floating around the bubbles.”

“Why hadn’t you broken up with her, then?”

Realizing he didn’t have much of an answer, Harry merely shrugged.

“So, then, what was it?" she scoffed. "What could you possibly have done to provoke the bedlam we just spent an hour cleaning up?”

“It wasn’t just one thing,” he said, rolling his eyes as he sat down beside Hermione. She lifted an eyebrow. “She’s been cross with me all week. Last Saturday night it started, because of that Ministry event. The fundraiser one, can’t remember what it was for.”

“The one you didn’t show up to,” Hermione said dryly.

“She went off on me like you wouldn’t bloody believe when I told her I wasn’t going,” he went on, ignoring Hermione’s tone entirely. “Should’ve heard the things she was saying. Told me that I haven’t got my priorities straight and I ought to start living up to my name.”

A hand flew up to Hermione’s mouth, suppressing what was clearly laughter. Harry didn’t bother hiding his own grin.

“It was really something, I’ll tell you that much. I guess what finally did it, though, was, er — well, I may have forgotten we’d had a date the other night and gone out with the team after practice. It wasn’t on purpose or anything, though!” he said quickly. “Not like I deliberately blew her off.”

“Harry,” Hermione deadpanned, reminding him forcefully of their years at Hogwarts together. He might have blown off a Transfiguration essay for all the reproach that was soaked into her voice. “While I don’t condone this tantrum she’s thrown, I really do think you owe her an apology. That was incredibly insensitive.”

“I know —”

“And if you were so fed up with her, you should have just broken up with her —”

“I know, Hermione —”

“I mean, really, Harry, there’s just no point, you’re making yourself as miserable as you’re making her —”

“I know, Hermione!” he barked, exasperated.

“Well, why didn’t you do it, then!” she retorted immediately, looking beady-eyed and disapproving. Any trace of humour had drained from her countenance. “You could have saved us the trouble of repairing your entire flat this afternoon!”

“I dunno, do I?” he said irritably, standing up from the sofa and dragging a hand through his wildly messy hair. This was a lie, though — he did sort of know why, he just wasn’t keen on discussing his aversion to engaging in any sort of serious conversation. “I didn’t want to deal with it, I suppose. I’d bet you a hundred Galleons she’d have done the same thing if I’d broken up with her, anyway, she’s barking. At least this way it saves me a row.”

Hermione made a throaty noise of disbelief. “What, you think you’re just never going to talk to her again? Harry, you still have to properly end it!”

“You’re joking, right?” Her face made it very clear she was not. Harry scoffed. “This is what she did to my house, Hermione. Imagine what she’ll do to me.”

“You know, Harry, you are being a bit immature about this —”

“Oh, not you too,” Harry snapped, mood plummeting the instant the word ‘immature’ had left her mouth. His temper was not easy to stoke these days, quite the opposite of the way he’d been before the war — although Harry supposed that might have had something to do with the fact that, in the last few years, he’d stopped taking anything all that seriously. “Like the Prophet isn’t bad enough.”

“I’m just talking about your relationship, Harry,” Hermione said sharply. She stood up now too, and there was a stern look on her face like she’d moved past exasperation and on to genuine annoyance. “But, you know, if you want my honest opinion, I do think you’ve been acting incredibly immature these last couple years, and it’s only been getting worse.”

“Funny, I don’t remember asking your honest opinion,” he sniped, but Hermione, apparently, had had enough.

“I knew something like this was going to happen,” she snapped, gesturing around the flat which had only an hour ago looked like a nuclear test site. “It was bound to, eventually, the way you’ve been acting! Like a — a —”

“Go ahead, say it,” Harry bit out. He knew the word she was dancing around — it had been used in conjunction with his name for months now in the media, ever since some sneaky, pathetic reporter had stalked him long enough to get a candid of him hitting a joint, and then sold it to the Daily Prophet for what Harry was sure had been a very large sum of gold.

“Like a teenager!” she yelled, face pink with emotion. Harry scowled. “You miss nearly every Ministry event you’re invited to, and when you do go, you end up completely sloshed and saying something controversial; you get caught doing Muggle drugs and don’t even make a statement about it, not even an attempt at smoothing things over; and now you’re blowing off dates with your girlfriend and driving her to destroy your flat! Honestly, Harry! I’ve been maintaining for years now that you need to go about this post-war stuff in your own way, get it out of your system, whatever this is, but … but this is where I draw a line! Harry James Potter … I am disappointed in you!”

“Great!” Harry yelled, and his unchecked emotions caused the lightbulb in the electric lamp he’d repaired to explode. Hermione jumped. “Brilliant! Only would you mind being disappointed in me somewhere else? I was looking forward to lighting up a couple joints and premeditating my next really immature publicity stunt!”

Hermione swelled like an angry cat. “Oh, I can’t stand when you get like this! It’s completely useless arguing with you!” Snatching her purse up from a chair, she marched over to the fireplace. “I have to get back to work. Do not forget to be at the pitch at six tonight for the first dry run. The other team will be there to see the stadium and the Israeli Head of International Wizarding Relations will be there as well to meet Kingsley. And Malfoy, since Bosley won’t be there.”

The name sent another burst of irritation flooding through Harry’s veins; in a fit of childishness that the Prophet would dearly have loved to know about, he grabbed a nearby candle and chucked it across the room, where its glass holder shattered against the opposite wall. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Remind me again why he’s going to be there? Did Bosley and everyone else in the Department die, or something?”

“Bosley’s got a terrible case of dragon pox, so he’s appointed Malfoy to go in his stead. Do not start a fight with him, Harry, I have never been so serious in my life. So help me god, I will hex you within an inch of your life if you make us look bad in front of the Israelis. It’s unprecedented for the Cup to be held in the same country twice within such a short time span, and since the last one here was in —”

“Ninety-four, yes, I’m well aware of that, Hermione, thanks.”

“Then you know you need to be on your best behaviour if you expect it to be hosted here again within this century!”

“I’m not gonna start anything with him! Merlin’s fucking tits. I thought you had to get back to work, I’ll see you tonight.”

Hermione, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, took a handful of Floo Powder from a vase on the mantel and disappeared into the green flames. Harry looked around at the glass all over his floor and, with a deep, resentful sigh, went to clean it up.

* * *

The Cup was especially exciting this year; not only was it being held in Britain, but the English National Team was playing. Hermione, who had quickly risen to become Senior Undersecretary to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in their years after Hogwarts, had been deeply involved in the process of getting ready for the 424th Quidditch World Cup.

Traditionally held every four years, the Cup had been postponed in ’98 due to the British Ministry’s need for recovery following the end of the war. Spain had been the winners of the last Cup in 1999, and with Britain in place now to nab the 2003 trophy, Harry had been feeling the pressure from all sides, particularly Fancourt — the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports — who never missed a chance to let Harry know he’d be counting on him in August.

And now it was August, the Cup was a week away, and the only thing spoiling what should have been the best week of Harry’s life was Draco sodding Malfoy.

After finishing a makeup year at Hogwarts and graduating with only one less N.E.W.T. than Hermione, Malfoy had, in spite of his déclassé name (and because of his excellent marks), managed an entry-level job at the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Within four years, he’d risen far enough that he’d become a prominent figure in the Department, and had apparently been hand-chosen by the Department Head — Cadmus Bosley — to represent him tonight when his Israeli counterpart came in.

The stadium was in exactly the same place as it had been when Harry had gone to see the World Cup at fourteen. Only a week away, hundreds of witches and wizards from all over the world with cheap tickets had already begun to gather on the campground outside. Harry arrived at an Apparition point specifically for Ministry officials and the players themselves.

It was ten after six when he walked out onto the pitch, flooded with lights. He saw a good deal of people high up in the air, soaring around the stadium on their brooms, while those in more professional-looking robes were standing in a group in the centre of the field. The only immediately-recognizable one out of the group from a distance, white-blond hair shining like a beacon, was Malfoy.

“There you are!” Hermione said when she saw him, looking incredibly exasperated. Kingsley shot Harry a wink, and Harry smirked at him in return. He glanced once at Malfoy, who lifted an arrogant eyebrow, and then looked away again with every intention of pretending he didn’t exist. Fancourt grabbed Harry’s hand in his turn and shook it once, firmly, with a jovial little “Good to see you, Harry, good to see you!” With those greetings (or lack thereof) out of the way, Hermione directed Harry’s attention to the Israeli wizards. “Harry, this is Moshe Mizrachi, the Israeli Minister for Magic. Minister, this is Harry Potter, our Seeker and Captain.” There was the inevitable lift of eyes to take in his scar, and Harry only just managed not to scowl. “And this is Noam Peretz,” she went on, indicating a second wizard, “their Department Head for International Wizarding Relations. Mr. Peretz, Harry Potter.”

“Delighted, Mr. Potter, truly,” Mr. Peretz said warmly, shaking Harry’s hand and looking up at Harry’s forehead once again. When he tore his eyes away, they landed back on Hermione, then shifted to Malfoy. “I was hoping to go over security details, then …”

As the talk shifted back to business, Harry figured he’d be allowed to sidle off and join the rest of his team, a few of which had landed once they’d seen the Ministry officials wandering off. Harry spared one last glance at Malfoy, who was pointing something out in the stands to Mr. Peretz, before turning and spotting Killian Vance — one of their Beaters — landing a few feet away.

“All right there, Harry?” he said, grinning brightly. “Bradley and I were taking bets on whether you’d show up or not.”

“The hell kind of Captain do you think I am?” Harry scoffed, halfway between amusement and guilt. It was always fairly easy to ignore what the media had to say about him, but when his reputation began cropping up like this, among his friends and his colleagues — when he was forced to face the consequences of his rapidly-deflating sense of responsibility — Harry always felt a small pang of uncertainty.

But he didn’t like to think too much about that if he could help it.

“You’d’ve got away with it if you hadn’t,” Killian said, and judging by the conspiratorial wink, he thought he was paying Harry quite a compliment. Harry tried not to let his exasperation show.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was engrossed in a deeply complicated conversation with Jeremy Fowler, England’s Keeper, revolving around tactics for the game next week. This made it even more irritating when Malfoy interrupted them.

“Potter,” he drawled, cutting Fowler off mid-sentence, and Harry felt his hackles instantly rise. Fowler looked nonplussed, and after going back and forth a few times between the looks Harry and Malfoy were giving one another, he apparently decided scarpering was prudent. “We need to discuss —”

“I was in the middle of a conversation, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “You’ve got no fucking manners, do you?”

“Language,” Malfoy said breezily. Harry clenched his jaw and forced his fists to remain at his sides. Malfoy seemed to have noticed them, because a look of dark amusement crossed his arrogant face. “As I was saying, we need to discuss your behaviour over the following week.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your behaviour, Potter. I’m referring, of course, to your penchant for acting like a moronic teenager every time you’re out in public these days.” Harry opened his mouth, ready to start yelling if he wasn’t allowed to throw a punch, but at the very last second managed to swallow back everything he wanted to say. Hermione was about twenty feet from them with the Israeli Minister, and she’d given him a sharp look after having spotted him with Malfoy. He could feel his nails digging into his palm and wondered if he’d broken the skin. Malfoy watched him through all of this with narrowed eyes, perhaps waiting for his outburst; a smirk touched his lips when he appeared to have decided it wasn’t coming. “Very good, Potter. You’ll want to continue exercising discretion until the Cup is over. I know the only thing that comes naturally to you is acting bull-headed and reckless, but if you embarrass the Ministry this week, there will be hell for you to pay. Is that clear?”

“If that’s the case,” Harry retorted sharply, “you should stay as far away from me as possible, since you’re the only thing that’s making me feel like doing something reckless right now, Malfoy.”

“I’m flattered, truly,” Malfoy said with an ostentatious roll of his eyes. “Do I have your word, then, Potter? No drinking in public, no Muggle drugs, no —”

“What, I can’t smoke any weed this whole week?” he said, mock-surprise colouring his voice with sarcasm. Malfoy’s pouty lips thinned with irritation and Harry could see a muscle working in his jaw. “I dunno, Malfoy, I really can’t promise something like that. You know me, bull-headed and reckless is all I know. Besides, how else do you expect me to relax? It’s like me telling you not to take it up the arse anymore — would you really be able to give that up, Malfoy? Be honest.”

The sight of Malfoy spluttering incoherently was so satisfying it nearly made up for the destroyed flat that morning.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry said solemnly, ridiculously proud of the way he was successfully holding back his laughter. Laughter, of all things — to think he had been only seconds away from getting drunk instead of coming to this thing seemed impossible now. “Before you ask me to give up something I love, think first about how you’d feel if someone asked you to give up something you love —”

“Shut the fuck up, Potter!” Malfoy shouted; then, seeming to come back to himself, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Harry thrilled to know how quickly he’d gotten right underneath Malfoy’s skin.

“Language, Malfoy —”

“Potter, I swear to god, one more word,” Malfoy snapped. Harry’s teeth clicked shut and he grinned broadly over them. “Since you are utterly incapable of taking anything seriously —”

“That’s not fair, Malfoy,” Harry interrupted him. Malfoy looked ready to tackle Harry to the ground. “I would seriously love to eat your arse right now —”

“Oh my god,” Malfoy threw his hands up in capitulation, cheeks positively flaming. Harry simply couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter. “You’re completely fucking incorrigible. You know what? See if I care. In fact, I hope you make an arse out of yourself, Potter; then Hewitt can play instead of you.”

“You’d rather see me put in my place than win the game?”

“Oh please, arrogance looks terrible on you, Scarhead.” Malfoy made a tch-ing sound of disgust in his throat. He looked completely flustered, the blush on his face having spread down his neck, and Harry was only mildly interested to note a stirring of arousal in his belly. Arrogant and intolerable as he might have been, the reality of Malfoy’s physical appeal was unavoidable, and he looked especially delicious right now, worked up on nothing more than Harry’s taunting. He supposed he really wouldn’t have minded eating Malfoy’s arse, in fact. “Anyway, seeing as this is utterly pointless — goodbye, Potter. I so look forward to seeing you watching from the sidelines next week.”

Harry didn’t bother saying anything else, and Malfoy didn’t bother waiting anyhow. His eyes found Malfoy’s arse as he sauntered away, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Shagging that contemptuous sneer off his face was unrealistic, maybe, but thinking about it suited Harry just fine.

* * *

He’d only smoked marijuana three or four times since the incident six months ago when that incriminating photograph had appeared in the paper, and before having had his row with Malfoy, he’d had no intention at all of lighting up between now and the Cup.

Of course, there was nothing so tempting as the forbidden fruit, and Harry had always been particularly susceptible when it came to things he wasn’t supposed to do.

There were two things on his mind that night as he sat drinking a lager amongst a rather large group of his friends, in a pub just down the street from Ron and Hermione's flat: Malfoy, and the eighth of weed trapped inside an airtight jar in his bedroom closet.

The latter briefly shifted to the back of his mind, however, when the former walked into the pub ahead of a nameless, dark-haired bloke who was holding the door for him.

Nobody else seemed to notice Malfoy’s presence; Malfoy saw him within moments, though, and Harry smirked as soon as their eyes met.

For having chucked a glass candle-holder across his flat that morning, he was remarkably pleased to be seeing Malfoy now. And perhaps he was acting like a teenager, to be getting off on something as trivial and petty as a schoolyard rivalry; maybe it was immature to be thinking about how good it would feel to have his cock buried in Malfoy’s perfect arse when he should have been thinking about keeping his head down until the Cup was over; but for the first time, it occurred to Harry that maybe, if it meant enjoying himself this much, he rather deserved be childish while he was still young.

Didn't he?

He swigged back the rest of his beer and banged the empty glass down on the table. Dean hollered cheerfully.

