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_ a little mistake _ arctophily

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What Ambrose expects to come home to: his boyfriend.

What Ambrose doesn't expect to come home to: his boyfriend, but inexplicably miniscule, sitting on one of the couch cushions with the most irritated expression on his face, wings extended and quivering from exertion.

"Don't you dare laugh," says Cyrus, although it's a lot smaller and squeakier coming from someone barely six inches tall, his tiny arms crossed over a naked chest. He's just managed to keep his dignity intact by tugging the corner of a throw between his crossed legs, although as Ambrose approaches he sees that the boy is panting lightly. A tiny shower of light behind him indicates that his wings have dissipated into Cyrus' back again, and Ambrose thinks, oh. Cyrus isn't very good at flying, but if it was an alternative to climbing the couch, he would've taken it.

Ambrose's eyes flick around the small space of their apartment, finally coming to rest on the kitchen counter's angular peek from around the corner. A thick book, its weathered pages bared to the opposite stove, and -- if he squints -- a pile of clothes resting at its feet, the size and shape of his unlucky roommate.

Ah. Everything makes sense now.

"I won't, I won't," assures Ambrose, letting his human disguise drop; his flesh shifts from deep human umber to faery evergreen and his ears take on a decidedly ethereal point. Taking care not to sit on (and therefore squash) his tiny companion, he joins him on the couch, cheeks tensed in an attempt to keep back his smile. "I'm guessing it was a shrinking spell, then?"

"Mm." Now that he's close enough to see his little face, Ambrose admires the deep blue of Cyrus' blush, coloring his vivid features and emphasizing the small triangles of his ears. If he had to guess, only some of it was from the flying -- the rest is all aggravation and hurt feelings, probably from an expectation that he'd get it right the first time, as he does. He can't really look Ambrose in the eye, either, instead choosing to look down at his hands, which are twiddling in his lap. "I was just trying to practice on my own, you know, especially after -- I mean, you know, it's been a little while since we finally got out of all of that faery stuff, and I know you need to focus on work, and the spell looked easy --"

Ambrose chuckles, which gets him a sudden, slightly wary look, and he puts up his hands to mean no offense. "It's okay, honeybee. We all make mistakes." He delights in the way the blush deepens in response to his familiar petname, a rich blueberry instead of the initial cerulean, and reaches out to caress Cyrus' jaw with a few fingertips before he can bury his face into his hands. "Can you tell me what you did?"

A flushed, hasty explanation and some thoughtful nodding later, Ambrose is sure the spell's effects will be temporary -- it's nothing he really needs to handle, since it'll go away by itself in a few hours, and he tells Cyrus so to his palpable relief. Smurfs are mentioned, briefly, and after they've worked out how exactly Cyrus is going to get around without exhausting himself (riding on Ambrose's shoulder, his little hands curled around fistfuls of dark hair) Cyrus begins to apologize for not having dinner ready like he normally does, to which Ambrose apologizes back, because he doesn't mean to pressure his boyfriend into putting food on the table, and then --

Well. Long story short, they somehow end up naked in a very steamy bathroom, electing to make dinner after they've both gotten cleaned up. Ambrose is fresh from work, anyway, and Cyrus is still sweaty from the exertion of moving himself around, although Ambrose has to stifle a laugh at how his lover's body looks when he's that small, like a perfect, priceless miniature, an art piece that Ambrose shouldn't be touching, much less perching on the edge of their sink.

"I'll be out in a second," he calls through the curtain, rinsing off the last few suds and spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste bubbles. He's gotten into the habit of brushing multiple times a day, mostly to assuage the fear that he won't smell (or taste) bad when Cyrus leans up for a kiss. Given that he's approximately one tenth of his regular size, Ambrose doesn't assume they'll be doing anything physical until he grows back to where he was, but -- it can only help, especially when he comes out of the shower to see Cyrus ogling him appreciatively, blushing for himself as he pats himself dry. "You know, you don't have to stare like that."

"I like looking at you," his cheeky companion replies, and when Ambrose ties a towel around his waist, Cyrus looks from him to the sink, wrinkling up his little nose. "But I wonder how this's gonna work for me. At this size, I think I'd drown..."

"Well, you have a few options. There's the sink, or I could grab a dishtowel and wipe you down, or, uh -- " Ambrose shrugs, smiling a little, although the next part isn't so much dirty talk as it is an impulsive thought taken form. " -- Or I could do it the cat way and lick you clean."

He flushes immediately, which is an awful tell of his, and he sees Cyrus perk up with a little navy tint of his own. "You want to?"

Oh, stars. "It's -- I mean -- "

"Because I wouldn't mind," Cyrus cuts in, his expression mischievous. He leans back on his hands, careful not to fall over the sink's edge, and presents himself -- all six inches or so -- with a certain haughtiness that implies Ambrose won't take the bait. "As long as you brushed your teeth."

