#i only really had to lift the head up; curl the tail bc i can and want to; and straighten the legs out some

[moriihana]

we can't fix each other but we sure as hell can enable each other instead || three: dabi's emotionally constipated. it's fine, so am i!

pairing: dabi x disabled!gn!reader

overview: you meet dabi pre-canon because your cat, nugget, literally won’t leave the guy alone. friendship, fluff and (eventual) angst ensue.

chapter summary: we've hit the canonical part of the timeline! four years later, dabi tells you about the league and the two of you sign up together. toga spills the beans.

content: fluff, angst

word count: 1145 words

a/n: yes i fast-fowarded four years because a) i'm lazy and b) if we went through everything that happened between the two of them before canon it'd be like 20 years later lmfaooo

*previously known as “we can’t fix each other (but we can heal our wounds together)”; i changed the title bc these assholes aint healin shit they’re just being overall menaces

AO3 link

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Four years passed like that, with you and Dabi growing closer each day. He had revealed his true name and his plans to you shortly after you told him about your Quirk, deciding it was only fair. You trusted him. He would do the same. 

There were a couple more incidents where Dabi showed up and you had to heal him, but for the most part, he tried to avoid getting hurt. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t want you absorbing his pain to heal him.

One evening he swung by the apartment with a wide, somewhat-manic grin pulling at his staples. “Hey, doll. Remember the Hero Killer and that weird hand guy, Shigaraki?”

You tilted your head. “Yeah. What about them?” You remembered that Dabi admired Stain’s ideology.

“What if I told you that Shigaraki is looking for recruits?” Dabi’s grin kept that manic attribute as he leaned against the kitchen counter. 

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “He payin’ the recruits?” 

“Hell if I know. But if I’m not wrong, we’d be gettin’ a place to stay, and food regularly—if we joined, that is.” Your eyes brightened at that, and you suddenly bore a grin that matched Dabi’s.

“So we wouldn’t be homeless anymore,” you said excitedly, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I’m in if you’re in. Only if you’re in, though.” Your expression went serious. “I’m not going anywhere without you. Nugget and Boo, too, obviously.”

“Of course, doll. I wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you or those two.” He straightened up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I was thinking we could go by tomorrow. If this guy is all he says he is, we’re both one step closer to our dreams.”

Your dreams. Justice being served. Being free of the shackles clamped around your ankles by both of your parents. Being free.

“Let’s do it, pretty boy.”

The next day, Dabi came by early in the afternoon to find you still asleep with Nugget on your stomach and Boo curled up by your side. She lifted her head at the sound of Dabi’s footsteps and wagged her tail happily, thumping it against the mattress. He snorted.

“Oi, mouse.” 

“Mm?” You lifted your head and squinted. “Oh.” You groaned and shifted Nugget off your stomach, sitting up. “We really gotta leave this early?”

“Doll, it’s like… past noon.”

“Ah—hm.” Dabi laughed, shaking his head. 

“You’re somethin’ else. C’mon, we gotta go, otherwise we’ll be late,” he said, “and don’t forget your cane. I’m not giving you a piggyback ride home again.”

“You said you wouldn’t bring that up again, asshole!” You picked up your pillow and threw it at him. He dodged it and raised his hands in mock-surrender. You huffed and got up, grabbing your cane and Boo’s collar and makeshift leash (which was really just a piece of rope). She jumped up and around in circles, barking in excitement. You clasped the collar around Boo’s neck and looped the rope around it. “We’re taking Boo and Nugget with us. I’ve got Boo, you get to stick Nug in your jacket. He’ll stay there.”

Dabi rolled his eyes and lifted Nugget, sticking the little guy in his jacket and holding him there. “Course you stick me with the little shit.” 

“You love him and you know it.” You grinned and walked out with Boo prancing happily next to you. Dabi followed suit, grumbling about how having a cat’s head sticking out of his jacket wasn’t very intimidating. You simply laughed at that and kept going. 

You two walked together to meet Giran, who had a teenage girl beside him. She squealed excitedly at the sight of the two animals, bouncing on her heels excitedly. You glanced at Dabi, who shrugged.

“Dabi, you’re here! Good, good.” Giran waved with a grin. “And I see you brought your friend, too. Don’t mind Toga, she’s a little excitable.” He said nothing about Nugget and Boo, much to Dabi’s relief. You bowed with a polite smile.

“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m assuming you’ll be taking us to Shigaraki?” You asked, straightening up. Dabi rolled his eyes, amused by your act. You both knew that polite usually wasn’t in your vocabulary. 