“Harry, that was your third, wasn’t it?” Hermione said in a voice of forced casualness; beside her, Ron snorted into his own glass. She shot him a quick, disgusted look before leveling her watchful gaze back on Harry. “Just remember you’ve promised to cut yourself off after three —”

“Oi! The man just got dumped, Hermione, let him live a little tonight,” said Dean, to which Harry laughed and Hermione merely scowled. “What’s he gonna do, go streaking through London?”

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy, Dean!” Hermione snapped. Harry rolled his eyes, but nobody seemed to have noticed. “I’m looking out for him. Something which I hope you take into consideration,” she added suddenly, whipping around to look at Harry with blazing eyes. “Getting broken up with was a direct consequence of the way you’ve been acting and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, you know what?” said Harry tightly, standing up from the table. “I’m only twenty-three fucking years old, Hermione. I spent eleven years in a cupboard under some stairs and the next seven working up to the task of killing an evil fucking maniac, so guess what? If I feel like acting like a teenager, then I’m gonna act like a bloody teenager, all right?”

“Harry,” Ron said stiffly, standing up as well and dropping a protective arm across Hermione’s shoulders. “Slow down, mate.”

Hermione, for her part, looked completely gobsmacked and even more horrified; a pinch of guilt settled in Harry’s stomach immediately and he let out a little sigh, thumb and forefinger lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m sorry, Hermione — I just … really need you to lay off me for a bit. It’s a bloody pain in the arse being hounded by reporters and having my life splashed across the news for everybody to judge at their own fucking leisure. It's worse than ever with the Cup around the corner.” He paused, saw Hermione’s lower lip wobbling precariously, and sighed. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione. Really. It’s not your fault I’m on edge.”

“It’s all right, Harry,” she said softly. One of her small hands found his arm and squeezed. “I … well, we can talk tomorrow. Go on and get another drink.”

He flashed her a grateful smile and, not needing to be told twice, headed off towards the bar.

Malfoy’s back was to Harry, facing the bloke he’d come in with; he looked positively edible in a tight pair of trousers that clung to his arse perfectly, and his date seemed to be well aware of this, for there was a hungry look in his eyes. Harry was a little surprised by the surge of irrational possessiveness this created, but only a little.

Three beers in and having only that afternoon been reminded of the sort of passion Malfoy could inspire in him, Harry thought it was actually rather unsurprising he should feel jealous of anybody else commanding the blond’s attention.

When he got to the bar, Harry ordered loudly enough that Malfoy would hear, and on cue he spun around. Harry laughed delightedly even as his groin tightened.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy sneered, sizing Harry up with narrowed eyes. “Front row seats to watch you make an embarrassment of yourself once again, Potter. I’ll just get a letter ready to send to Fancourt, shall I? He’ll be devastated — I know for a fact he was looking forward to wanking himself raw at the sight of you on your broomstick next week.”

“Are we talking about Fancourt or you, Malfoy?” Harry said pleasantly. Malfoy scoffed loudly, his eyes going impossibly wide. He had turned to fully face Harry now, having apparently forgotten the bloke standing behind him. “Because Fancourt has kids; meanwhile, you were blushing like a schoolgirl at the thought of me eating you out today, so …”

“Potter!” Malfoy screeched. The blush had returned, and Harry barely managed to keep from punching the air in triumph. God but Malfoy looked good like that. His date was scowling deeply now, but Malfoy still did not turn back to him. “You’re an uncivilized fucking brute.”

“You’re blushing again, Malfoy.”

Malfoy spluttered, and the flush deepened prettily.

“Erm — Draco?”

Malfoy turned a withering glare on his date, who shrank back in surprise. “I’m in the middle of a fucking conversation, Connor,” he said hotly. Harry didn’t bother hiding his laugh.

“Well excuse the fuck out of me!” Connor scoffed. “We’re supposed to be on a date, are we not?”

“Meaning what?” said Malfoy, sneering. “I can’t talk to anyone but you? Merlin help me if that’s the case.”

Connor looked to be somewhere right in the middle of bewildered and angry.

“I’ll just bloody leave then, shall I?! Since you’d so much rather flirt blatantly with Harry fucking Potter in front of me!”

“Flirt?!” Draco screeched. The barkeeper set Harry’s beer down in front of him — Harry took it with a little nod and a smile and leaned back against the bar to watch Malfoy ream into his date with an expression of polite interest and his free hand stuffed casually into his jeans’ pocket. “Don’t be an idiot, Connor. First of all, I came here with you tonight because you asked me out four separate times and finally wore me down like some useless, lumbering moron. Second, that was fighting, not flirting, halfwit, but it’s no wonder you can’t tell the difference. And third, even if I were flirting with Potter, I hardly think it’s within your jurisdiction to get upset about it, so you can shove your indignant little tirade right up your arse, Connor.”

Wide-eyed and dazed-looking, Connor seemed unable to form speech for a moment. Harry took this opportunity to chime in.

“If I were you, I’d hightail it out of here,” he suggested mildly.

Malfoy glared at him. “You’re next, Potter.”

“And I’m beside myself with enthusiasm, Malfoy, believe me.”

With another scoff and a resentful sweep of Malfoy’s body, Connor slammed his drink down on the bar and stalked away.

“Was that completely necessary, Potter?” Malfoy said waspishly.

“Me?!” Harry laughed incredulously. “The hell did I do?!”

“You stood there like an arrogant toerag!”

This gave Harry pause; he blinked rather owlishly at Malfoy, who spotted the look and scowled.

“As vapid as ever, aren’t you, Potter?” he said. But Harry wasn’t really listening; a smile was coming over his face, for a memory had surfaced — or rather a memory of a memory. At one time, it had caused him greatest despair to know what his mum had once thought of his dad, but as he’d gotten older, and as he’d learned how little black-and-white there was to the world, he’d grown rather fond of knowing his parents had overcome a history of … not getting along.

His mother had once referred to his father as an arrogant toerag — Harry could recall it perfectly now, it had been one of Snape’s memories, he and Lily in their fifth year at Hogwarts.

I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag, she’d said. You don’t have to tell me that.

He didn’t know why it should feel so delightful that Malfoy had unwittingly described him the exact same way Lily Evans had once described James Potter. It just did.

“Malfoy, d’you wanna have a cigarette with me?” he asked suddenly. Malfoy blinked several times in succession.

“What?” he said finally.

“A cigarette. Do you want to have one. With me.”

“Wh —” he started, and then broke off, looking irritated and a little bit interested, although Malfoy probably didn’t intend for him to see that last bit. “A cigarette?”

“Yes. With me. I don’t know how else to explain it, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be a smartarse, Potter,” he snapped. Harry grinned. “Fine … since you’ve done away with my date for the night anyhow. Lead the way, then.”

Harry drained the rest of his beer and gestured towards the door with his head. He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket and waved it at Hermione, who had spotted him and Malfoy from across the pub and looked puzzled. She looked like she very much wanted to follow him and ask what was going on, so he was relieved when she didn’t get out of her chair or alert anybody else at the table to what was going on.

He and Malfoy walked to the edge of the building, where a very thin alley divorced it from an overflowing diner. Pulling two cigarettes out, he placed both between his lips, used a Muggle lighter to spark the ends, and then handed one over. Malfoy took it with a strange, indecipherable expression on his face.

“What’s that look?” Harry half-laughed, cigarette between his thumb and first finger as he took a long drag.

“Nothing,” Malfoy insisted too quickly. His cheeks reddened, and Harry knew he’d realized how it had sounded. “You’re being irritatingly charming.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that, Malfoy.”

Malfoy scowled. “It was an insult, Potter.”

“How was that an insult?” Harry laughed.

“Because I’m saying you’re not usually charming!”

“Malfoy, you don’t even know me, how can you say what I’m usually like?”

“I’ve known you since we were eleven, moron.”

“We’ve spoken three or four times in the last five years.”

“Exactly — there’s not much to know about you, Potter. You’re all surface-level.”

“Is that why you’ve been blushing around me so prettily all day?” Harry smirked.

To his credit, Malfoy rolled his eyes rather believably, but the instant color in his cheeks was a dead giveaway. He must have felt it there, because he scowled again.

“Think what you want,” he said, sucking on the end of his cigarette and letting a lazy trail of smoke out from between his full lips. Harry was visited by a sudden, powerful urge to lick inside Malfoy’s mouth and taste the acrid, bitter tobacco on his tongue. “I would never pay you a compliment, Potter — it would give me hives.”

“You know, you’re really rather cute when you’re annoyed with me.”

“I’m not cute, Potter,” Malfoy said tetchily. “And I’m always annoyed with you.”

Harry leaned one shoulder against the brick wall of the building and flicked away the ash at the end of his cigarette. He said nothing, and watched in amusement as Malfoy began fidgeting under his scrutiny. How had he never noticed before how responsive Malfoy was, how beautifully he reacted to Harry’s relentless teasing? He wondered now how far beneath Malfoy’s shirt that flush had spread.

“Why did you ask me to come out here with you, Potter?”

Harry considered the question a moment, and then he pushed off the wall and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the street. Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together. Grinning, Harry plucked the cigarette from Malfoy’s hand as well, cupped his soft cheek with his free one, and without even a suggestion of reluctance leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth. Malfoy froze, but within seconds he began responding to Harry’s coaxing, drawing his lips apart with a gasp and letting Harry slip his tongue inside. He felt a moan vibrate between them and threw down Malfoy’s cigarette so he could get a hand on his waist instead.

It tasted bitter from the tobacco and whatever he’d been drinking, but underneath that was the distinctly sweet taste of Malfoy, and it was this that Harry couldn’t get enough of. Their tongues twisted and curled around each other, panting breaths passing frantically between them as they devoured one another. Harry bit down sharply on Malfoy’s pouting lower lip, earning a hiss and a shove in his chest, but Harry held him close and fused their mouths back together impatiently. Malfoy actually whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in Harry’s worn-out English National League t-shirt.

“Come back to my flat,” Harry said against his jaw, kissing and nipping his way down to Malfoy’s neck now, itching to taste that flushed skin. Malfoy shivered and tightened his fingers; Harry felt sharp nails piercing him through the thin material of his shirt.

“Why?” Malfoy demanded croakily. Harry slipped his hands down from Malfoy’s waist to the swell of his arse and squeezed, pulling their hips together. He could feel Malfoy’s hard cock slide against his own and groaned into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Why the fuck do you think, Malfoy?” he growled. “I can’t eat your arse out here in front of The Red Lion, can I?”

“You’re very presumptuous, did you know that, Potter?” Malfoy said breathily.

“D’you really want me to back off?” he mumbled into Malfoy’s neck. “Because I will.”

Malfoy didn’t answer right away; his head tipped back slightly to expose his long, pale throat as it was sucked and licked at, and Harry chuckled against his skin.

“No,” he said finally, in a weak, helpless sort of voice. “I don’t.”

“Brilliant. Take my hand.” He pulled away and held his palm out, meeting Malfoy’s eyes challengingly with a smirk — after a moment of hesitation Malfoy took it and they spun on the spot, Harry leading him through the unbearably tight pressure of time and space to his flat.

* * *

He Apparated them directly into his living room, and they weren’t there for more than a few seconds before Malfoy pounced on him.

He laughed delightedly, twining his arms around Malfoy’s slim waist and pulling their bodies flush, hips slotting and cocks rubbing together through their clothing. Malfoy moaned into his mouth, having apparently abandoned any reserve he’d still been holding onto back at the pub.

Harry licked hungrily between his lips, tasting the silky-smooth lining and marveling, somewhere in the back of his mind, at the fact that just this very morning he’d come home to find the living room in a state of utter disrepair — a present from his ex-girlfriend. And now here he was, in the very same room, backing Malfoy up towards a couch which had been slashed to ribbons before Hermione had mended it.

“This is completely moronic,” Malfoy breathed, even as Harry began hurriedly popping the fastenings on his shirt. When his fingers slipped for the third time, he growled low in his throat and simply tore the shirt open, buttons flying haphazardly and landing noisily all across the hardwood floor. “Potter, you fucking barbarian, are you kidding me!”

“First of all,” Harry said lightly, nipping at the corner of Malfoy’s jaw as he pulled the shirt off his bony shoulders, exposing an unearthly amount of gorgeous pale skin. Striped gruesomely across his front were the faded scars from a hex cast long ago in a Hogwarts bathroom. Harry determinedly ignored them for now. “I hardly think moronic is the word to use; second, I’m obviously not kidding, and if you promise to stop whingeing long enough for me to get my mouth on you, I’ll repair the bloody shirt for you later.”

“As if I’d trust you to handle silk —” Malfoy started, but he cut off with a beautiful little gasp when Harry cupped him through his trousers, squeezing lightly around the outline of his cock.

“Malfoy?” Harry said into his ear, stroking him slowly, nowhere near enough. Malfoy whimpered, hands lifting helplessly to Harry’s shoulders and digging his nails in. “Shut up.”

And finally, Malfoy did.

Harry kissed him soundly, sucking at his lips and biting teasingly at the lower one, a vivid shock of heat coiling his belly tighter when Malfoy started fingering at the hem of his tee and then lifted it over his head. Those delicate, slightly cold hands immediately started mapping out his hard torso, but Harry didn’t give him long to explore before he was pressing Malfoy back onto the couch and falling to his knees between his legs.

Malfoy arched up obediently to let Harry drag his trousers and pants down his long, slender legs, and at the sight of his stiff, leaking cock curved up against his tight stomach, dribbling pre-come onto the sparse trail of fine blond hair leading down from his navel, Harry felt a little bit of his sanity drain away.

“Shit, Malfoy, you look so fucking good.” He lifted Malfoy’s legs under the thighs, propping them securely over his shoulders and using his thumbs to spread his arse immodestly, the sight of his tight, pink little pucker making Harry’s cock throb painfully where it was still trapped in his denims. He leaned forward and breathed hotly across it, in reaction to which he felt a full-body shudder move through Malfoy’s willowy frame.

“Potter,” he moaned weakly, shifting his hips like he was trying to get Harry’s mouth on him faster. “This is … this is …”

“Long overdue?” Harry supplied cheekily; he used the pads of his thumbs to stretch Malfoy’s hole just barely, too tight to open him up much more than that. Malfoy made a high keening noise that brought a satisfied smirk to Harry’s face.

“I was going to say absurd.”

Harry snorted but didn’t reply — instead, he passed the flat of his tongue hard across Malfoy’s clenching hole, cock twitching at the sharp, musky taste of him. He groaned and tightened his grip on the fleshy globes of Malfoy’s perfect arse, holding him open and prising his hole as far open as he could. He used the tip of his tongue to trace around the rim and had to redouble his efforts when Malfoy bucked against his face.

He took his time, ignoring his fattening cock in favour of paying his full attention to working Malfoy’s dusky hole open with his mouth. He stabbed the pointed tip of his tongue shallowly inside, dipping slowly, methodically in and out, only stopping long enough to place a glob of spit onto his twitching pucker and then work it inside with his tongue. Malfoy let out a wrecked sob that went straight to Harry’s cock.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Harry snapped, having seen Malfoy’s hand snaking down to his prick, slim fingers an inch away when Harry spoke. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Malfoy, or I’ll stop.”

It appeared to cost Malfoy a great deal to comply, but the fact that he did made Harry feel dizzy with lust. His cheeks were filled with a pretty pink color and some of his golden blond hair had fallen in his face, giving him the appearance of some beautifully-debauched angel, one which Harry was frantic to continue tearing apart.

He pushed in farther this time, dropping his jaw open and pressing his tongue as deeply inside as it could go. He felt Malfoy clenching spasmodically around the wet muscle as he fucked him with it, his hands now gripping his thighs both to assist in holding himself open, and because Harry could see them there. Saliva dripped copiously out of the corners of his mouth and slicked Malfoy’s arse, making the slide easier and loosening him by degrees.