Ambrose only flushes harder, reminding himself that this is his boyfriend, and that he's already had his mouth all over him on more than one occasion. He shouldn't be this taken aback by a little teasing.

Steeling his will, he smirks back. "Well, it just so happens that I did. Just try not to squirm too much, will you?"

His hand reaches out for Cyrus just as the boy sits up, looking shocked (and a little aroused?), babbling about wait, he's still really sweaty and dirty, he was kidding, which Ambrose silences by holding him in one hand and pressing his lips to Cyrus' chest and stomach, feeling himself twitch at the choked gasp the kisses elicit. Closing his eyes and feeling the heat rise to his face, he nuzzles Cyrus a few more times before pressing the tip of his tongue to the boy's (hip?) and licking across in a broad, wet stripe.

Cyrus shudders and lets out a noise that can only be described as a very embarrassed, very reluctant mewl, which is more than enough compensation for being 'dirty.' All Ambrose can taste is salt and the clean warmth of Cyrus' skin, anyway, which isn't unpleasant, and he continues tonguing his boyfriend in sultry swathes until he feels little arms and legs batting at his mouth, yelps of "Uncle! Uncle!" stopping him from going any further. He opens his eyes to find Cyrus a deeper shade of blue than he's been at any point tonight, panting with one arm thrown over his face, as though his moans (or the erection Ambrose has been making sure to give sweeping passes) don't already give him away.

"You're terrible," Cyrus breathes. "You didn't even turn me over to get the other side."

"Do you want me to?"

"No! I'm -- " He breathes out, hot and somehow frustrated, though he looks up at Ambrose with melting eyes. "I'm just -- really close, and I can't come like this, it's embarrassing."

Ambrose's voice drops, low and sweet. "So how do you want to come, then, honeybee?"

That does get Cyrus to press his hands to his face, letting out a muffled scream of mixed arousal and humiliation, and he mutters something into his palms.

"What was that?"

"I said, I -- I want to come when you're inside of me, in a bed, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen tonight," he snaps, all in one breath, the heat from his body radiating out into Ambrose's palm.

It's Ambrose's turn to blush, forest green turning to pine. It's not like he can avoid what's between his legs right now, reacting to his lover's little sounds, but there's -- there's no way, right? He can't possibly be thinking of penetrating Cyrus when he's this small. No, he isn't considering the way his body will spread open for him, probing with his fingertips into the hot, tight space between his boyfriend's thighs, like he's wont to do sometimes when they want to make love, or a spell he might know of that'll let Cyrus' body stretch to fit him even when he's like this.

"...Do you want to do it anyway?" The question hangs in the air, and suddenly Cyrus is sitting up to gape at him, Ambrose unable to look him in the eye, before he hears the sound of incredulous laughter. Setting his mouth, Ambrose glances back to begin, "Listen, I -- "

"How does that work?"

"I -- wait, what?"

Cyrus, while smug, still looks far too interested in the idea as he crosses his legs to sit normally, his erection bobbing against his lower stomach. "How're you gonna do that without splitting me in two?"

"Th-There is a spell for elasticity," Ambrose begins, flushing from pine to leaf, and continues his explanation through the actual process of getting Cyrus clean, which involves rubbing him down hastily with the damp corner of a towel before returning them both to their shared bedroom, both still nude and both still aroused. Ambrose does what he needs to, to get Cyrus prepared, pulling out the spellbook alongside a small tube of lubricant in their bedside table, and when all of the runes have been drawn and the spells have been chanted he finds himself kneeling with an eager Cyrus splayed out on the sheets before him and the open tube in his hands.

"Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?"

"I'm a big boy, I promise," Cyrus replies, pulling up his knees and spreading his thighs apart. A pile of blanket below his hips tilts them up. "I can handle it."

Ambrose, taking a deep breath, squeezes the slippery ooze over his fingers and presses the first of them into Cyrus, slowly, feeling his body first tense at the intrusion and then gradually relax. This part is familiar, although even he's a little surprised when the elasticity spell begins to work, Cyrus letting out a long, stunned breath at the sudden fullness. At somewhere past the second knuckle, Ambrose notices that he's actually making his boyfriend's stomach bulge out a little -- something he looks away from, given that the visual makes him throb, and he's not finishing anywhere except inside of Cyrus.

At two fingers, Cyrus begins to squirm and whimper in earnest, and Ambrose stops, to which Cyrus whines, telling him he's all right, it just feels so good.

He can barely get to three, pumping them slowly in and out of the shivering, moaning, begging mess that is Cyrus, before he slides them out and fumbles to cover his own erection in the same slick that coats his fingers. (Well, at least he knows the elasticity spell works.)