Giran nodded and gestured to a door behind him. “Right this way.”

The introduction went well, if you ignored the fact Shigaraki, Dabi and the girl—Toga, you remembered—tried to kill each other. You were smart enough not to get involved, with no real means to defend yourself. Plus, if Boo thought you were in danger, she’d try to maul Shigaraki, and that wouldn’t end well for anyone. He had left in a huff after the mistlike man Kurogiri intervened and calmed him down. 

You, Dabi and Toga were seated around the bar, waiting to find out whether you’d be joining or not. You were next to Dabi, leaning against his shoulder and nodding off. Nugget had taken up residence in his lap, fast asleep. Toga was excitedly giving Boo pets and scratches—though she’d pouted after you had forbidden her from “cutting her up all nice and pretty.” Dabi threatened to reduce the girl to ashes if she tried anything, which seemed effective in keeping her in check.

About thirty minutes later, the door swung open and Shigaraki walked in. “You’re in. Talk to Giran about outfits and whatever you need for your rooms.” He then pointed at you and narrowed his eyes. “Keep your pets in check. Your Quirk is valuable to the party, so I’m letting this slide. Don’t make me regret it.” 

Dabi bristled at the thinly-veiled threat directed towards you, his palms heating up. You set a hand on his arm and shook your head. “Y’got it, boss,” you said quietly. After he left the room again, Dabi growled lowly.

“You’re just gonna let that slide?” He sounded pissed.

“Boo and Nugget are well-behaved, pretty boy. They’ll be fine. Remember what we talked about,” you soothed. 

Our dreams. Remember our dreams.

Dabi let it go after that, though still looked pretty peeved. Toga’s eyes darted between the two of you, and a slightly alarming smile spread across her face.

“You two are in love!” She giggled excitedly, eyes wide. You choked on your breath, caught off guard by her words. 

“I…what?” You managed, laughing nervously. There is no way this girl knows. And there’s no way Dabi is—no, not even gonna entertain that thought.

Dabi quickly moved Nugget and stood, saying something about needing air. You watched him leave and your shoulders dropped. You laughed again—this time self-deprecating.

“Sorry, Toga, but that doesn’t say “in love” to me.” The girl simply shook her head, the smile still present.

“Nope, I’m right. I can smell it! I wanna fall in love like that!”

You sighed at Toga’s strange words. 

You were not looking forward to dealing with this.

[shorkbrian]

Street Cat hybrid shoto seems to like you so much, even more than he likes his owner Momo

When you come to see momo, he is 24/7 by your side, following you around all day long, touching you and your things, licking your neck just like he always did since he was a lil baby cat *W* and even worst, he still cries when you have tô tô home!

Why aren’t you his owner? It was you who saved him, but you couldn’t have a hybrid at your apartment, so you left him with your best friend.

It was you who made him more human. Without you, shoto would be still living in the street. But how could he feel at home when his home is you?

One day, Momo sends a message asking you to take care of him while she works for a few days in another country. She says he only wants you, and gets pissy and teary when someone else comes

You are happy to help— i mean, things are being so stressful at your new work! It has been a week since you saw Shoto.

It just happen that you carry so many new smells

Shoto doesn’t like that >:(

(This is a prompt/request. Feel free to change things or deny this shit. I just want some beastial sex with yandere shoto who cries while humping your pussy bc he finally feels at peace)

hoooooo my gosh 

(What to expect - NSFW, noncon, scenting, thoughts of watersports)

Hybrid Shouto who’s long and lean, milky skin scarred and marred in places from the various fights he’s had while living on the street.

He’s got enough muscles to crush you when he hugs you, to put significant weight on you when he tries to cuddle up in your lap as you talk to Momo. 

You’re close with Momo, having fun “girls night” when you and Jirou go over and drink wine, do each others nails, and talk about whatever been’s going on that week.

Shouto never interrupts, is always quiet as long as he’s by your side, purring when you scratch behind his ear, stretching out so he’s sprawled across your legs where you’re sitting on the floor.

Jirou and Momo think it’s cute how attached the hybrid is to you, coo at him whenever the hybrid jumps to follow you around Momo’s house, touching everything you touch, rubbing his cheek against your shoulder, hovering one step behind you like a clingy shadow.

It’s hard to say goodbye, especially with Shouto clinging to you, jaw set, unshed tears shining in his eyes as he begs you to stay, just a little longer.