“Fuck … Potter, if you don’t stop I’m gonna — god, I’m gonna come …” The last word was elongated into a devastating moan. Harry’s fingers dug into the meat of his arse but he pulled himself back, swiping a thumb across the loosened hole and rudely dipping it inside, all the way to the knuckle, causing Malfoy to buck and cry out.

“Stop moving,” Harry said, mild yet brooking no argument. Malfoy let his head fall against the back of the couch, chest heaving, eyes shut, golden lashes brushing his effeminately high cheekbones. He looked like he was praying for patience. Watching him closely, Harry pulled his thumb out and replaced it with his middle finger, gliding it in easily through the wetness he’d put there. Malfoy keened but stayed still. “You’re doing so good,” Harry breathed, stuffing a second finger in beside the first and placing a wet kiss to the inside of Malfoy’s thigh.

He built up a rhythm with two fingers, occasionally leaning in to add more spit and ease the friction. Malfoy gasped and moaned beautifully each time Harry brushed deliberately across the sensitive little nub of his prostate, making sure to give it a firm rub on every third or fourth stroke, keeping Malfoy at the very edge of an orgasm.

“Potter!” he sobbed out when Harry squeezed in a third finger and only sped his pace up further. “I’m serious, if you don’t stop I’m gonna —”

“Good,” Harry bit out, slamming his fingers into Malfoy’s arse with brutal enthusiasm, reveling in the slick squelching noises they made. Malfoy’s prick was bobbing helplessly, untouched, smearing pre-come across his hard belly with nothing to rut against but air. “Come for me, then. Go on.”

Harry looped an arm around Malfoy’s thigh, using the leverage to hold him down, and stilled his fingers deep inside his arse, rubbing relentlessly against his prostate. Malfoy’s back tried to arch off the couch only to be held in place by Harry, a moan ripping savagely from his throat as his body convulsed through what looked like an immensely powerful orgasm, ropes of come shooting out of his twitching prick and landing on his chest and his chin. Harry pumped his fingers through it, slowing down as Malfoy’s body first loosened and then began trembling.

“S-stop, please, stop,” he gasped, trying to fumble away from Harry, but Harry continued to hold him down, moving his fingers leisurely through Malfoy’s still-clenching hole. He sobbed weakly, the muscles in his stomach fluttering visibly beneath the skin.

“Did you just say please?” Harry smirked. Malfoy scoffed feebly and Harry finally pulled his fingers out. He got to his feet and bent over him, brushing their lips together.

“Fuck off, Potter.”

Harry laughed against his mouth. “It’s terrible manners to cuss at somebody who’s just given you an orgasm.”

“Have I told you how much I hate you?”

“Not recently, no,” Harry said, kissing him again. Malfoy lifted his neck into it eagerly. “I gathered as much, though,” he added, smiling and pulling back. “Get up on your knees and turn around for me.”

Malfoy let out a tiny huffing breath that seemed as though it was meant to convey annoyance but really just sounded adorable. Harry grinned dopily to himself as Malfoy lowered his legs and shifted onto his knees, turning to face the back of the couch and tentatively resting his hands on it.

“You’re unreal,” Harry said reverently, leaning over him to sweep some of the hair away from the back of his neck and press a kiss to the warm skin there. Malfoy mewled and arched back into him, but Harry stopped him with a firm hand on his lower back.

His cock was painfully hard at this point, and it was with an audible groan of relief that Harry finally pulled it out of the confines of his jeans and divested himself of the rest of his clothing, wandlessly conjuring lube onto his pulsing shaft and stroking the length of it several times before stopping himself. Malfoy, he saw, was looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and rosy lips parted as he watched, the pink flush of his cheeks deepening to a hearty red that made him look much younger.

“Jesus, Potter,” he exhaled, a whiny quality to it that made Harry’s cock twitch in his hand. “What the fuck.”

In spite of himself, Harry laughed as he grabbed Malfoy’s arse again and spread his cheeks, pushing his cock between them slickly.

“You couldn’t just be the bloody Chosen One, could you?” Malfoy said weakly, hands gripping hard at the back of the couch when Harry gripped the base of his straining cock and lined it up with Malfoy’s loosened rim. “Couldn’t just be sodding Boy Who Lived. You had to have a massive prick too, didn’t you?”

Instead of responding to this, Harry tightened his hold on Malfoy’s hip with one hand, and with the other guided his thick length past the twitching muscle of his hole. Malfoy let out a wrecked moan as Harry sank into him, slow but steady, not stopping until every last inch was being relentlessly squeezed by Malfoy’s sinfully tight walls. His pale hands were gripping the back of the sofa so hard they lost what little colour had been there in the first place.

“Shit,” Malfoy hissed, even as he pushed his hips back, forcing Harry’s cock deeper. “Shit, shit, shit …”

“That good?” Harry laughed, bending forwards to press a series of wet kisses between Malfoy’s sharp shoulder blades. “Fuck, you feel fantastic. How are you so tight?”

“Because I’m not a slag, Potter.”

Harry pulled out slowly and then rammed back inside, wrenching a gut-twistingly erotic gasp out of the slim blond beneath him.

“Are you insinuating that I am a slag?” Harry asked casually. He’d stopped moving, buried to the hilt inside of Malfoy’s arse; he could feel Malfoy shivering, and without really knowing why he was doing it, he found himself stroking his fingers soothingly down Malfoy’s sides. Or perhaps worshipfully was a better word.

“Yes,” said Malfoy, though the biting sarcasm was lost amongst the trembling of his voice. “That is exactly what I’m insinuating. Now do me a fucking favour and start moving, you utterly incorrigible twat.”

Grinning broadly, Harry slid his fingers through the back of Malfoy’s hair and gripped hard, pulling his head back so his throat was bared vulnerably. It was a devastatingly appealing sight to behold. He could see Malfoy’s eyes widen, could even feel his breathing increase again, but didn’t let go.

“Do you think demanding things is going to work out for you right now?” Harry whispered, leaning over his body and letting the heat of his breath ghost across the side of Malfoy’s neck. “Because from where I’m standing, you have very little leverage at the moment, kitten.”

“Fuck you, Potter!” It came out as more of a whine than anything else. Malfoy must have been aware of this, because he let out a shuddering breath. “Fuck, just … fuck me already!”

“Can you say please again? I quite liked the sound of it before.”

“Who the fuck are you?!” Malfoy ground out. He tried to thrust his hips back again, but Harry held him steady with the hand not tangled up in his hair. “Just move your cock!”

“That didn’t sound like a ‘please’,” Harry said lightly, and for good measure rocked his hips, knowing by the way Malfoy shuddered that his cock had passed across his prostate. “Come on, kitten … it’s not hard. Just say it, and I’ll fuck you stupid.”

“Stop calling me that!” But again, Malfoy’s words came out as more of a whine than anything really forceful or commanding. Harry let go of his hair and instead moved his hand so his fingers were wrapped gently around Malfoy’s throat; not tightly enough to feel pressure, but firm enough so it would be impossible not to imagine what the pressure would have felt like. To his utter delight, Malfoy responded to this beautifully, arching his back and digging his fingers deeper into the couch.

“Say it,” Harry breathed into his ear. Malfoy whimpered. “I know you wanna come again. I’ll make it so good for you. Just say it.”

He tightened his fingers minimally and felt Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed.

“Please,” he rasped.

“Please what?”

Malfoy made a sound halfway between a moan and a garbled wail. “Fuck me, you bastard! Please, please fuck me!”

Grinning in triumph and with a powerful surge of possessiveness making his spine tingle, Harry let go of Malfoy’s throat, gripped his hips hard, and started pounding into him with little abandon. Malfoy’s hands scrabbled frantically before gaining purchase and he looked to be holding on for dear life as Harry incessantly pulled out and slammed back in, ceaselessly burying his aching cock in Malfoy’s perfect arse with a reckless sort of urgency. The slick, wet squelching sounds of the lube and Harry’s own pre-come with each devastating thrust only heightened the whole experience.

Malfoy was making the most delicious gasping sounds each time Harry pounded into him, his cock hard again and beading pre-come at the tip. He seemed to have figured out that Harry wasn’t going to let him touch himself, because he wasn’t even trying. At the edge of his own orgasm, Harry waited until he felt Malfoy start shuddering and shaking beneath him to pull out all the way. This earned him a high, mewling sound of protest out of the blond.

“What the fuck!” Malfoy sobbed, pressing his forehead into the couch as his body shook. Harry could feel his heart slamming into his ribs and took several deep breaths, sweat dripping down his back.

“Turn over,” he said a bit breathlessly. Malfoy looked over his shoulder and Harry saw that his full, sensual lips were bitten raw.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Why did you stop, I was … I was so fucking close!”

Huffing out an impatient breath, Harry manhandled Malfoy onto his back, lengthwise across the couch, and climbed on top of him, between his spread thighs. Their cocks slid together when Harry bent over him, crushing their mouths together into a searing kiss that Malfoy instantly deepened with his tongue.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” Malfoy breathed when he pulled away for air, and even as he said it his fingers were twisting around the black mess of hair at the back of Harry’s head, tugging lightly. Harry chuckled and nipped at his jaw, moving his hips, dragging their pricks together wetly.

“Ask me how much I care.” Harry licked a broad stripe up the side of Malfoy’s neck and shifted his hips, using one hand to line himself up again and start pushing inside that unbearably tight heat.

“There’s not much you do care about these days, is there, Potter?” Malfoy said faintly, voice breaking as he was stuffed full once again. His back arched up off the sofa, hands coming around to Harry’s back where his nails dug in sharply. Harry hissed at the pain.

“Sure there is,” he said tightly, bottoming out and rocking his hips, biting his lip to hide a grin when Malfoy gasped, knowing he’d found his prostate again. “They’re just not the things everybody expects me to care about.”

He started up a tedious rhythm, pressing in deep and then pulling out just as slow, savouring every sensation, every little nuance as Malfoy opened up for him and let some of his uptight façade fade away. His eyes kept fluttering shut despite an obvious effort not to let that happen, something which tugged strangely at Harry’s chest. His nails dug into Harry’s back each time his prostate was grazed.

“Fuck …” Malfoy whimpered after several minutes of this, moving his hips impatiently and bringing his hands around to Harry’s chest, digging his nails in there instead. “God, Potter, I’m close again … faster, please …” The bratty, demanding quality had almost entirely disappeared from his voice, leaving him sounding breathless and desperate and fuck, the sound of it went straight to Harry’s cock.

“I’ve got you,” he said gruffly, losing his own teasing tone as well, the orgasm he’d only temporarily pulled back the reigns on creeping up again with a vengeance. Malfoy’s slender cock was straining between them, smearing their bellies with slick, and Harry finally wrapped a hand around it, tearing a broken cry out of Malfoy’s swollen pink mouth. He dragged the foreskin down, exposing the sensitive, reddened head, and flicked his thumb across it. Malfoy’s hips bucked and his nails dug into Harry’s skin harder.

“Don’t stop,” Malfoy whimpered frantically, and this time, Harry had no plans to. He increased the speed of his thrusts and tugged relentlessly at Malfoy’s throbbing, weeping prick. “Don’t stop, oh my god, I’m coming, d-don’t stop!” Indeed, the words had barely left his mouth when Harry felt his walls clenching down around his cock, body tense and jerking as Harry worked him through his second orgasm, sharp nails drawing blood where they’d latched onto his biceps. It took only moments for Harry to tip over the edge as well, burying his face in Malfoy’s neck as his cock pulsed and throbbed and spilled out what seemed to be an endless amount of come into Malfoy’s clenching hole. It was leaking out around him as he slowed, rocking his hips each time he bottomed out, and finally stopping altogether even as his heart continued to throw itself feverishly against the walls of his ribcage.

He lifted his head when he’d gotten some semblance of a normal breathing rhythm back and looked down at an oddly open-faced Malfoy, whose grey eyes were, for the first time in memory, not cold and calculating but bright with wonder.

“That was … something,” he said, and Harry laughed before he’d even realized he was going to.

“Something,” he echoed, nodding his head and letting his eyes roam freely across this new Malfoy’s face. “Yeah. Definitely something.” He paused, and then leaned down slowly to kiss him again, glad when he met no resistance. It was messy and unhurried and utterly opposite to any other kiss they’d shared so far tonight. When he pulled away, he felt something essential shift between them, and he couldn’t find the necessary will power to stop himself asking, “D’you wanna smoke a joint with me?”

He expected scoffing at the very least, and so was extremely surprised when he received nothing worse than a lifted eyebrow.

“You’re not serious?” Malfoy drawled.

“Er — I think I am, actually, yeah. It’s great after sex, and I’d really like to see you high.”

“Muggle drugs, Potter?” Malfoy lilted. “Really? You’re supposed to be refraining from doing anything stupid until the Cup is over.”

“C’mon, Malfoy, just this once? It feels great, I promise. I won’t tell anyone.”

Malfoy scoffed. “I should hope you wouldn’t. I’ll hex your bollocks off if you tell anyone about this, either.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. So is that a yes?”

Malfoy paused, looking up at him uncertainly, and finally said, “How long does it last?”

“Dunno, like … couple hours, I guess. Definitely no more than that.”

Another, longer pause. “Fine,” Malfoy said suddenly, and Harry nearly whooped with enthusiasm. He could plainly see Malfoy holding back a smirk even as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

After Vanishing their messes, Harry pulled nothing more than his pants back on and waited with a smirk on his face as Malfoy tried to put his shirt on as well, only to have Harry grab his hand and pull him away.

“I’m cold, Potter!” he said as he was dragged to Harry’s bedroom. Harry pulled a jumper out of his dresser and tossed it to him. “What is this?” Malfoy asked, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see him sneering at the Nirvana logo on the front.

“Muggle band,” he explained. He pulled a glass jar from the back of his closet and brought it over to the bed. “You can sit down, you know.”

Malfoy did so hesitantly, his eyes fixed on the jar Harry had just opened.

“What’s that called again?”

“Weed,” said Harry, pulling an already-rolled joint out and closing it back up to set on his bedside table. “It’s really not a big deal. Muggles have got some really nasty shit they do; this stuff is harmless.”

“So it’s legal, then?” Malfoy asked sceptically.

“Well … no, but —”

“Didn’t think so,” he said airily, but Harry definitely thought he could see a smirk lurking beneath the arrogance. “You’ll never change, Potter. If there’s a rule, you’ll find it and break it.”

“Yes, well, all the fun things are against the rules, aren’t they?” He crossed the bed to where Malfoy was sitting and held the joint up for him to see. “Look, it’s like a cigarette, except it’s got weed in it instead of tobacco. Tastes better, too.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He narrowed his eyes at it suspiciously. “What does it feel like?”

Harry stuck it between his lips, grabbed a green Muggle lighter off the nightstand, and sparked the end to life with a few deep puffs. He held it in several seconds and then blew it out in a hazy cloud.

“It, er — feels sort of fuzzy, I guess?” he said thickly, holding it out for Malfoy to take. “Try not to take too big a hit, though. It’ll burn your throat first couple times.”

Malfoy took it daintily between his thumb and first finger and held it to his lips. Harry knew immediately that warning him had been the wrong thing to do, because Malfoy had clearly taken it as a challenge and sucked in a deep breath that immediately came back out as a hacking cough. Trying his best not to laugh too loudly, he Conjured water into an empty glass and handed it over.

“I told you that would happen,” he said, grabbing the joint and taking another hit for himself while Malfoy soothed his throat and came down from the fit.

“That’s fucking bollocks,” Malfoy rasped, and snatched the joint to try it again.

It took only fifteen minutes for Malfoy to wind up on his side, cheek pressed into a pillow, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. They’d smoked through the whole joint and Harry felt as pleasantly buzzed as Malfoy looked.