He has to hold Cyrus in a loose grip, somewhat like a sleeve, while his other hand positions the tip against his body, and Cyrus bites his lip, practically navy as his wide eyes look from between his legs to Ambrose's flushed, sweaty face. "It's so big," he says, and his voice is flickering between anticipation and trepidation.

"Thanks, but you've seen it before," replies Ambrose, and Cyrus snorts, his face sobering a little.

"I just mean, um..." This squirm is one that means discomfort, so Ambrose stops, waits. "You don't think it'll hurt, right?"

"I think you took my fingers really well, but we'll have to see." He's gentle, using the thumb of the hand holding his tiny companion to rub a soothing circle over his stomach, and Cyrus looks away as he bites his lip once more. "Do you want to stop?"

"N-No, I mean, if it feels anything like your fingers did, I..."

Ambrose knows what that means, too. "Okay. Let me know if it's too much?"

Cyrus slides his eyes back to his, smiles, nods. He presses forward, a little astonished when he finds that he's able to get the first inch or two in with no issue, and then as the silky heat continues to envelop him -- Cyrus keening, babbling about how he's so full, baby, please, please god, he's going to come already, his hands cupping the bulge forming rapidly in his stomach, cupping Ambrose's cock through the soft layer of his body and --

And Cyrus has his first orgasm of the night when Ambrose hasn't even hit the base. He crumples in on himself, chanting Ambrose's name, squeezing down and making Ambrose himself grunt in sudden pleasurable pressure as he feels a wetness seeping against his thumb. Cyrus' hands are automatically thrown over his face, the shudders of release making him practically vibrate around what's inside of him. Ambrose pauses for a second to nudge aside Cyrus' hands, feeling the throb of seeing his lover so vulnerable all the way down his spine; Cyrus is always gorgeous, but he's especially so when his eyes have unfocused, his lips parted and swollen, light hair thrown every which way. He wishes he could kiss him like he does after every first orgasm, but the closest he can do is laugh breathlessly, biting back another moan at the visual alone.

"Done?"

"You know I'm not," replies Cyrus, between heavy breaths, and bites his lip as he brings one of his hands around the considerable bump in his belly, touching himself. It won't be long before he's up and raring to go again. "G-Go on. I want...all of it. Please."

Ambrose knows he's overestimating himself. His lover needs a few minutes, at least, so he pauses to raise an eyebrow. "Wow. I didn't expect you to beg for it for real."

"I could, if you wanted," replies Cyrus, and snickers. In a singsong voice, he demonstrates: "Oh,please, daddy. Please, daddy, I've been such a good boy, give me all of it."

"You're so lucky you're cute." Ambrose snorts, checking to make sure Cyrus' breathing has gone at least back to normal before he presses forward again, to which Cyrus stops mid-laugh to moan, his tiny hands fisting at his sides. He manages to get just short of the hilt, maybe an inch or so, but it's enough to feel reasonably accomplished as he slowly, agonizingly pulls himself back out, watching Cyrus groan and shudder as he struggles to deal with the sudden emptiness and hearing _himself_moan as he presses right back in, into the hot and tight and slick of his lover's body. He could bury himself in Cyrus forever if he'd let him.

They start slow, like they always do, but soon Ambrose is matching the pump of his hand to the thrust of his hips, Cyrus' moans becoming more and more staccato as he's bounced up and down on the thing that spreads his thighs wide and fills him almost to the throat, and it's not long until Ambrose feels himself begin to go erratic, Cyrus' name catching in his chest as he breathes it out.

"I'm so close, Cyrus, do you want me to take it out -- ?"

"No, baby, I want -- give me -- "

"Are you sure -- "

"Yes, yeah, fill me up, fill me full -- "

He's careening off the edge. Cyrus' name is in his mouth like a prayer he can't stop repeating. "I love you, Cyrus, I love you, holy -- "

"I lo -- oh god -- love you too, f-fuck, _ Ambrose _ --"

And he comes, gloriously, Cyrus' stomach ballooning up and out, his lip bleeding from how much he's biting it and a string of curses slipping from his beautiful little mouth as Ambrose stares down into his face. Even after Ambrose catches his breath, he watches the aftershocks of what must have been a tremendous climax jitter their way through Cyrus and thinks that perhaps he's done a pretty decent job of making his boyfriend happy.

They clean up. Cyrus' stomach is still taut and round when Ambrose withdraws, and he licks at his wounded lip and presses at it, wincing at how tender it must be, and Ambrose takes care of him; they head to the bathroom together to wash up again, without any pretense of sex or romance, and elect to skip dinner that night. On wobbly legs, Ambrose returns them both again to their bedroom, and, nakedly, they collapse into their sheets, one of Ambrose's hands clasping the whole of Cyrus' little body and Cyrus kissing the very tip of his finger before sleep covers them in a thick blanket.