So “girls night” turns into a fun sleepover, no big deal.

It’s adorable when you wake up to find the hybrid curled up at your feet, tail tucked around his body as he snores softly, ears twitching. When you go to make coffee, you bump into Momo, and barely begin telling her about the cute occurrence, before Shouto is padding into the kitchen, frown on his face, immediately jumping towards you.

Crushes you in a hug, pushes you against the counter as he comforts himself by stroking your shoulder, licking at your neck. “Thought you left...” The hybrid whines.

It’s easy to see how much he cares for his savior.

When Momo asks you to watch him, of course you say yes. He’s easy to please, with an even temperament and hardly any bad habits. You’d say his worst habit is his clinginess, how you can’t even go to the bathroom without the hybrid lurking outside of the door, waiting for you to get out so he can be close to you again.

But it seems he’s developed some unsavory traits living on the streets, as he pushes you to the floor as soon as you cross into Momo’s home.

“You smell different.” And it’s not a question. The hybrid’s cold nose is tickling your skin, first at your hands, then your throat, ghosting over your face before he drops down, pushes up your shirt a little so he can nose at your stomach.

“Hey! Shouto wha-”

“You smell awful.” He hisses, tail puffing up, ears flat against his head. 

“I’m-I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realize.... I’ll go shower and change right now, okay? I’m sorry Sho’, I forgot you have such a sensitive nose.”

That calms him down a little bit, until you’re locking the bathroom door, Shouto stuck on the outside while you turn on the shower.

“Please let me in, I won’t look, just want to be close to you.” Comes his soft voice, and he sounds so sad, so plaintive, and you find yourself biting your lip.

“No, Shouto, I would like some privacy please while I shower. Afterwards we can cuddle or something, alright?”

There’s silence from the other side of the door, which is a tad worrying, but the quicker you can shower and change, the quicker you can go comfort the sensitive hybrid.

You find him curled up in his bed, buried underneath his blankets, frown on his face. It’s easy to slip in behind the hybrid, snuggling up against his furnace-like body heat.

No words are spoken, but the hybrid turns, buries his face into your neck, huffing and chuffing against your skin while you try not to squirm from the sensation. His little kitten licks tickle, especially when he starts grooming you, rough, textured tongue pulling rhythmically at your skin.

He dips too close to your chest, licking over your collarbone, but it’s innocent, harmless. Cats do this to each other when they feel safe, when they have a bond. You know Shouto is probably just trying to self-soothe after being left home all day. You know he’s a needy hybrid.

Shouto moves to lick at your arms, and that tickles even more, and you can’t stop from squirming and giggling a little when he licks at the crease of your elbow. Next thing you know, he has both of his slender, pale hands wrapped around one of your own hands, stuffing a few of your fingers into his mouth so he can suck on them.

You’re gasping in shock, surprised as you feel his fangs scrape over your flesh, the sensation strange and unexpected. “Shouto-!”

But the hybrid has his eyes closed, nose wiggling a bit as he falls into a rhythm, muscles relaxing as he settles down.

Another self-soothing gesture, you figure.

Today was a long day, and it doesn’t take too long before you get used to the unusual sensation of the hybrid’s tongue working over your fingers; it’s easy to fall asleep.

But when you wake up from your nap? Chaos.

Your shirt was askew, half your chest exposed, nipple pebbling in the cold as a neatly manicured hand rested over the meat of your breast.

The shorts you had slipped into out of the shower were still in place, but you were able to clearly feel the meat of Shouto’s erection as it rubbed against your mound, the hybrid’s hips stuttering forward as he panted above you, resting on an elbow.

He was gasping into your neck, quiet little breaths and held-back moans, trying not to wake you up.

But as soon as you got your bearings, began pushing at the hybrid, not even sure what to feel in this situation; Shouto lifted his head, blinking slowly.

“Want you to smell like me.” Is all the explanation that he offers, completely unmoving even as you get your hands underneath his chest and push.

“No-no, stop it, stop it right now Sho’.” Your voice is filled with panic, scratchy from sleep, weak.

Shouto shakes his head, buries it back into your neck as he starts licking at your skin, trying to comfort you, soothe you, calm you down. “I can’t...” But you knew what he was really saying, what was really running through his mind. I won’t.

The hybrid doesn’t settle until you’re drenched in sweat, wet and sticky from his cum as he’d pulled his cock out of his sleep shorts, came on your stomach, and thighs, and all over your shorts.