“You have really soft pillows, Potter,” Malfoy sighed, nuzzling his nose into it briefly and then letting out a highly contented sigh. Harry smiled and scooted closer, tangling their legs together and even boldly dropping an arm across Malfoy’s waist. Malfoy didn’t seem to mind one bit. “It’s like … a cloud or something. Did you Charm them to feel like clouds?”

“No, you’re just really fucking high,” Harry laughed.

“Oh.” Malfoy wrinkled his nose, and then he did something Harry couldn’t have anticipated: he moved even closer, and kissed Harry right on the mouth. “I can’t believe we fucked.”

“I dunno,” Harry mused, brushing a piece of silky hair away from Draco’s face. “I can sort of believe it. I mean, we were eventually gonna either fuck or kill each other, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re too charming to be the real Harry Potter.”

Harry snorted. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you want, Potter,” Malfoy saw around a yawn. He’d begun rubbing his foot against Harry’s leg. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he said. “I reserve the right not to answer, though.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but it was half-hearted. “When you said earlier that you don’t care about the things people expect you to care about … what did you mean by that?”

He hadn’t been expecting that, and for a moment it gave Harry pause. He dipped his fingers beneath the Nirvana jumper and trailed them lazily across the warm skin of Malfoy’s back.

“Just … the whole thing, I guess,” he said finally. “It’s like they expected me to keep being the fucking Chosen One even after the bloody thing I was chosen for is done. I mean, look, I’d fight Voldemort a hundred more times if that was what I had to do, but that doesn’t mean I wanna spend my life being everyone’s personal goddamn hero. I just want a fucking break, y’know? They want me at all these stupid fucking Ministry functions just because it gets people interested when they know I’m there.”

“Typical,” Malfoy drawled.

“Yeah, it is bloody typical. Fancourt would probably pay me to settle down with some bird and start a family. Every interview I’m forced into, that’s the question: ‘When are you getting married?’ and ‘Will you be an Auror when you stop playing Quidditch?’ and ‘How many kids do you want?’ It’s never-fucking-ending. I’m only twenty-three, I mean, fuck. Give me a fucking minute to enjoy the first time I’ve ever been able to do whatever the hell I want, you know?”

He realized suddenly that he’d worked himself up and let out a long, slow breath. His head was still fuzzy, however, and it wasn’t difficult to bring himself back down. Especially not with a high, sleepy-looking Malfoy right there, curled into him.

“So was this some sort of rebellious act, then?” Malfoy asked. There was something unreadable in his eyes when he said it. “Bringing me back to your flat and fucking me?”

“No,” he said at once, studying Malfoy’s pretty face and delicate features while something utterly familiar but long since felt began growing in his chest and making it tight. “You are … wonderfully unexpected, Draco.”

The use of Malfoy’s first name was a tangible presence between them, especially potent when their eyes met. Harry tried his hardest to ascertain what was going on in his head but found it impossible to read his expression.

“What do you care about, then?” Malfoy said; it could have been a deflection, but Harry fancied there was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

“I dunno … enjoying myself?” He shrugged one shoulder as best he could when he was lying on his side. “Just … living, y’know? Having fun. It’s why I decided to play Quidditch instead of becoming an Auror. I guess maybe one day I might do that, but I doubt it.”

“What’s ‘one day’?”

Harry heaved a sigh and removed his hand from Malfoy’s back, using the pad of his thumb to drag down that bitten lower lip he’d been so focused on all night. Malfoy nipped lightly at the tip, bringing a fond smile to Harry’s face.

“No idea,” he said. “I’m only twenty-three. I’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Malfoy yawned again, the fingers of one hand idly tracing a scar he’d found on Harry’s chest. “As long as you win us the Cup, you have my permission to make an arse of yourself however you see fit.”

“And that’s all I need, is it?” Harry said, smiling helplessly. “Your permission?”

“If we’re going to continue shagging, then yes.”

Harry’s chest seemed to expand and he knew that if he could look at himself, he’d see a hopeless tenderness in his eyes as he raked them over Malfoy’s face. “And are we? Going to continue doing this?”

For the first time tonight, Harry saw a hint of something uncertain, even anxious, appear on Malfoy’s face.

“Only if you want to,” he said quietly.

Without hesitation, Harry leaned in and kissed him; he felt Malfoy smile into it and a hurricane of butterflies erupted in his stomach.

“I definitely, definitely want to.”

Malfoy nodded, clearly trying to suppress his grin. “You know, Potter, those Muggle drugs are useless.”

“Why do you say that?” Harry laughed.

“Because all it’s done is make me tired.”

“And adorable,” Harry added, smoothing a thumb across one pink cheek. “Really adorable.”

“I’m always adorable, Potter. Don’t be stupid.”

With that, his grey eyes disappeared behind his lids, and Harry felt his heart must surely burst right out of his chest when Malfoy tucked his head under Harry’s chin, let out a deep, satisfied-sounding breath, and went to sleep.

* * *

He managed to make it all the way to the day of the World Cup without any bad press, although Harry thought this probably had something to do with the amount of time he and Malfoy spent in his bedroom. The ease with which they fell into a comfortable routine of being around each other might have been eerie had it not felt so utterly, perfectly natural.

True to his word, he didn’t say anything even to Ron and Hermione. It didn’t bother him, mostly because his evenings spent shagging Malfoy breathless had brought him around to the conclusion that he liked him — quite a lot, in fact — and had every intention of making him his boyfriend before August was over. It was a refreshing feeling, being so into somebody, for he realized now that he hadn’t felt this way since he had dated Ginny. The fact that it should be Malfoy to make him feel this way again became less surprising the more he thought about it and the more time they spent in each other’s company.

On the day of the match, there wasn’t much time to see one another. Malfoy was up to his ears with work to do and Harry was busy talking his team through their repertoire of plays one last time. However, just ten minutes before the crowds were due to be let into the stadium, Malfoy pulled him away under the guise of needing to speak with him; they went up to the top box, empty for now, and Harry wasted no time at all shoving his tongue inside that sweet-tasting mouth.

He was absolutely, unequivocally convinced that it gave him his edge during the game, and when they won by a landslide (Harry catching the Snitch forty-five minutes in, when his team was down twenty points), he screamed himself hoarse sixty feet in the air with the weakly-fluttering Snitch clasped tight in his fist and his head full of Malfoy.

One of England’s Chasers, Nerissa Murray, hosted a celebration at the enormous flat she shared with her girlfriend, and it was here that Harry was finally able to get Malfoy alone.

The flat was on the twenty-fifth floor of a building in the heart of London; it was nearing midnight when Harry, clutching his third beer, pulled Malfoy away from a bloke who was attempting to chat him up and out onto the balcony.

The view was stunning, and yet all Harry found himself looking at was Malfoy.

“So,” Malfoy said airily, leaning back against the railing and looking far too pretty to be allowed, “Defeater of Dark Lords and now World-Famous Quidditch Star to boot. Not bad, Potter. Not bad at all. You might even say I’m impressed.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry laughed, digging his pack of smokes out of his back pocket and handing one to Malfoy. As was his wont, he used his green Muggle lighter to spark the end of it before lighting his own. “That’s my lifelong goal realized, then.”

“You’re very funny.”

“That means a lot coming from you, Malfoy,” Harry teased, blowing out a long stream of smoke and then kissing his soft cheek. “I have something for you, by the way.” He pulled the Snitch from the game out of his jumper and pressed it into Malfoy’s free hand.

“What — the Snitch? Potter, this is … this is your World Cup Snitch, don’t be ridiculous. It’s a trophy in and of itself.”

“Yeah, well … I figure, you know, you’ve never got to touch one before, have you? Seeing as I always beat you to it in school.”

"Oh, ha bloody ha," Malfoy scoffed and elbowed Harry hard in the ribs. “Twat,” he added, but when he tried to hand it back, Harry closed his hand around it again.

“I’m taking the piss, Malfoy,” he chuckled. “Really, I want you to have it.”

“Why?”

“Because I fancy you, you great bloody git. Fuck, why do you have to be so difficult all the time?”

Malfoy’s jaw hung open and there was a suspicious look in his eyes that couldn’t entirely hide the burgeoning hopefulness Harry saw underneath. It made him feel warm all over and he had to use a massive amount of willpower to stop from kissing him again.

“Remember you said if I won the Cup for England I’d have your permission to make an arse of myself however I wanted?” he said, tapping some ash off his cigarette over the railing. Malfoy merely lifted an eyebrow.

“I … might recall having said something of that nature. However, I was indisposed thanks to your stupid Muggle drugs, so I can’t be held accountable for any claims I made.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said pleasantly. “You said it, and I caught the Snitch that won us the game. Now I’m going to exercise my right to make an arse of myself.”

“And what is it, exactly, you plan on doing?” Malfoy drawled.

“I was thinking I’d ask you on a date, for starters.” He grinned widely when once again blatant shock registered on Malfoy’s face. “Maybe see if you wanted to do dinner tomorrow night after you’re done with work. Go from there, see what happens.”

“This is arse-backwards, Potter!” Malfoy hissed, voice low to avoid anyone inside hearing them (although it was doubtful over the blaring music). Fist still clutched around the Snitch, he whacked the back of his hand into Harry’s shoulder. “You can’t just fuck me for a week straight and then ask me on a date!”

“Well, why the hell not?” Harry retorted. “Never heard you complaining while my cock was up your arse. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to do anything reckless until after the Cup, remember?”

Malfoy opened his mouth like he was going to argue and then seemed to fall short of anything to say. Instead, he smacked Harry’s arm again, harder this time.

“You bloody wanker,” he said, and a moment later he’d crushed their mouths together so hard Harry dropped his cigarette in surprise. He laughed into the kiss and wound his arms around Malfoy’s waist, pulling him close and working his tongue between those ludicrously addictive lips.

“Is that a yes to the date tomorrow?” Harry said against his mouth a minute later, delighting in the little irritated huff Malfoy let out in response.

“You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”

“Only when I’m serious about something,” Harry hummed, and for good measure slid his hands down to Malfoy’s arse and squeezed. He leaned forwards again and brushed their lips together, loving the way he could feel Malfoy shiver in his arms. “C’mon … say yes. I’d really like to take you out, Malfoy.”

Malfoy must have dropped his own cigarette as well, because he lifted the hand that wasn’t closed around the Snitch and brushed some of Harry’s fringe away from his forehead, not scowling anymore but not smiling either. He looked contemplative now.

“When you say you fancy me …”

“I mean I really, really like you,” Harry said.

“You said yourself we don’t know each other, Potter. All you’ve done is shag me the last week, you can’t know you like me.”

“Well, that’s why I wanna take you on a date, isn’t it?” Harry pointed out, eyebrows raised. “To get to know you better?”

For a long minute, Malfoy said nothing. Then —

“All right.” He gave a little nod, and Harry broke into a megawatt grin.

“You mean it?”

“Yes, you insufferable, gorgeous prat. I mean it. And you’d better take me somewhere nice, or the deal’s off.”

“Brilliant,” Harry laughed, and nearly lifted Malfoy right off his feet when he kissed him again.

The hell of it was, maybe twenty-three wasn’t going to be so bad, after all.

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #top!harry #bottom!draco #anna writes

673 notes · View notes

wordsablaze · 6 years

Text

(6) At Least The Fatigue Is Real

Stubbornly In Love Magnus and Alec are two beautiful souls that both happen to be in love, heartbroken, and painfully stubborn. An angsty malec fic prompted by this lovely soul, chapter 6-10 done as part of the Malec Big Bang! Enjoy!

A/N: Help out? Posting week is here so I’m back! Mostly thanks to my astonishingly wonderful beta @zeejade88 as she went above and beyond with tolerating me and making everything better <333 Check out the incredible art that @dmsilvisart made, I am honoured to have worked with her for this fic and to have received such magical artwork! <3

It’s a good thing Alec’s tears aren’t the source of rain because otherwise the entire world would be flooding at an alarming rate.

He can’t think past Magnus and how he’d left. Of course, he knows Magnus had only left because Alec had asked, but that doesn’t make it any easier for his heart. There’s a part of him that wishes he could just go back, back to when he didn’t know Magnus and when becoming the head of the Institute was his biggest concern, but he knows that’s impossible no matter how much he wants it not to be.

But, on the other hand, he doesn’t want to think about Magnus right now because he’s having dinner with Maryse in less than a quarter of an hour and the last thing he wants is for her to find out they’ve broken up, which is why he finds himself standing in front of the bathroom mirror and breathing heavily, trying to persuade himself that he’s okay.

“You can do this. No big deal. All you have to do is pretend everything’s fine. You’ve done it before and you can do it again. You can do this.”

His reflection seems unconvinced; he’s tempted to punch the helplessly truthful mirror.

Glaring at himself doesn’t seem to have the same effect as when he glares at others so he gives up on it after another minute, just sighing and running a hand through his hair instead. Almost immediately, he groans, opens the tap, wets his hands, and tries to make himself look like he hadn’t only changed clothes because of this family dinner. Somehow, the whole thing takes ten minutes so he’s only just satisfied with his appearance when Izzy bursts in, radiating concern.

“What if I’d been naked, Izzy?” Alec asks, rolling his eyes at her fearless behaviour.

Izzy scoffs. “I’ve seen much worse than you, get over yourself. Now, if you’re done preening, we have a mother to entertain.”

“I was not preening!” Alec argues as she tugs on his arm, then all but drags him to the front entrance.

Oh no.

Maryse is armed with a bottle of wine and a giddy smile, which can’t be good. The last time she’d turned up in this kind of state, Magnus had been the only one who could keep up with her and coax her away from drinks and towards mindless chatter and rest instead.

“Izzy…” Alec murmurs, his tone saying everything he’d rather not. That and the fact that Izzy seems to have an inbuilt Alec-translator means she perfectly understands what he’s thinking in a heartbeat.

Izzy swallows but blinks away her frown. “We can do this. Come on, where’s that stupid determination of yours? I bet you Clary’s next brownie batch that she’ll hug you first.”

Alec makes a face but then they’re too close to Maryse for him to say anything without being overheard so he plasters a smile onto his face and takes the bottle from her hands. “Hey, Mom.”

“My children!” Maryse smiles brightly before hugging them both in turn, Alec first just as Izzy had predicted, the scent of coconut flooding through the door as she walks through.

“We made stew!” Izzy tells Maryse as they walk towards the room they’d turned into a dining room a couple of weeks back since nobody ever used it for anything else and family time had suddenly become much more common, to everyone’s pleasant surprise.

Not wanting Maryse to reply with something borderline insulting and spark yet another nostalgic debate, Alec adds: “Don’t worry, it’s the new and upgraded version.”

“Oh, thank the angel,” Maryse breathes in relief.

Izzy makes an indignant sound. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad!”

She gets only a hum in reply but, thankfully, they reach the dining room before they can start another argument over the quality of their childhood attempts at cooking. Alec opens the door and lets the other two in before following them, shutting the door behind him to keep away prying eyes or nosy ears.

The first round of stew is accompanied by flickering conversation topics that Alec mostly tunes out. It’s only when they refill their ridiculously small bowls – the size of which is the only reason that they’re having more than one serving in the first place – that things go slightly south.

“So, Alec, how’s Magnus? Busy with a client, I presume?” Maryse asks, a smile on her face that Alec really doesn’t want to sabotage.

Naturally, he does one of the things he’s best at: he keeps pretending. “Yeah, it was an urgent request. In fact, I forgot to tell you, he sends his apologies for not being able to make it.”

Izzy gives him an odd look but doesn’t contradict him, going with it. “Good thing too, he’d probably have stolen bigger bowls with the excuse of being fabulous and gotten us in trouble again.”

“Again?” Maryse echoes, raising an eyebrow and sipping her drink.