It doesn’t matter how much you squirm, how much you tell him that it’s wrong, how obviously unwanting you are of this treatment, Shouto doesn’t care.

Cum gets smeared on your face, into your hair, rubbed messily into your skin as Shouto nuzzles against you, purring as you tire from fighting him, grow limp underneath him, eyes staring blankly ahead as he violates you.

A small part of himself wants to go even further, to spread his seed into your mouth, down your throat, into your stomach. Shoot it deep into your womb, make you sticky and wet on not only the outside, but the inside too. An even worse, disgusting part of himself, a voice that Shouto refuses to listen to, gives him an urge to mark his territory in a primal, animalistic way.

Piss all over you, your belongings, until no one will come near you without smelling him.

Shouto wants you to smell like him, to smell claimed. By the time he’s done with you, it won’t matter how many showers you take - you won’t be able to rid yourself of his scent.

[ateez-amanda]

Little Reminders

Time: Mid September 2019

Summary: Jongho helps Amanda realize she already getting a little better

tw: racism, social anxiety, panic attacks, mental health, self doubt, crying.

a/n: im back! i finally finished writing this though i still don't feel totally confident in it. anyways here is some soft angst Rajong content bc 00 duo is the best and i'm a sucker for jongho. this is probably going to be the last of angst for amanda for awhile. let me know your thoughts.

Masterlist

taglist: @skzfairies [send an ask if you want to be on/off the taglist! :) ]

Cozily snuggled in her blanket with her black and white furry maltese, Oreo, curled up, sleeping beside her in her bed. Only the soft noise from her laptop playing the comedy show she had picked out broke the quiet atmosphere she had created in her apartment.

It had been a month since she had been staying with her parents in her old room during her hiatus, which she was delighted about. Although her parents were frantically worrying about her after hearing everything she had been going through the past year.

And while she fully understood their feelings, it was getting a little too overbearing. They had been taking turns watching over her, treating her like a fragile glass that could break at any second, making her feel even worse. After two weeks, she finally convinced them to go back to work and now got to enjoy some alone time now.

She let out a sigh, closing her laptop. She turned her body over, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. She had hoped the show would be able to help ease her thoughts and bring some joy to her. Yet the only feeling it brought was more sadness within her as she couldn’t relate to their happiness.

The sound of the apartment door ringing broke her thoughts and prompted Oreo to start barking his head off, bolting towards the door. Amanda unwillingly lifted herself up from the bed and hobbled her way towards the door with the help of her crutches.

As she slowly approached the door, the thought of talking to whoever was outside that door struck an overwhelming fear down her spine with each step she took. She halted, reluctant to open the door, her mind finding every single excuse not to, fearing the thought of talking to a stranger.

She took in a couple of deep breaths, slowly letting them out before mumbling small words of encouragement to herself, “You can do this Amanda.”

Her hand trembling as she reaches out to grab the doorknob before confidently grasping the doorknob, twisting it open to see a surprisingly familiar face on the other side, “Jongho? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I texted you I was coming over today, remember?” He reminded her as a little ahh escaped Amanda’s mouth, recalling their text conversation yesterday. He disappointedly shook his head, “You’re getting old, noona.”

“Shut up! I’m only a few months older than you.”

“Still old.” He muttered, making Amanda scoff, “So are you going to let me in now?”

“Not after saying that.” A smug grin appeared on her face, not budging from her spot by the door.

That was until Oreo, who had been patiently waiting for Amanda to give permission to say hello to Jongho with his toy ball in his mouth, which was a habit of his to bring guests as a sign to play with him, dashed out the door to greet Jongho.

“Oreo!” Jongho beamed, crouching down to pet Oreo, who gave a warm welcome to the maknae with slobbery kisses to his face. His face plastered with an even more joyous smile than he had when he greeted her, making Amanda question who he was really here to see.

“Oreo, how could you betray me so easily?” She pouted at her dog, who had completely forgotten about her and was happily wagging his tail at Jongho. Amanda reluctantly opened the door wider for him to slide inside.

He took the toy ball from Oreo’s mouth and began playing with Oreo, easily making his way around the apartment as it wasn’t his first time at her apartment since he often visited during their trainee days.

Amanda hobbled her way with her crutches towards the living room. Jongho halted his play time with Oreo to help her safely sit on the couch and rest her leg on the table, “When are those coming off?”

“In a fews days. Of course it has to be after I just started figuring out how to work these stupid crutches.”

“What? You just now learned how to use them.” Jongho questioned in disbelief with a slight hint of taunting in his voice, “You can dance to the most intense choreo but you’re struggling to walk with little crutches.” He erupted into a fit of laughter, clutching his stomach.

“Keep talking and I’ll throw them at you.” She half jokingly threatened, pretending to aim the crutches in his direction, even though they both knew she wouldn’t do it.

“Alright. I’m sorry.” He held his hands up in defeat, cautiously taking the crutches away from her, “Now let’s put those crutches down.”

The two continued to chat while playing catch with Oreo, catching up on a month of eventful moments that she had been missing out among the boys. Well the ones that she didn’t already know from the crazy amount of text messages they send to her on a daily basis.

She fondly smiled at the maknae as he continued to tell his stories, enjoying the rare moment of seeing him act a little childish.

“Then Wooyoung started biting Mingi so Hongjoong had to drag the two to his room and we both know what happens next.” His signature gummy smile appeared as he finished telling the current news of Ateez's daily life, making her giggle.

Despite the fact that she found it nice to have just disappeared from the world, a part of her miss being in their presence.

As their laughs started to settle down, Amanda decided to ask a question she had been wondering for a while now, “So when are you going to ask me?”

He raised his eyebrows, “Ask you what?” pretending to be confused even though he was fully aware of what she meant.

“How I’m really doing?”

“I wasn’t going to ask.” He nonchalantly answered, tossing the toy ball down the hallway for Oreo to chase after it.

She rolled her eyes, fully doubting him, “Liar. It’s why you came to see me, isn't it?”

“I swear! I just needed to get away from the dorm. It's chaotic without you there.” He attempted to feign innocence with a flimsy excuse.

“It’s always chaotic.”

“Yeah, but even more so now.” Jongho admitted with a soft chuckle. He did intend to ask her. He had been carefully tiptoeing around her, trying to gauge out how she was doing through subtle hints she gave, but he had forgotten how well she had perfected her mask to cover her true feelings. He let out a defeated sigh, turning to face her, “I didn’t ask because I know you would brush it off saying you’re fine even though I know you are probably not.”

“Wow.” She mumbled, slightly astonished by how accurate he was about her, “Well I did say I would talk to you guys more about these kinds of things. Even my therapist said I should start being honest about my feelings and not use sarcasm to cover it up.”

“You do tend to do that a lot.”

Amanda pelted the toy ball Oreo brought back to her at Jongho’s face after his cheeky comment, but it ended up hitting his back shoulder after he swiftly dodged it.

A successful grin appeared on his face at her failed attempt before plopping himself next to her on the couch, “Okay, so how are you really feeling?” His face now filled with absolute seriousness, ready to listen to whatever she wanted to say.

She took a few seconds, pondered on what to say, collecting her thoughts and emotions but all she could say was a simple, “I don’t really know.”

She began fidgeting with the hems of her shirt, “It’s a mix of emotions to be honest. I guess…I feel like everytime I think I finally have a handle on what I’m going through, it just ends up slipping from my grasp. I mean even today, I could barely get myself to open the door when you came.” Her hands began to tremble as replayed the scene in her head.

Jongho took her hand into his, calming down her trembling hands and caressed her back with his other hand. Amanda was slightly taken aback by his rare physical affection but felt the comforting effect it had, giving her a little strength, “But you did end up opening the door. That’s already progress.”

“What?” Amanda questioned, stunned by his words.

“You keep looking at all your stepbacks, why don’t you start looking at all the things you have already improved on, even if it’s small things like opening the door.” Jongho explained, knowing fully well how self critical she was about herself after witnessing it multiple times.

He was right. There had been so many small improvements she had already made that she hadn’t realized herself yet. Like admitting she is going through a hard time and working on resolving it. Even at this moment she is being more open with the people she loves.

Though feeling better after his advice, another troubling thought she had been keeping buried deep within the back of her mind, decided to rear its head, “I’m scared, Jongho.”

“Of?”

“Of myself. Of the person I’m becoming….I’m starting to hate myself more and more each day. And I hate that I’m starting to hate myself.” Her voice shaking as she tried to say each word.

Although she did have insecurities like many people do, she still had much more confidence in herself to not let it be easily swayed. People’s thoughts of her never had bothered her before. She was constantly being hit with racial slurs by students at her school or being belittled as an idol trainee but never gave them an ounce of care.