It’s not a secret that Alec himself occasionally indulges in and appreciates alcohol but, right now, he couldn’t hate it more. He just really wants to stop talking about Magnus and pretend that this is just another casual dinner rather than the only reason Alec is talking to anybody else in the first place.

“Well, there was that time we had a stray cat problem and, instead of helping relocate them, all Magnus did was magic us some bowls and cat litters,” Izzy says, rolling her eyes and effectively covering for Alec’s internal distress.

Maryse just laughs, throwing her head back as she imagines the scene. Alec offers a small chuckle as Izzy takes the lead in their conversation, the two siblings fully shocked when Maryse starts to tell them her own stories about Magnus. Alec listens with a troubled interest, not sure whether he should listen to the tales of his boyfriend- no, his ex-boyfriend’s adventures after jeopardising their relationship’s ability to fix itself.

Regardless of his ever-growing guilt, he listens and finds himself smiling at the crazy things Magnus has done. It makes him want to go and see Magnus’ mannerisms for himself, to go and build his own stories with Magnus, but, mostly, to just go, go away from this situation and cry in his room again.

“Alec, are you alright?” Maryse asks, apparently finally seeing through his pretence.

He smiles as brightly as he can, not wanting to worry her. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little tired, it was a long day.” And he’s not exactly lying. It was a long day and he is utterly tired, just not for the reasons Maryse is probably thinking.

“You can say that again,” Izzy says under her breath, smirking a little.

Maryse smiles at him, then waves a hand. “You can go and rest if you need to. It’s been a while since Isabelle and I have had some quality girl talk anyway…”

Izzy genuinely snorts, then covers it up with a cough, but nobody could miss the shine in her eyes at those words. It’s been halfway to forever since they’ve had anything close to girl talk and Alec really wants to be happy for her, he does, but he can’t pull his mind out of the time he’s spent with Magnus. He still smiles, though, yawning to authenticate his fatigue and just about managing a decent wave before he leaves, walking faster than he’d thought he could.

By the time he gets to his room, he’s too tired to change his clothes so he just pulls his socks off – a habit he’d picked up from seeing Magnus remove his socks before bed so many times – and flicks the light he’d left on earlier, off. His happiness, patience, and concentration might have been fabricated but his lack of energy is genuine and even he knows he can’t fake his way out of that one.

“Nnnggghhhhh,” he groans after taking two more steps, promptly flopping onto the mattress face-down; pretending is way more tiring than people can ever know. And if he falls asleep cuddling his pillow as if it’s a certain warlock, well, nobody will ever know that either.

like/reblog but don’t respot, thanks!

#shadowhunters #malec #magnus bane #alec ligthwood #Isabelle Lightwood #Maryse Lightwood #angst #fanfiction #fanfic #malec big bang #sil #my writing #sad alec ligthwood #lightwood family

5 notes · View notes

onceuponataarna · 6 years

Text

Do Pirates Dream of Electric Swans?

Summary: Mills Mechanics has made a fortune producing Compandroids, remarkably lifelike androids that are nearly indistinguishable from humans and designed to be a perfect companion for the wealthy people who commission them. Built to the specifications of their respective owners, Emma and Killian are no exception to this, but still find themselves drawn to each other in a way that defies all logical explanation or programming. Haunted by a sense of loss even when happily living their separate lives, their circumstances have them returned to the factory headquarters at the same time, and they are astounded to discover that the face they’ve fallen for in their dreams is that of a fellow robot. If two lovers are made to be together, can anything truly keep them apart? Do you need a soul to have a soulmate?

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: explicit sexual content

Word count: 13,155

(Also available on ff.net and ao3)

Please make sure to check out the gorgeous art done by @hencethebravery and @youre-not-a-cat-youre-a-rat !

Author note: After months of work and stress, here it is, my contribution to the Captain Swan Little Bang 2018! What can I say? I love androids, and I’ve had this story kicking around in my head since at least 2016 or so, but just couldn’t find the time and inspiration to put it down in writing until joining the cslb gave me a deadline to push me through that block. I need to send a big thank you out to my amazingly supportive cslb beta, @branlovesouat and to @wordsmith-storyweaver and @krustybunny for their encouragement.

————

Just like that, She was everything. He didn’t know how else to express it. One moment he was just going through the motions as required and the next he felt. There was an awareness of her, that she was something beautiful, perfect, and rare. And she was looking at him the same way he was at her.

He heard a voice over the loudspeaker behind him, “Cognition is running on full auto and he’s attuned to the female.”

“Hey, there, buddy,” greeted the technician standing nearby with a tablet. “She is a stunner, isn’t she? Well, it’s your lucky day, cause I’m pretty sure she’s the one you’ll be paired with.”

The loudspeaker sounded again. “Looking that way. I’m just finishing up the compatibility studies but I don’t think we’ll have to get one out of storage. We can just test them together.”

“Should I wait to switch her over?”

“Nah I’m almost done here. You can go to physical and cognitive.”

He watched as the tech tapped various inputs into the tablet to turn the female’s automatic functions on, and marveled as she cocked her head and stared at him, mouth dropping open in surprise.

She’d never seen him before and yet, she had no doubt that he was the one. She didn’t know any truth more complete than that. His body, his heart, whatever he was, he was hers and she was his. God she needed to be with him- to know him, feel him and taste him.

The tech laughed at the two androids reactions, nudging the male with an elbow before turning to the female. “Looks like she’s into you too. Don’t go falling in love sweetheart. He’s just a fling.”

“You’re so weird, Jefferson,” the voice over the speaker asserted.

“August, come on. In a month they’ll be practically indistinguishable from a human,” the tech responded, checking a few measurements on his tablet as he spoke. “Why is my talking to them weird?”

The security guard by the room’s door and adjacent one-way mirror laughed quietly, earning him a glare. “I’m sorry, but you’d be weird even without the talking- you know that right?”

“Whatever, Dave. Anyway, he’s completely good to go. Give me 5 and she’ll be ready too. What’s the male’s name again? Kevin? No, Kieran?”

The speaker crackled to life. “Killian.”.

“I knew it was something with a K. Killian, meet Emma. Emma, this is Killian.”

Killian drank in the sight of the female before him, letting his memory catalogue the shade of her jade green eyes, the creamy paleness of her slightly freckled skin and the bright golden blonde of the hair that cascaded down her back. Classically beautiful in an old-Hollywood kind of way, she had been built to be lean, but undeniably feminine. God, she had truly been made to be both heaven and hell in one gorgeous package.

“Compatibility’s fully in the green on all measures, Jeff. I’ll start the physical tests while you finish her up, and then we can let them get acquainted while we grab lunch. David, you need to do anything before we go?” The blonde security officer shook his head, and moved to make a final sweep of the room as the engineer and tech continued their work.

Emma inclined her head politely, taking in the nude form of the fellow compandroid beside her. His face was a masterpiece with incredible bone structure, strong cheekbones and a devastating jawline only serving to draw attention to beautiful sky blue eyes. Undeniably male, the dark hair on his head, stubbled jawline and down his sculpted chest contrasted beautifully with his fair skin. Killian was defined but not overly bulky, and had the physique of an athlete rather than a man who spent hours in the gym. The tech was fully focused on her as August began his assessment, and as he turned, stretched, and bent when prompted, Emma couldn’t help but let her gaze drop to the other masterpiece of his build.

“Are you sure we can’t get them some clothes or something?” the security guard asked as he finished rounding the room and returned to the door. “They aren’t going to be naked all the time once they get to wherever they’re going.” Emma’s gaze snapped up, but he was looking up at the security camera.

“Millionaires pay good money to bang these things,” Jefferson responded. “Don’t kid yourself, Dave, that’s, like, 80% of why anyone buys them.”

David made a vaguely disgusted sound and left the testing room as the tech laughed, putting Emma through the same basic physical tests as her male partner. “They’re both all set,” he announced as he finished, tucking the tablet under his arm. “Go ahead and switch them over to full physical and cognitive auto.” He turned to the Compandroids, smiling broadly. “Alright you two. Go ahead and get acquainted. You’ve been cleared so just do whatever comes naturally and we’ll let you know if we need you to repeat anything or if we need to see anything else at the end of the week.”

August’s voice filled the room. “Mills Mechanics test 342: Killian for U.Z. and Emma for A.P. Cameras are rolling. Security is standing by.”

The technician signaled a thumbs-up to his coworker and jogged for the door, leaving the two androids alone. Tearing his gaze from the female- Emma, he thought, with a surge of warmth- he looked around their simple surroundings, noting that she was doing the same. The room was sparse, arranged to look like a studio apartment and containing simple furnishings as well as a few random items that seemed likely to appeal to specific programming that compandroids were often given. Foregoing the idea of heading towards the tiny kitchen, as neither really needed food to function, his attention snagged on the bed. No, there would be plenty of time for that, he hoped. A woman as beautiful as this deserved to be wooed.

“So,” she began, leaning against the back of a black leather couch and giving him a very distracting view of her lithe body. “Looks like it’s just you and me for a week, so we might as well get started.” She paused a moment before blurting out, “What’s your favorite animal?

He tipped his head back and laughed at the randomness of the question, moving to stand a bit closer as he accessed his memories. “Dogs. You?”

“Swans. You have an English accent. That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it?” She shrugged, nodding in his direction. “Your turn.”

“Alright. Favorite food? Mine is pancakes.”

“Rocky road ice cream,” she announced with a grin. “No question. Alright, favorite song?”

“Vissi d’arte from Tosca.” His brows drew together in slight confusion. “That seems strangely high brow and specific. Apparently I like opera. You?”

“In My Room by The Beach Boys. Brian Wilson is an artist and I won’t tolerate you saying otherwise, Mr. Opera.” She faked offense, but the secret smile she sent him warmed his heart.

Killian’s hands went up in a placating gesture. “Alright, lass, you’ll hear no argument from me.” Looking for inspiration to keep their game going, he moved towards a shelf along the back wall of the room, which contained books in a variety of styles and languages and picked up the first that caught his eye, a collection of poems by Robert Burns, as it turned out. “Hmm, ok, who is your… least favorite author?”

An adorably puzzled look crossed her face as she joined him in perusing the titles, their shoulders mere inches from brushing. “I’m… I’m not sure I have one. I’m certain that I like books, though. Why, do you have a least favorite author?”

She smirked as a blush crept across his cheekbones and tinted his ears pink. “It seems I find Roald Dahl’s works creepy?”

The laugh that bubbled out of her was unintentional. “Isn’t that a children’s author?”

“Aye,” he admitted, slightly put out. “What of it?”

“Nothing at all,” she assured him, making a show of letting her eyes wander over his broad shoulders and down his sculpted torso before landing lower. Biting her lip with a smile, she looked back into his eyes through her lashes. “You just, well, you certainly don’t look like a child.”

He preened a bit, finding that he didn’t mind his embarrassment as much when it could make her smile and clearly didn’t inhibit her attraction to him. “You’re welcome to look your fill darling. I’m designed to be aesthetically pleasing.”

“As am I,” Emma responded, swaying her hips as she gave a little twirl and walked over to the upright piano sitting against the adjacent wall, gently pressing a few keys. “Looks like I know how to play one of these things,” she said with a wry twist of her lips. “You get any hidden talents, Killian?” His blue eyes twinkled as he quirked a suggestive brow in response. “Any musical talents?” She clarified, shaking her head in amusement as he crossed the room as well and pulled out the bench for her, allowing Emma sit and position herself. She casually began to play as she continued to speak. “I don’t think it’s always a standard thing.”

Killian picked up the acoustic guitar leaning alongside the piano, plucking out a quick melody in harmony to the tune she had been playing a moment earlier. “Apparently I play guitar?” He responded, continuing to strum lazily as he exchanged Pachelbel’s canon in D for something new. “Alas my love you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously. For I have loved you so long delighting in your company.”

Without missing a beat, she continued where he left off, piano and voice joining with him as they sang. “Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my Lady Greensleeves.” She chuckled then, shaking her head again in disbelief. “Of all the things, they gave us both a folk song?” She watched the faint blush return to his cheeks as he scratched behind his charmingly pink ear.

“Seemed a bit early for something more ambitious like Bizet’s Carmen. I had to improvise. Folk tunes seemed the most likely to be universal.” He smirked mischievously, leaning in slightly to stage whisper, “and it gave me an excuse to sing something romantic to you.”

Emma mirrored his pose, and he fought to keep his eyes on hers and not let them drop to her very kissable mouth or lower to the perfect breasts that remained exposed. “Doesn’t the lady reject her suitor in that song? I’d think you’d pick something with a happier ending if you had an end goal in mind.” He watched her eyes briefly flick down to his lips as she licked her own, and he was rather glad that certain parts of his anatomy were still covered by the wooden body of the guitar.

“Maybe the lovers reconcile in my version,” he whispered.

“I think I’d like that,” she murmured back, slipping from the piano bench to lean over him and place the gentlest kiss to his lips. No longer worried about modesty, he shoved the guitar aside, and she instantly deepened the kiss as he pulled her down into his lap and gave himself over to her. One of his hands wrapped around her back while the other buried itself in her long golden hair, an action that she repeated herself as her fingers scratched along his scalp. Holding herself back, she resisted grinding down onto the hardness she could already feel under her, wanting to simply enjoy the sensation of kissing this amazing male for a moment.

Pausing briefly, he pulled back to admire the female in his arms, letting his thumb trace the gentle curve of her jaw. “You are a bloody marvel, Emma,” he said quietly, hoping she could hear the sincerity in his voice.

“And you’re everything, Killian. Everything I could have hoped for.” In spite of the extensive vocabulary she’d been given, Emma found her words failing her and instead tried to convey what she felt with her body, wrapping her arms around his neck and pouring herself into her kisses. They’d barely known each other for an hour, but something about this male just felt right, like he was the other half of a puzzle she hadn’t even realized was missing a piece. From his actions and responses, it seemed clear that he felt the same way, and she wasn’t foolish enough to question their connection when he was busy working kisses down her neck and whispering tender endearments into her skin.

“God above, darling, you’re so beautiful, so brilliant. How are you mine?” He wondered aloud. He wanted her in every way, and something in him ached with a need to show her that the bond they had was, somehow, so much more than physical. Yes, he wanted to fuck her, but a simple coupling of these bodies was only the beginning. He wanted to know everything about her, to make her laugh and smile and share parts of himself that he didn’t even realize were there.

Lifting her into his arms, Killian gently carried her to the bed and laid her upon it, stretching out beside her as they kissed. His gentle reverence didn’t seem to add up, given how quickly they’d gone from strangers to this, but felt right nonetheless. Emma knew, somehow, that giving herself to killian would be an experience that surpassed physical pleasure and became something more. His kisses remained passionate as one of his warm, rough hands moved down her back to her hip, maintaining contact but staying a respectful distance from any of her more intimate areas. She could feel the coiled tension in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tightened but didn’t dare move inwards to where her impeccably designed body was wet and ready for him. Breaking their kiss, Emma stared deep into his eyes as she gently removed his hand from its perch on her side, smiling inwardly when his look of disappointment morphed into pure arousal when she moved it between her legs and rubbed herself against his fingers.

Bloody hell, she was so wet and warm, his cock automatically responding to her clear desire. Unlike humans, Compandroids’ bodies were capable of instantaneous arousal and infinite orgasms, but he didn’t want to rush this experience. They’d have all week to fuck each other into oblivion, but Killian had an intense and undeniable need to make love to Emma properly the first time he had her. Pressing a last searing kiss to her swollen, berry-pink lips, he inched lower on the bed to let his mouth join his fingers’ exploration, letting the heavenly music of her gasps and sighs ring out in the room.