But now it was what kept her up at night, prevented her from enjoying life and just truly being herself. Even with her members and parents, the only handful of people she felt she could truly be herself, there would always be that little thought that poked in the back of her mind that they would also start to hate her too.

She was constantly trying to be perfect, willing to sway to any point of view that could make her more appealing to others. And she knew it wasn’t possible yet she kept trying.

And couldn’t figure out why. Why did it matter what others thought of her? Why does it have such an effect on her? How did she let others' words and thoughts hold so much power over her?

As her thoughts continued to go deeper, her eyes began brimming with a waterfall of tears, not being able to hold it back anymore, “I feel so fake. And I don’t even know who I really am anymore. All I want is to go back to who I was before but I don’t think it’s possible….That’s the most terrifying part. That I don’t even know if I’m ever really going to be okay.” She wepted into her hands, covering her face not wanting him to see her in a shameful state.

Jongho engulfed her in his embrace, allowing her to freely cry into his chest, gently resting his chin on top of her head as he also couldn’t stop the few tears that shed for the girl.

Seeing one of his closest friends suffering so much killed him. He wished he could take some of her damaging thoughts from her to lessen the pain she was going through, “Amanda, you are one of the strongest people I know. If anyone can get through this it is you.”

She sniffled, wiping away her tears trying to regain her composure before glancing up at him, “Did you just compliment me?” She asked him in a slightly teasing voice.

“Well it’s true.” He bashfully mumbled, earning a light chuckle from her. Today was just full of rare affection for the two. Usually their form of affection with one another would be through small actions but today it was filled with both verbal and physical affection to each other, “Well your physical strength is a little iffy compared to me.”

This time it was Jongho’s turn to chuckle after she playful hit him in the chest, “And I don’t think you will be the same person as before.” He mindlessly spoke.

“Wow, thanks! That makes me feel so much better.” She sarcastically snapped at him, breaking from his hug, “And you were doing pretty good too.” She softly murmured to herself.

“You didn’t let me finish! I was going to say you’ll be much stronger than you were before.” He tried to redeem himself.

A small smile appeared on her face once hearing his reassuring words before quickly replacing it with a joking eye roll, “Tsk. You’re so annoying when you’re right.”

“Hey, your therapist said to be honest with your feelings.”

“I am being honest. You are annoying.” She refuted with a smug smile, slowly morphing into a sincere smile. His lips curved up, fully aware that it was her way of saying thank you to him.

© ateez-amanda — all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, or repost my work.

[alilbihh]

woods&witches — knj

masterlist

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: You think it ends with you saving a fox. That is, until you start getting love letters sent to your doorstep and little knick knacks left on your window sill.

genre: fox shifter!namjoon, witch!reader, fluff

words: 4.5k

a/n: this was meant for the bingo challenge but completely escaped its original prompt. anyway. heres shy!lovestruck!namjoon bc i love him. also no this is nOt a witch au blog idk whats wrong w me

A finch flutters onto your windowsill, and you shuffle over once you hear a tap, tap, tap on the glass. You push it open and the bird hops inside, beak leaning forward tentatively.

You take the letter. "Ah, so they sent you this time?" Or maybe the finch volunteered, you wouldn't be surprised. They are quite the gossips.

It's a soft blue envelope, and when you turn it over there's a scrawled #12 on the left side corner. You think that even if he hadn't written that, you'd know. It's easy to keep track, after all.

A maple leaf slips out when you open the envelope. You set it aside and tentatively take the letter, brush a hand over the ink. It was written by hand in messy but deliberate hand writing and it smells like chamomile and honey, like it was written under a half-moon.

You read it once then twice then three times until it feels like you've been dipped halfway underwater, until the buzzing of the midday cicadas has faded into white noise and everything is suddenly tinged blue.

The man, you deduced a while ago, tells tales of palm trees and blue ponds and red and pink frogs, of catching crabs on a stranded shore. He's writing poetry but he's not, writing reality but he's not, and you don't know how he does it, how he can make five paintings with just one phrase.

You clutch the letter to your chest, feel yourself have an out of body experience because of a not-poem. Your head whips towards the finch when it chirps suddenly, and you huff.

"Why're you still here?" You shield the letter from the bird's eyes. Its head tilts. "And don't give me that look, I know exactly what you're thinking."

The bird only gives another chirp before flying away.

You scoff out a laugh, and when you walk towards your bedside table, the drawer opens before you can even think too much about it. You glare at your walls before tucking the letter with the others, as if to stop the house from teasing you too much.