————

David watched the two carefully from his seat in the observation room, as required by his position. Plenty of his coworkers seemed to have a strange fascination with sexual encounters between Compandroids, but part of why he’d been selected as head of lab security was because, most of the time, he just didn’t see the appeal. If he were honest with himself, he’d always found watching to be slightly uncomfortable, but this couple seemed different somehow. Paired Compandroids usually ended up in bed together eventually, but he’d never seen them connect this quickly or this passionately. It was far more like watching reunited lovers than two robots who’d never come into contact before today. The bond between these two seemed disturbingly real.

He’d always wondered about the morality of what they were doing; synthetic or not, there was something unsettling about creating beings that were little more than glorified slaves for the wealthy. The company justified it with data that showed human sex trafficking had decreased with the creation of Compandriods, and the base models were little more than elaborate sex dolls. Of course, the high end models like the two being tested today were another story entirely, programmed to have the full spectrum of human emotion but unable to act against their owner’s wishes.

Until this moment, though, it had never been more than a passing thought that crept into his mind when they shipped out a new custom-built deluxe model. He’d never witnessed anything that confirmed his suspicions in his five years managing the security for newly ordered Compandroids. He’d never seen one scared or angry or even truly delighted, and any doubts had been erased by the fact that his Mills Mechanics salary had allowed him to afford the perfect ring for his (hopefully) soon to be fiancé. Watching them stare into each other’s eyes with all too convincing passion, David began to worry that he’d been right to question their work all along.

————

If this was what orgasms felt like, well, Emma wondered how humans got anything done. Her entire body arched off the bed as she came again, a giddy laugh escaping her lips when she met Killian’s lust-addled gaze. If his mouth felt this good, she could only begin to imagine how actual sex would feel.

God, she needed more of him now.

He crawled up her body, lips meeting hers in a deep, desperate kiss as he settled between her thighs. “Fuck, Emma. You’re so god damn beautiful. I want you with every fiber of my being,” he confessed, his hard length adding further emphasis to his words.

“But, I have to reciprocate first!” She argued, her excuse cut off by another sloppy kiss.

“Next time,” Killian promised, the look in his intense blue eyes promising a week of endless carnal pleasures. “I just, I really don’t want to wait to be inside you, love. If you don’t have any objections, that is.”

Wrapping her legs around his slim hips, she pulled him into the cradle of her body, feeling him respond to her enthusiastic cue as he let himself sink in inch by delicious inch until he was fully sheathed inside her, little pants escaping his lips as he shuddered. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, struggling to find his voice. “Fuck, Emma, you feel so good around me. Better than I’d even thought possible.”

She couldn’t disagree, the pleasure of joining with Killian so much more intense than she had been prepared for. He thrust experimentally, and they both shivered, nearly overwhelmed by the intensity. “More,” she begged, peppering him with frantic kisses anywhere she could reach. “God, please, Killian, make love to me.”

Their eyes met again, her words registering for a moment as he smiled almost boyishly, and then his mouth was on hers and he was gone, they were gone, utterly lost in the pleasures of each other.

————

They spent their first days alternating between random discussions and more intimate activities, exploring each other in every possible way. Although there were obvious differences in their programming, everything about them seemed strangely synchronized, and as the days passed, Emma found herself wondering if Killian could be any more perfect. He had his flaws of course, like his distaste for onion rings, but even those were charming in their own way. What surprised her even more was that he seemed to feel the same, and though he would shake his head at the sometimes unusual preferences she had been given, he still claimed to quite fancy her.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t feel the same way.

On their third day, Killian spent hours reading to her from his favorite books, always making sure to find the most romantic lines to quote. She rolled her eyes every now and then, but the rosy blush on her cheeks was more than enough encouragement to continue. As they lounged on the bed, Emma curled into his side as they snuggled under the blankets, he honestly wondered if there could be any place in the world better than right where he was. What surprised him most was how little that thought seemed out of place, given what little time they’d had together.

As he made his way through Wuthering Heights, he came upon the line “whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” The truth of that, the sentiment behind it, echoed through him as he gazed down at the beauty in his arms.

“I’ll never read this without thinking of you. I don’t know how or why,” he admitted, “but from the moment I first saw you, I have been utterly enchanted. It’s as if we were meant for each other.”

“I bet you say that to all the artificial girls,” she deflected, averting her eyes. “I know what you mean though. I felt the same way. It was like someone turned on a light. Suddenly you were there and everything changed.”

“I don’t think this is programmed Emma.” He said, tracing the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “I think it’s just us. There’s something special between you and me, beyond just following through on the mandate to interact.”

“We understand each other,” she agreed, snuggling deeper into his side. “Even if you were given horrible taste in movies.”

He snorted, digging his fingers into her ribs until she giggled. “You only know my taste is horrible because you were given incredibly pretentious taste, lass. Neither one of us has actually seen a single film, so pardon me if I don’t take your criticism all that seriously.” A gentle kiss to the crown of her head, he returned to the book and it’s ill-fated lovers.

Another few days, and Killian knew beyond any doubt that what he felt for Emma was love. it was an all consuming thought: he loved her without restraint, loved everything about her. A lifetime with her was all that he wanted for himself, and as the harsh reality of their limited time together began to close in, he started to plot ways they might escape their seemingly inevitable fate. It had obviously been wearing on her as well, if her desperate kisses and the way she held him as they made love were any indication of her feelings. Still, even if their time together was limited, she deserved to know how much he cared, and in the still, silent darkness of the night he confessed in a whisper.

“I love you, Emma.”

He heard her shaky intake of breath as she clung to him, and her whispered “and I love you. I’ve known it for days. Killian, what are we going to do? I don’t want to lose you and we only get a week,” she continued, vocalizing many of the dark thoughts that had tormented him as well. “How is that fair?”

“It’s not.” He smoothed her hair back with a gentle caress, looking into her eyes as he placed the softest kiss to her lips. “Nothing about this is fair, and yet I wouldn’t trade knowing you for the world. Our time together and what you’ve brought into my life has been a gift I never expected to receive. We may only have two days left together, but I will never stop loving you.”

“We should run. Go somewhere they’ll never find us and just live our lives together.” A sob broke her last word, and he wiped away the traitorous tear that ran down her cheek before it could drip onto the bedding.

“We should,” he agreed. “Any ideas?”

The subtle hum of the cameras continued as they talked well into the night.

————

After six days of watching Emma and Killian, David knew there was something different about them. Their connection was unlike any he’d seen in his 5 years of monitoring these trial weeks, which is why he was only slightly surprised when August came in, visibly flustered and annoyed, and whispered that David should call in some backup. The research team had been reviewing the previous night’s recordings, and had seen interactions between the couple that were far outside what was dictated by their programming, noting that the frequency had only escalated as the days passed. Mills had demanded they end the test early and separate them under the pretense of wanting to check a few settings, before things got any worse.

David’s stomach lurched as he called out on his walkie for aid and prepared to enter the room.

————

Emma woke to the sound of Jefferson entering the test room, and smiled politely at the tech through her momentary confusion. He gave her an overly bright smile before announcing, “Just here to check a few settings. Sorry to bother you, but it’ll only take a minute. Could you two get up and move apart? We think your sensors are interfering with each other or something cause I haven’t been getting a good reading the last few days.”

Killian ran a hand through his dark hair, rising and following the technician to a location marked with a small X on the wall opposite the door. “Great, thanks Killian,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “I’m just gonna hook you up and we’ll see what’s going on.” The cold metal of a containment cuff snapped around Killian’s left wrist, and he was about to make a filthy joke about it when he saw the door open and a team of security guards entered alongside several other men and women in lab coats. His eyes snapped to Emma, who was being escorted from the bed and towards the door, rather than to the containment cuff attached to the adjoining wall. The horrible realization hit as fear sluiced down his spine, stealing every thought but one as Emma stiffened and turned toward him, panic in her gorgeous green eyes.

“What are you do… NO!” She screamed, turning towards the far wall to see Killian had come to the same conclusion. “Killian! They’re taking me away!” She fought against the security guards who had grabbed her, unable to injure them thanks to her programming but trying instead to slip free of their grasps. Thrashing wildly, Emma turned with tears in her eyes to Jefferson as he immediately backed away from Killian. “You promised us a week! We still have another day! Please!”

“Emma!” Killian bellowed, pulling against his restraint. “Get your hands off of her!” She would be dragged from the room and out of his life without so much as a chance to say goodbye or tell her what she meant to him. There was no way for her to break free without causing damage to one of the humans, but he realized with sudden clarity that all that lay between him and Emma was the band of steel around his left wrist. It was a surprisingly easy decision. Reaching down with his free hand, Killian brutally snapped his forearm in two, tearing through the layers of synthetic tissue until he was free. He crossed the room in mere seconds, grabbing her face in his remaining hand and kissing her one last time as the entire room froze in shock. “I’d rather have 6 days with you than live without knowing you, Emma, and no matter what they do to me, I know a part of me will never forget you. I love you.”

The blonde security officer holding her right arm adjusted his grip to her shoulder, allowing her to wrap her arm around Killian and hold him close. She could taste tears on her lips, and his, as she whispered, “I love you too, and we will meet again, somehow, someday. I will find you.”

Cora Mills burst into the room, heels clacking as she screamed, “What the hell is wrong with all of you? Put him down and get her out of here.”

Emma fought as another guard brutally wrenched her away, watching in horror as an additional security officer moved in and hit Killian with a jolt from a restraining rod that instantly took him offline. “Nooooo!” Emma screamed, feeling like she was being ripped in two as they dragged her out the door. “Killian!”

————

There were days that David really hated his job, and this was one of them. He flinched as his harpy of a boss screeched out her orders, redoubling his efforts to subdue the inhumanly strong female in his arms as she clawed towards the male lying motionless across the room.

An elbow to his gut swiftly brought his musings to an end, and as he focused again on the tear stained face of the beautiful model in his arms, who continued to cry out in tones laced with despair and desperation, he decided a transfer would be the next paperwork he filed. Working in the loading docks would be less glamorous, but watching the male literally disconnect an arm in his effort to reach the sobbing female was a sight he never wanted to experience again. He suddenly felt a deep sense of regret, and knew the whiskey bottle would be calling his name tonight.

They were robots, he knew, but even so, he couldn’t help but wonder- did you really need a soul to have a soulmate?

————

David sat in the control room an hour later, the bone-deep exhaustion that followed a surge of adrenaline pulling at him as he monitored the post incident huddle. The cup of coffee in his hands had gone cold, but gave him a distraction from the tense argument in the room between the business end of the company and the brilliant product developers responsible for making their products function.

“What do you want me to say?” August asked, his usually calm demeanor laced with frustration. “I ran all the usual diagnostics per protocol before I started. They’re considered compatible.”

“Compatible?” Cora Mills keyed up the details of the analysis on her tablet, stabbing at the compatibility rating with one of her crimson-lacquered nails as she showed the room the results. “Compatible doesn’t even begin to cover it. The only way they’d score higher would be if you paired two of the same damn model, which, may I remind you, could never happen with our deluxe models because we only make one of each!”

David studied the screen, where 99.999% flashed in bold red; despite the staggering differences in their programming, the two Compandroids were a perfect match on every level.

Mills placed her hand against her forehead, briefly composing herself before returning to the issue at hand. “We will deal with the aftermath of this later. In the meantime, you need to get those two finished and prepped for shipment. Wipe their memories, twice if needed, to erase every trace of this, and reload their programming from scratch.

“But Ms. Mills!” interjected one of the designers, who looked almost giddy in contrast to the rest of the room. “This is something completely unheard of. They were developing new behaviors and emotions we can’t even begin to code yet and bypassed key elements of their programming to get back together. Surely we can take a few extra days to study what happened. It may be breakthrough. Imagine! Androids with real, independent consciousness!”

“This isn’t a senior research project, Dr. Whale, it’s a business,” she snapped. “We’re here to sell people their perfect companions- which are things, in spite of how they outwardly appear. Other people can disappoint you, but part of the beauty of our creations is that they don’t have that capacity. We give them the illusion of free will of course, to make them more authentic, but that is it. Why would we even want to incur the risk of anything more? Now, everyone, fix it!” She turned to leave in a swirl of barely contained rage, calling over her shoulder as she left the room, “And for god’s sake check the numbers a little more carefully next time. I won’t have a repeat of this incident.”

————

Emma blinked rapidly in the bright light of a sterile exam room. It was so cold in here, and she didn’t recognize the faces of any of the people around her. Where was she? Where was… “Killian!” She felt panic grip her as she scanned the room again. “Where is he? Is he ok? Please, tell me he’s alright!”

“Shit,” one of the men with a lab coat cursed. “That didn’t work at all. Ok two memory wipes isn’t enough for her either. How about him? Does he still remember?”

Another man spoke, and she recognized him as August, the engineer she’d heard over the loudspeaker. “He’s better after two. He can’t remember her name but he definitely remembers a beautiful blonde. He’s not sure if she’s some kind of dream girl he conjured up or a past romance. I guess it’s an improvement. I think we better wipe them all one more time just to be sure. Three times for each should do it. God only knows what kind of trouble it’ll start if they mention each other or, hell, go off searching for one another.”

Emma just stared at the room, panic gripping her like a vice until one of the engineers came over with a tablet, sitting in front of her. “Emma, dear, calm down. Killian is ok. He’s just in another room.” He showed her a video feed from a similar room, where Killian lay on a table, his arm reattached and looking so handsome and perfect that she wanted to cry. The man watched her reaction, eyes jumping from her to the screen and back again as he mumbled, “I still think erasing your memories is a mistake. You two are the biggest breakthrough in AI that we’ve ever seen.”

“No, please, don't” she pleaded. “I love him. Let me just see him. I have to know he’s ok.” She rose, pushing the men out of the way as she ran for the door. If she could just find him, maybe they could escape after all. Maybe she could make him remember her.

“God damn it, Victor! Not again!” August yelled, and then everything went dark.

————

The next time Emma opened her eyes, the face staring into hers was strangely familiar. “Arthur?” She questioned, confirming that the handsome middle aged man in front of her was indeed the man she had been designed for.

His answering smile confirmed her assessment, though a touch of sadness infused everything about him. She knew everything about this man, and though she didn’t truly know him yet, she hoped that she could make him happy. Arthur Penn, founder of the Pendragon Tech company, had come into wealth and success early in his life when his inventions had revolutionized computers and technology, making him a household name. He and his equally photogenic wife had been staples in both business and politics, championing causes and companies they believed in while raising their family. Nobody could have predicted her sudden death at only 55, or his immediate retirement and retreat from the public eye that followed; his son had successfully taken over the company in his absence, though Emma knew the two rarely spoke.

He ushered her out of the large wooden crate she’d arrived in and into his cozy living room, sitting beside her on the couch as he stared into her jade green eyes in the low firelight. “I’d hoped they could make me a companion who would remind me of the good old days, someone like Grace Kelly, but you, Emma, are far more than I’d ever hoped for.” He reached a tentative hand towards her, hesitating before turning her chin this way and that, admiring the craftsmanship that went into Mills Mechanics finest products. “I have been alone for nearly a year, and I'm… I’m not ready for what lies outside my door, not yet. But I hope that, perhaps, spending my days with you might help me.” He closed his eyes, brow furrowing as he struggled to contain his emotions, and she leaned over to place a tender kiss to his cheek. His soft, shaky sigh in response let her know that her programming had indeed prepared her for a life with this broken, brilliant man.

The weeks passed easily, and their early steps towards familiarity quickly led to a relationship based on a shared love of art, technology, and literature as she filled his lonely days with conversation and companionship. It was a gentle affection, rather than passion and romance, but it was genuine and most days she contented herself with knowing that she made Arthur’s life immeasurably better. They were more akin to friends or perhaps even a father and daughter for the first two months, until the day that he leaned over and brushed a kiss to her lips at the end of Gone with the Wind. She could see in his eyes what he needed from her, and let him lead her to his elegant bedroom for a gentle coupling that was in truth closer to making love than anything else, though he would never call it that. It was a shared moment, a renewing of their bond, something she couldn’t describe as exhilarating or passionate, but rather two friends giving each other comfort and pleasure. He’d already had the great love of his life, and while he undoubtedly enjoyed his days with Emma and cared for her, she would never replace his dear departed Gwen.