It all begins and ends on a sunny afternoon.

The tree roots whisper as you pass, as if to purposely lead you astray, but you follow them anyway. The forest is never wrong, after all.

So when you stumble against a snowy white fox lying on a field of wisteria, you're only a tad bit surprised.

"Ah, you don't want to do that," you say some time after it woke up in your home and stopped panicking. It's now looking down at your polka dot socks, then looks up sharply to stare at you. You don't think there's a way for foxes to show emotions, but you think that if there were, he'd be staring at you with a little bit of awe.

You clear your throat. "Your foot, I mean. You don't want to strain it."

It just keeps staring at you, one ear twitching a bit.

"Um." You say when it doesn't stop, "You'll be better in a few weeks time. It wasn't that serious."

The fox blink blink blinks before shaking itself off, fur spilling every which way. You take it as acknowledgement enough.

In a few minutes he's managed to sniff and inspect every piece of furniture in your home, ranging from your small couch to your droopy house plant. He trudges and limps and sometimes skips from place to place, and then becomes highly confused when you don't let him climb the kitchen table.

Yoongi appears on your window somewhere between the fox kneading at your rug and the fox trying to catch a moth with its mouth.

"Hey grump," you say to the black cat, scratching behind his ears. Yoongi's tail twitches in dismissal, but he whines when you stop petting him, anyway.

You can almost see when Yoongi's gaze settles on the fox, because when you turn to look he's frozen solid on your couch, as if hoping he can't be seen if he stays still enough. The cat gives you a look.

You raise a brow. "What? Don't look at me like that."

He keeps looking at you like that.

"I helped him over by the wisteria. His foot's a little bad, but it's nothing too bad." The fox stays curled up on your couch, digging his nails into the cushions much like a cat would. An ear twitches in your direction, as if he's sheepish but won't admit to it.

Yoongi mewls a single, drawn out mewl of acceptance. You nod nod nod, and the cat jumps down your window and disappears into the woods right when the wind starts blowing north and the sun starts climbing higher before dropping lower.

The world stills for a while as you work through your home, organizing your chipped cups and bent spoons and funny forks. The mushroom wraith on your door wiggles when you pass it by, and when the frog figurine on your counter croaks in greeting the fox nearly jumps out of its skin.

(The fox is gone by morning, right when the sun settles over the honeysuckle tumbling down your thatched roof. You try to feel for his presence, but it's overwhelmed by the snails and woodpeckers and oversized mushrooms.

You think that's when the letters started coming, perched nicely over your windowsill whenever you're not looking).

There's a man in your pond.

The carp in the water yells indignantly as the man tries to stand but tumbles, pondweed curled over his ankles as if begging him to stay. You just stare because the man tries to get up once then twice then three times, hair loose and windblown and positively drenched, twigs and pondweed in the knots.

You stare and stare until the man notices you and startles, looks away quickly before cringing and hesitatingly meeting your eyes. He lifts a hand, lowers it, lifts it again and waves. You wave back.

"Hello." You say. The man looks a little stunned, more stunned than when the carp had nipped at his feet. You point at the pond, "You're standing in my pond."

"Ah!" He startles, head whipping down like he'd forgotten all about it. "I am! In your pond, I mean. Sorry, sorry." The pondweed untangles itself mercifully, and he shuffles out of the water, toes curling into the dirt around it.

"It's okay!" You shoot him a thumbs up. He stares. "Do you want to, uh, come inside?"

So the man walks through the slim wooden trellis and diligently wipes his feet on the rug, shuffling through the door with hesitant steps. He looks a little like a painting left out too long in the rain, all ruffled hair and stiff shoulders, but pretty nonetheless.

"Would you like some tea?" You say, already grabbing the kettle from the cupboards, "It will have to have milk, though, since the cups don't like serving without."

"Okay! Tea is nice. Thank you." Then he smiles with knee-deep dimples and pinchable cheeks and something inside you kinda melts a little.

The man's name is Namjoon and his skin is tan despite it already being winter, the color of salted caramel. He's so bright you find it easier to look away, to look instead at the space around him, the shadow against the pane of his neck, the length of his-- very long legs. You'll pretend you never noticed that.

You don't talk about why he was in your pond, not really. He's already apologized to the carp, he says. You talk instead about mushroom glades and why avocados are acceptable dinner foods and his intense love for moths and his hopes for snow this year.

When Namjoon leaves it all feels a bit unprecedented. Lost souls show up on your doorstep often, always leaving after a cup of tea and a few helpful directions, but Namjoon doesn't look lost at all. Looks a little like he belongs, really.