That night, while Arthur slept peacefully beside her, Emma dreamed. She dreamt of eyes bluer than the clearest sky and love deep as the ocean, passionate and unrestrained. She dreamt of his hands on her skin, of his mouth, of their bodies joined as he made love to her and moaned her name long and dirty into her ear. Waking with a start, Emma could only assume it was her prior activity that had conjured up such odd images and sensations, as she had no memories to speak of before Arthur. Perhaps someone had made an error in her programming, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if she hoped she could forget the dream or if she wanted to treasure it.

She dreamt of this unnamed, beautiful, passionate man every time she and Arthur were intimate, usually every week or two, but otherwise lived happily with him. After nine months, he took her on their first trip outside his sprawling estate, having his driver drop them off at a small bookstore in the nearby town for an hour while he browsed the shelves. It was a simple, unhurried outing, but a massive step for a man who had sequestered himself away out of grief. A week later, they had a late lunch at a small cafe, and a few days later went into the city to hear Juilliard students perform. With each passing week, she watched Arthur find himself bit by bit, the culmination of which was a final, face to face meeting with his son Martin about a year after Emma’s arrival. Martin was surprised and, it seemed, a bit disturbed to discover his father had bought himself a Compandroid, not understanding why he had refused the comfort of another human.

“Marty, I wasn’t in any shape to be out there after your mom passed,” Arthur explained, taking his son’s hand across the oak kitchen table where they’d settled. “She was my inspiration from the beginning, and I didn’t know how to go on without her. You were grieving and I’d just dumped the whole company in your lap- I couldn’t burden you. I didn’t want to exploit some poor woman just to have my emotional and physical needs met, and Emma here has helped me to find joy again without me having to worry if I’m hurting her or leading her on. I’m not looking to date again. I just… I mostly just wanted a friend.”

The explanation, it turned out, was enough, and Arthur began calling his son regularly, asking about his grandchildren and making plans to visit them in San Francisco. He brought Emma on the first trip, explaining her away as his new assistant, but began leaving the house alone more and more, eventually going as far as making a second and third visit to California without her. By two years into her time with him, Emma could see the end coming even before Arthur did, and couldn’t be sad when he finally decided to sell the mansion, return her to Mills Mechanics, and move to live near his son and his family. He apologized to her, genuinely regretful, but he admitted that he would only use her as a crutch if he brought her along, and he felt it was time for a new beginning. She smiled at him through the burning in her eyes as they joined together one last time, and wished him every happiness when she kissed his cheek and boarded the transport truck for her return to the factory.

————

“Holy shit, are you kidding me?!?”

Bright light and a shriek of delight met Killian when his crate was opened, finally providing some context for the muffled sounds of revelry that had filtered through to his auditory processors for the last hour. “Happy Birthday, Sweetheart,” came a man’s deep voice to his left. “I know you were upset when your mom and I said no dating while you’re at Julliard, but…”

“No way! You got me a Compandroid so I can focus on my singing but still kind of have a boyfriend.” Her dark eyes sparkled as she assessed him, her smile growing. “Oh my god he is SO hot.”

Sensing his cue, Killian rose from the crate’s built in chair and stepped forward, lifting the girl’s hand to his lips and brushing a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s lovely to meet you, Sula.”

“He has an accent!” She squealed, bouncing slightly in excitement. “Can I please take him back out to the party? I really want to show the girls!”

“Of course honey,” her mother cooed, mirroring her daughter’s wide smile. “Happy 18th Birthday.” Her mom and dad wrapped their arms around her, which she returned enthusiastically before grabbing Killian’s hand and yanking him towards a set of doors that ended up leading into a nightclub that was lavishly decorated for the girl’s birthday in golds and purples.

“So wait, do I have to, like, name you?” She asked, turning wide eyes towards him as they maneuvered through the crowd.

“You certainly can if you’d like, though I go by Killian at the moment, lass.”

“Killian? Nope, not gonna change that. It’s perfect.” She looked around, watching her classmates’ jaws drop as they took in the handsome man on her arm. “Shit, actually, you’re perfect.” A faint blush colored her cheeks as she leaned closer to him, whispering, “Oh my god, can I have sex with you?”

He smirked slightly at her excitement and raised a mischievous brow. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend doing so here, darling, but yes, and I’d be happy to give you a very thorough demonstration of all of my many, many talents later.” She squirmed a bit, her blush deepening. “I’m fairly confident that after a night with me, these mere boys will no longer be even a momentary temptation. Now, unless you’d like to find us somewhere private right this moment, why don’t we continue on to your friends?”

Sula’s parents had rented her an apartment just a few blocks from the school. Not wanting to flaunt her family’s wealth any more than necessary, she’d let everyone assume Killian was just her live in boyfriend. While Sula studied to be the world’s next great operatic soprano, he’d cook and clean and otherwise maintain the place for her during the day, then listen to her practice and provide her with whatever pleasure she desired once she arrived home. His devotion to her wasn’t exactly based on love; she liked him well enough, but he knew full well that she thought of him as more of a pet than a person. Still, she was so focused on achieving her goal that his presence served its purpose. Compared to his dashing good looks, manners, and undeniable prowess in bed, the other boys in her classes didn’t stand a chance.

Ursula Zeddmore could be described in many ways, including beautiful, driven, wealthy, and well-educated. Killian adored everything about the vivacious young woman. Her voice, however, was beyond words. Even before she’d begun studying with some of the finest teachers in the world, her talent had been obvious, but the months of training had enhanced and matured the classical soprano’s sound until hearing her sing could honestly be described as life changing, and indeed, sometimes was. Killian would tidy up the kitchen as she practiced each night, and would find himself humming whatever lovely piece she’d been practicing well into the next day, though the song always somehow morphed into Greensleeves by noon. He figured it was a minor flaw in his programming, but he had a fondness for the tune and was strangely comforted every time the old folk melody floated into his head.

It was less than a year into her education that Sula met Antonio at one of her recitals. An unimposing man in his mid 30’s, he’d approached the soprano afterwards, introducing himself to both her and Killian and complimenting her on her absolutely breathtaking rendition of Sempre Libera before asking if she might be interested in working with him. She’d politely declined, but accepted his card and stopped him when he made to walk away, waving her phone as she pointed to the browser’s google results. “You’re Antonio Sforza? The composer? I saw your Elizabeth I at the Met just last year!!” Clearly smitten with her, he’d brushed off her earlier dismissal with a laugh, and they’d immediately made plans to meet the following week to work on his newest opera, a modern retelling of the story of Cleopatra.

Killian could provide her with almost everything a young woman could want, but even he couldn’t stop the two musical virtuosos from falling in love. Within weeks, the composer had left his wife and declared the beautiful girl his muse, writing his opera to showcase her remarkable voice. Sworn to secrecy, Killian continued to live alone in the apartment until she finally broke the news to her parents a few months later, explaining that what she had with “Tony” was real, and that she’d continue her studies but would be marrying the brilliant, famous composer as soon as his divorce was finalized. Sula’s parents remained skeptical but agreed to send Killian back to Mills Mechanics at their daughter’s insistence. Though he knew the whirlwind love affair was likely doomed, a small part of Killian admired and envied the two. His attachment to Sula Zeddmore was removed as he was collected for transport, and he spent the ride back to the factory imagining his own passionate love affair with a breathtakingly beautiful blonde, set to the tune of Greensleeves.

————

Neal Cassidy was a professional gambler who was used to both wealth and all the trappings that came with it, and what better way to flaunt his fortune than with his very own custom-refurbished Compandroid. “Damn,” he’d breathed, scanning every inch of her before his gaze met hers. “You really are perfect. You even have green eyes just like I wanted.” She’d been programmed to love him, of course, just as all of her kind were, and to do whatever he asked of her without question. After all, “Your Perfect Companion” was what Mills Mechanics boasted, and Emma felt a rush of pride at his satisfied assessment.

The first year passed happily, and at the time, Emma had been thankful that the engineers and programming geniuses who’d designed her had found a way to give her emotions, as she felt overjoyed to belong to the charismatic man by her side. He would flirt with other women, but she didn’t worry because she knew it would be difficult to replace her. After all, she was perfect.

Neal had never been shy about parading around his “custom-made girlfriend,” going as far as to take her to fancy parties as his date. Many of his poker buddies envied him, always wanting more information about what she was like. Was she really everything the company claimed? He’d never held back, answering all their questions readily as he boasted that she was far better than any “real” woman he’d had. Most of the time, Emma honestly didn’t mind that his feelings towards her didn’t include love, but every so often she would get a strange, secret feeling that she couldn’t describe, like there was something missing from her life. At first, she’d thought it was a desire to be loved by Neal, but as the months passed she knew that wasn’t it; whatever she was looking for, it was something that even Neal couldn’t provide. In an odd way, it sometimes seemed like even her habit of rereading romantic classics like Wuthering Heights was related, and it felt a bit cruel to her that she’d be programmed to feel so empty in the absence of love. Still, whatever it was that caused the emptiness in her, it was irrelevant, and she tried to ignore it and enjoy her life with Neal, which continued to be a whirlwind of excitement, until his luck ran out. At first, he sold off the things he didn’t truly need: the Maserati, the penthouse in Miami, the expensive watches he never wore. Though she was one of his most valuable possessions, Emma tried not to fear she would be next. She was far too precious to him, he’d said, and he’d never sell her. It was only when the unpaid bills continued to mount that she learned he wasn’t as attached to her as he seemed. Eager to avoid prosecution, he drove off early one morning with the majority of his remaining wealth and never returned, leaving her alone in the empty house until she was repossessed four months later by Mills Mechanics to be refurbished, have her memory wiped again, and to be sold off to a new owner. She didn’t want to go, but of course, those emotions were overruled by her programming; Emma found herself wishing for the first time that she’d never been given emotions at all.

The driver who arrived to bring her back to the factory seemed gruff, but there was a hidden tenderness in him. “Easy, sister,” he murmured gently as he surveyed her empty living quarters with disgust and barely hidden anger. “I’m Leroy, and I’m here to take you out of here.” Wrapping a blanket over her shoulders to cover the silk negligee she was still wearing, he escorted Emma from the dismal apartment to a simple cushioned seat in the back of the transport truck. With the quick input of a few codes, she was free of the tether to an owner and wept quietly as they pulled away towards their next stop, denied even a simple goodbye from the man who had once owned not only her body but her heart.

————

Killian had been purchased next by a middle-aged divorcee. She’d wanted a handsome young stud to travel the world with, and a Compandriod had been the perfect solution- a man who would love her unconditionally, and not care a bit about the substantial fortune she’d received when her insanely successful husband had divorced her for a younger woman. Killian didn’t care about the fine lines that had begun to form on her face or that her body wasn’t as tight as it had been before having a child. He didn’t find her independence intimidating or her occasional temper unattractive. He was programmed to love her, and from the moment he laid eyes on Milah Gold, that is exactly what he did. Milah never told a soul that he wasn’t “real”, introducing him as her charming new boyfriend and treating him like a human man nearly all of the time. Sometimes, Killian wondered if he would have loved Milah even if he hadn’t been programmed to do so. She was so full of life, so determined to make every moment count. She’d take him shopping and dress him in the latest fashions, always making sure to show off his well-constructed physique and smirking at all the customer service attendants who eyed her with blatant envy when he pulled her close and kissed her breathless. He would pleasure her in bed for hours, reveling in every gasp and moan as she told him how amazing he felt, how perfect he was, and how much she loved him back.

It was so easy to forgot that he was merely a Compandroid when he was with Milah, and even his basic programming seemed to respond to the way she treated him, giving him new human characteristics. The dreams were the most obvious and troubling. At first, he found himself having the occasional sexual fantasy about a gorgeous blonde woman who was very clearly not Milah, waking hard and aroused. Soon after those started, he had nightmares as well, dreaming of this same blonde being pulled from his arms and crying out to him in despair. He hid the nature of the dreams, unsure as to why this strange beauty would be in his head when he already had someone as amazing as Milah in his life, but tried not to dwell on them too much. After all, this fantasy woman may have looked like some random actress from a classic movie, but she wasn’t real. Milah was a woman, flesh and blood. It all ended so quickly that it was still hard for him to understand. They’d returned from a week in Bali, and Milah’s bright laugh echoed off the polished marble floor as she pulled him into their apartment, her skin tanned and still smelling of the coconut sunscreen she wore as she kissed him. Their homecoming was interrupted by a cough, and they turned to find her ex-husband standing at the top of the staircase, casually perusing the Comapandriod paperwork that had come when Killian had originally been delivered a few years before. “So, this is what you’re into nowadays, Milah?” he scoffed, tossing the binder over his shoulder. “You always were a bit heartless- makes sense that you’d want a man without one as well.”

“Get the hell out of here, you bastard!” she’d yelled, launching herself towards him as Killian followed cautiously. “This isn’t your home anymore. Go back to your pretty little wife, and leave us alone.”

“Us?” he’d laughed, a sneer on his face. “You mean you and the glorified sex toy? Don’t tell me you’re delusional enough to love this… thing!“ He’d pushed Killian out of the way, and damn his programming, but it wouldn’t allow him to harm a human- even one as vile as the man before him. “Jesus, Milah, what other ridiculous shit have you been up to?”

Milah left Killian at the top of the steps and followed, stopping in front of her ex-husband and yanking on his arm as he turned away dismissively. “Get out of my house, Richard, or I’m going to call the fucking cops.”

“Call the cops on me, in the house I bought you?” He yelled, spinning to face her as he threw his arms wide in agitation. The movement caught her off balance, and she stumbled backwards, losing her footing and tumbling down the stairs. “No! Milah!” Richard cried, reaching out in desperation as Killian rushed past him in an effort to catch her before she hit the bottom. The sickening crack of her head hitting the marble floor echoed in the room as both men dropped to the ground by her side. “Call 911, you idiot!” Gold bellowed, tears in his eyes as he checked for a pulse that Killian knew full well wasn’t there. He’d known the precise moment her neck had snapped, and the woman he’d known and loved had been lost forever.

The police and ambulance had arrived quickly, along with a computer tech who accessed Killian’s recorded memories and confirmed Richard Gold’s story. It had been a horrible accident, they’d all agreed, clearing Killian for his transport back to Mills Mechanics for holding and eventual refurbishment. As he waited for the truck to arrive, he sat and wondered what the use of having inhuman strength or reflexes was when he couldn’t even save the woman he loved?

————

“It’s you.” Killian had spent years of dreaming of a beautiful, nameless woman, and here she was, not a woman at all but a compandroid like him. She was like sunshine breaking through the clouds. That was all that he could think when he was ushered into the Mills Mechanics truck with her, and despite all of the pain he was feeling, the loss of Milah and the knowledge that he would have all of his beautiful memories of his time with her wiped and would be shipped off to another buyer, he couldn’t stop staring. He knew that Compandriods were supposed to be perfect, but he’d never actually seen another one before, and her beauty was staggering. He watched her eyes raise, and saw the same fascination mirrored in her leaf green gaze. She was just as lost as he was, without an owner and about to be reconditioned and yet she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Emma stared at him, at his dark hair and exquisite features, but her gaze landed on his sky blue eyes as something in her cried out in recognition. “I…I know you. I don’t know how, but it almost feels like I’ve always known you.”

“I dreamt of you, lass. For years, over and over. How can you be real?”

Emma sighed deeply, a habit that she’d picked up and did despite not really needing to breathe. She hadn’t felt attraction like this in so long, and of course it would happen now, as she was about to lose everything that made her her. Whatever had happened to him, she supposed he was headed for the same fate, and she could tell from his resigned demeanor that he’d probably lost just as much as she had. Why had the designers given them emotions, she wondered aloud, if it would only lead to pain? “I don’t think they worried about our well being,” she heard him answer, the sadness in his soft lilting accent catching her off guard. “After all, we’re not really people, are we?” His sparkling eyes met hers, a sad half-smile tilting the corner of his mouth. “I’m Killian. or at least, I will be for a few more hours. After that…” he trailed off, a slight shrug acknowledging their inevitable fate. “Emma. At least, that’s what he called me.” She looked over him again, appreciating the care that obviously went into the creation of each Compandriod. “What was it like, where you were?“

He sighed quietly, dropping his eyes to the ground and chuckling humorlessly before answering. “It was good. I almost forgot that I wasn’t human.” His gaze roamed her face briefly before he asked her the same question. “Oh, I knew exactly what I was every minute of every day. Which was fine until…” she trailed off, suddenly feeling shame and briefly annoyed that the programmers had decided to include that pesky emotion, before shrugging it off and continuing. “Honestly, it was kind of a relief when they came to get me. It may not last long, but at least I can belong to nobody but me for a few hours. Maybe next time I’ll be enough.”

“Don’t say that, love. You may have belonged to someone who didn’t appreciate you, but the flaw was with him, not you.”

“How do you know that?” She asked, regarding him cautiously. “Are you sure we’ve never met?”

“I’d remember meeting you.” He looked at her again, marveling at how familiar she was in spite of the fact that he was absolutely certain that he’d never seen her before. “But there is something between us. Do you feel it? “The pull? Like you can’t help but want to know more about them and at the same time it’s like you’ve known each other forever.” He watched her lick her lips and blush, and couldn’t help but follow the lovely pink flush that colored her cheeks and continued down to her barely covered chest. “And then there’s the other part. Like my body knows you too.”

“Does it always happen when two of us get close? I’ve never felt this before.” “I don’t think so,” she responded, accessing her memories. “I met another Compandriod once, on a gambling trip to Monte Carlo, and felt nothing whatsoever. Maybe it’s because we’re not tethered to an owner. I don’t know what this is, but I don’t think it’s something they designed, at least, not consciously.”

“I don’t care why it’s there,” he breathed, reaching out to tuck a bit of her golden hair behind her ear. “It’s as if…” he trailed off, and seemed to be searching for a thought, his eyes snapping to hers as he clearly found it. “Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.”

She shuddered, her body seeming to recognize the quote just before her mind did. Not pausing to question her decision, she grabbed the lapels of the designer leather jacket he wore, crashing her lips against his in a display of unbridled passion unlike any he’d ever seen. His hand tangled in her hair as he returned the kiss, something electric coursing through him as they lost themselves in each other. She abruptly leaned back, pulling the thin silk nightdress over her head and revealing every detail of her perfectly crafted form to his gaze. His cock twitched to life instantly, his programming responding to her unabashed desire as he surged forward to capture her lips again, rutting against her as she slid the jacket from his shoulders and deftly unbuckled his belt. They may be destined to forget these lives, but she would live every moment she had left to the fullest, and right now, she wanted to be with Killian far more than she’d wanted Neal, or any other man she could have been compelled to desire. As she finally freed his cock, she couldn’t help the involuntary moan that slipped past her lips at his size. Just like the rest of him, his cock was absolutely perfect. She had been built to be tight, and could be stimulated by nearly any man as a result, but she could only begin to imagine the pleasure she’d feel from what she saw before her. She dropped to her knees as he continued to shuck his clothes, closing her lips around his length and sucking with all her strength, knowing that his body could take it more than an average human’s; she felt a fresh rush of lubrication between her legs when he quietly cursed.

“Fuck, Emma. That’s- I’ve never felt anything like it. God, love, please don’t stop.” She continued to suck him with inhuman precision, her soft tongue caressing him as she took every inch deep into her throat. Milah had enjoyed sucking his cock, but it had been nothing like this. He thanked his designers for giving him incredible stamina, and honestly pitied human men for a moment, knowing they’d never be able to truly experience all the pleasure she could produce. Still, the compulsion to give in return remained, and he enjoyed the blowjob until he felt the sensations just beginning to become overwhelming, then stopped her, lifting her into his arms and above his shoulders, nesting his face into her perfect little cunt. Everything about her had been designed to be flawless, it no exception, sculpted beautifully and smelling absolutely delicious. When his tongue swiped through the artificial lubricant she produced, the exquisite taste was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he couldn’t stop himself from laying her gently on a pile of their discarded clothes and practically devouring her. They had clearly programmed him to be amazing at oral sex, and every teasing movement of his lips and tongue was done with such skill that she worried her circuits might overload from the pleasure. “Please,” she begged him, arching her back as another orgasm washed over her. “I need to feel you inside me.” He kissed his way across her belly, over her beautiful breasts and up her neck until he was hovering over her, the tip sliding over her entrance teasingly as their lips met. “I want you.” he whispered, his eyes dropping to where their bodies were nearly joined. “Fuck, Emma, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” She arched against him, letting the tip slip just slightly into her, and it was the affirmation he needed, his hips thrusting forward to work his cock into her. Another curse escaped his lips as she moaned in pleasure at the feeling of his girth stretching her. “You’re- bloody buggering hell- you’re so tight.” He worked his cock deeper, the hot, wet walls of her perfectly designed sheath squeezing every inch as he held himself above her. “God, I could die a happy man with your cunt around me.” His breath came in pants against her neck as pleasure coursed through her. “Let me fuck you, lass. Please tell me I can move.” “Killian,” she moaned, wrapping her legs around his hips. “Please.” He pulled out and slammed back into her, suddenly feeling a sensation unlike anything he’d ever experienced. His eyes snapped to hers, seeing the shock and delight there mirroring his own. Their pleasure circuits were coming into contact with each thrust, doubling the sensation for each of them and causing the whole world to narrow to where they were joined. A few more experimental thrusts confirmed it, and from there it was a ballet of positions and methods, both of their bodies capable of unlimited releases and craving more of the unprecedented sensations. He wondered if they had accidentally been designed this way, to only feel this kind of pleasure with another of their own kind. Fucking her was more than just physical pleasure; for him, it was like coming home.

For her, it was like finally being whole. Truly satisfied and wanting the same for him, she rode him to a last orgasm, both so exhausted and overstimulated afterwards that they collapsed beside each other. They rearranged their clothes to form a crude mattress on the hard metal floor of the trailer, and curled up beside each other, fingers intertwined.

They wouldn’t have much time together, but they could love a lifetime’s worth in just a few hours. ————

“Holy shit, Leroy, you’re right. It’s them.” David, now the security foreman for the shipping department, shook his head as he peered into the video monitor, seeing the trailer’s occupants huddled together in an intimate embrace. “Yeah,” the driver answered, his usual gruff countenance softening slightly. “I didn’t put it together until I came out from the hotel this morning and found them like this. Poor things. I kind of feel bad for them.”

“Who are they?” The foreman’s assistant asked, leaning in to check out the couple on the screen. “Hell of a story.” Leroy answered. “About 4 years ago, we had an incident in the lab. These two-“ he pointed at the video feed, “literally stopped production for a whole day because after being tested, they wouldn’t be separated and had to be together.” He shook his head again, grumbling. “We had to memory wipe them 3 times, and eventually had to remove him so we could finish production on her without angering the client, because even a glimpse of him was enough to undo everything. He got finished and shipped out a few weeks later. As you can imagine, the great Cora Mills was less than thrilled. I can only imagine what she’d say if she saw this.” The two watched the figures on the screen begin to stir, taking a moment to assess the trailer before embracing in a heated kiss. David turned off the monitor, walking away with a huff. “I can’t watch that. I was actually there when it all went down. It still gives me nightmares” He stared out the window, watching a storm gathering on the horizon. “You guys might as well get going. It looks like it’s going to be an ugly night and I don’t think they ever got those damn generators down here working after the last storm. The power always goes out the moment it starts raining, and if that happens I have to herd everyone out asap because the cameras go out too and you know how paranoid they are.”

“Yeah, especially after that Will guy tried to smuggle one of the Compandroids out to be his girlfriend,” Leroy chuckled, waving goodbye as he grabbed his things from a locker and walked out to his car.

As he nodded his farewell to Leroy and the rest of the crew, a thought crept into David’s mind. It was stupid and dangerous, likely to get him fired if he didn’t do it just right, but once it was there, he couldn’t shake the idea. For four long years, he’d awakened drenched in sweat next to his beautiful wife, heart racing as he remembered dreaming that it was her being ripped away from him, just as Emma had been dragged from Killian. He would lay awake for hours afterward, torn apart by guilt as he watched her sleep peacefully.

What they had done that day was wrong. He’d known it then, and hadn’t even tried to do anything, too shaken to think straight. He’d transferred away from the lab, but it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been able to help them. Maybe this was fate’s way of remedying that.

David watched the last few workers drive off, and went about his nightly rounds as always, waiting for the inevitable power failure than seemed to accompany every storm of late. He made a show of securing the computer files and checking the locks on the transport that still held the Compandroid lovers and would until the lab. He was just about to give up, deciding that maybe his ridiculous plan was a momentary loss of sanity, when the power cut just as he was leaving. He thrust his hand into the door, blocking the latch before it clicked into place, and rushed to the truck. Throwing the doors wide, he gazed down at the two startled faces that stared back in shock.

“Come on,” he whispered. “If you want your best chance of getting out of here together, follow me.” They scrambled out of the truck, grabbing their clothes as they dropped to the ground beside him. “Bend the rod, just there,” he instructed, pointing to a piece of the door. “With any luck, it’ll look like you got out yourselves when the security crew shows up for you in the morning.”

————

Emma looked up at Killian, seeing the same mixture of giddy hope, confusion, and cautiousness that she was feeling. She didn’t know why one of the security guards would help them escape, but she wasn’t about to ask questions just yet. Grabbing the bar, she began to pull, feeling the steel bend as he joined her and their combined effort twisted the metal to the side.

“Yeah, that should be good,” the strange blonde man assured them as he pushed the doors back into place. “Now quickly, let’s go.”

Grabbing Emma’s hand, Killian followed the man through the darkness and out the door, racing through the empty parking lot as the rain pelted them. They slipped into the back of an old SUV, ducking low when the man hissed. “Stay down. I can see security doing their rounds one lot over. Without the lights, they won’t be able to see you if you just stay hidden.” Covering Emma’s wet, nude form with his own, Killian flattened himself as much as he could as their driver put the SUV into gear and they left Mills Mechanics behind.

————

David kept checking his mirrors, silently praying that the ruse had worked as he motored away from the warehouse. After 5 of the most stressful minutes of his life, he breathed out a sigh of relief and pulled off the main highway onto a wooded access road. “It’s ok,” he assured the two huddled lovers, “you can sit up now.”

They sat upright slowly, and a glance in his rear view mirror reminded him that he had two very naked beings in the back of his truck. “Uh, you should probably get dressed. There’s a duffel in the back there somewhere with some clothes in it. My wife Mary Margaret and I are what you might call outdoor enthusiasts. She’s amazing with a bow. Anyway, um, we always have random supplies in the truck. You’ll probably find a few things in there that will work.” He opened his wallet as well, handing a stack of bills to Killian while Emma pulled a white turtleneck over her head and shimmied into some jeans. David worried for a moment; the pants were a favorite of Mary Margaret’s, but he knew she’d forgive him for donating them to a homeless girl, and these two were as homeless as they came. Killian slipped on the jeans he’d retrieved from the transport, stuffing the money into a pocket before he donned his own shirt as well.

“Ok, head for somewhere up north- Canada, wherever. The cold won’t affect you and will keep you running longer. Your tracking devices aren’t activated right now, but they’re in your wrists,” he opened the glovebox and passed them a pocket knife. “They’re about an inch square and green. Take them out before sunrise and leave them somewhere in the woods. If you…”

He was interrupted by the female, who had reached out to grab his shoulder. “Stop. Why are you doing this?”

————

Emma stared at this unknown human, who seemed to taking a massive risk just to help her and Killian break free. Since they’d arrived at the facility just before the end of the day, they hadn’t even come into contact with this man before he’d opened the transport, and she had to know why he would do something so risky.

The man turned to her, smiling sadly. “Because you may not remember me, but I remember you. Both of you. And what I’m doing is something I should have done 4 years ago.”

A chill made her shiver, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”

Killian grabbed her hand in his, feeling the tension radiating off her. How did this man know them? And what did he mean by 4 years? He had been with Milah for only a bit over 26 months.

“Before I worked in the shipping department,” the man began slowly, “I was head of security for the lab. One of my jobs was to watch as they paired up Compandroids for final testing before shipping them to their owners. You two were paired, and were supposed to run through some basic interactions over a week, just like every other duo we’d tested. But that isn’t what happened.” Killian squeezed Emma’s hand as the driver paused, swallowing hard. “From the moment you were introduced, it was clear that you were different. You’re a perfect match, in every way, and within days you’d shattered all of the safety limits on your programming and had developed both consciousness and will. And you fell in love.”

Neither Emma nor Killian moved, afraid to break the spell that seemed to surround the truck as the man continued. “I’m a married man, and I know love when I see it. So did everyone else, and it scared the shit out of them. They separated you two, and tried to wipe every trace of what you’d shared from your memories, thinking it would solve the problem. Given what I saw when you arrived tonight, I don’t think they were successful. You were made for each other, and when two people should be together, nobody should keep them apart. By the time I realized just how much we’d wronged you there was nothing I could do. I’ll be damned if I make that mistake twice. My info is in the duffel, if you ever need me. I’m just sorry I can’t do more. You deserve the chance at a happy ending.”

Killian turned to Emma, his heart swelling as she did the same and their eyes met. She was never just some random woman, and his dreams weren’t fantasies. They were memories. She’d known him and loved him once before, loved him so fiercely that they’d been forced apart, but now she was his again. A smile bloomed on her lips as she stared into his eyes. “Thank you,” she said, “but that’s not really what this is.”

She leaned forward, unable to resist placing a kiss to her love’s perfect lips before she opened the door and climbed out with the duffel over her shoulder. Hands still joined, he followed her out of the truck, pulling her close as the security man rolled down the window. “Then what is it, love?” Killian asked, his familiar blue eyes stirring something deep inside her as she smiled up at him. Sending a last nod of thanks towards the vehicle behind her, Emma grinned as she gazed north into the woods.

“It’s our happy beginning.”

————

Three months later, David arrived home from his new job at the town’s Sheriff’s station to find a postcard proclaiming “Greetings from Storybrooke, Maine” had arrived at the Nolans’ house and was sitting on the kitchen table. He picked it up and glanced at it, then crossed the room and swept his wife into a kiss, declaring how much he loved her and making her giggle with delight.

“You’re in quite the mood, not that I’m complaining,” she laughed. “Good day, I take it?”

David smiled down at her, thinking of the postcard. It was blank save two handwritten words: Thank you. “Yeah,” he agreed, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders for the first time in years. “Definitely.”

————

Somewhere deep in the woods of Maine, the windows of a tiny hidden cabin glowed in the fading evening light. Two figures occasionally came into view, little more than silhouettes that came together and separated as they embraced or kissed when their paths crossed. Every so often, joyful laughter filtered out of the isolated little house, disappearing into the sounds of the forest as easily as the faint smoke coming from the chimney drifted on the pine-scented breeze to dissolve into the misty clouds above.

#cslb #cslb 2018 #cs ff #cs smut #android au #do pirates dream of electric swans #my fic #my writing

127 notes · View notes