He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, then sticks a hand out in offering. You shake his hand. He nods, lingers on the doorway, plays with a loose stitching of his soft green overalls.

"I'll-- be seeing you, then," he clears his throat, and you just laugh a little loosely because no, you won't. With lost souls, you never do.

Except Namjoon does return. He returns, in fact, in green baseball shorts and an open-collared shirt with sugar packets sticking out of the front pockets. He looks a bit like a dad showing up for his son's football game. Looks a little dangerous but in a harmless way, like a huge gangly bug. A six-foot stick insect hovering outside your door.

You're a little stunned. Very stunned. So stunned that Namjoon cringes, shuffles a bit on your welcome mat. It's a frog with a thought bubble that says welcome! that Namjoon has expressed his love for on multiple occasions.

"Hello," he purses his lips. "I... wanted to thank you. Again. For everything." He sucks in a breath. "Bad time? Bad time. I don't actually remember knocking-- did I knock? God, I didn't, did I? I'm so rude, I'm so sorry."

"No, no," you say once you've recovered. "You, you definitely knocked."

"Oh!" His lips form a surprised little 'o'. You're so fond. "That's good. Okay. I'll... be leaving, then."

"Um!" You interject, "You can come inside, if you want?"

So he comes inside and drinks tea and names the cactus by your windowsill Gerald and discusses his complaints on climate change and you're a little content and a lot confused, because--

Only creatures of the forest can find your house more than once.

Unless--

(That night, you knock on your own walls and glare indignantly. Say, "You led him here, didn't you?"

The walls do nothing. You think you hear a floorboard creak, though.

You stomp your feet like an overgrown child. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but I'm not falling for it!"

No response. Except the wind chimes outside sing brightly, but when you look out the window there's no wind at all).

Namjoon visits once then twice then three times, always showing up unplanned and out of nowhere. He brings a pinecone first then a dandelion next, blushes and says I didn't pluck them against their will! I told them they looked pretty and they volunteered to help me.

He's so pretty it's become a little harder to hold in. He was always pretty, always smiles a bit too brightly, like he's swallowed a star and can't quite keep all the brightness to himself, but something's shifted a bit.

(You contemplate this in a mid afternoon. As in: whisper-screaming to the ceiling for a while. And then whisper-screaming some more when Yoongi walks directly across your face.

"You're a monster," you inform him.

He digs his tiny monster-claws into your stomach.)

One day, you learn the man is weirdly good at knitting. You learn he has a pretty solid grasp on quantum physics. You learn that when he laughs it's a little hah! under his breath, and when he really laughs it turns sideways and belly-up, pitching into something that could almost be defined as a giggle. You learn that you need to stop staring.

Another day, Namjoon sits in the corner of your couch, curled up reading a book he'd picked up from the next village over. It's small but very thick with what could only be very small letters, because he's squinting a bit as he reads. It's vastly endearing.

Another day, he makes cheesy bread in your toaster and felt bad about it for the next three weeks. Which is also the amount of time it took for you to get all the cheese out.

Everything's great.

Today, though, you're walking through the forest alone. The forest doesn't guide you, not really, maybe because it knows you're walking on your own terms.

The forest is noisy with the sounds of birds calling and trees growing and little things skipping here and there through the undergrowth. Your shoes are so muddy you don't really care for how much worse they get, and they squelch when your heels sink into puddles and spongy moss.

You walk and walk until you come across a clearing, a bird feeder propped neatly over a tree branch. A sparrow squawks when it sees you.

"Hello," you say in greeting, and the tree with the bird feeder sighs, the wind blowing and carrying the sound.

A tree root on the ground grabs a fistful of dirt and promptly flings it onto your knees. You shriek indignantly.

You have a lot to figure out, the tree echoes because of course it does. It has a history of saying things vaguely and hoping you'll understand.

"I don't understand," you say out loud.

It flings more dirt onto your knees. You step back protectively, "Okay, okay! I get it!"

One, two. Four clouds in the sky, for now, it says at last, and you're a bit afraid of prying, so you just accept what it says as fact and move on, say one last goodbye to the bluetit that flutters onto the bird feeder.

It starts raining not long after that, when more than four clouds settle over the evening sun, makes it a bit harder to maneuver through the woods. You walk based on feeling, a hand brushing over the tree trunks, silently cursing the tree.

Namjoon is already waiting when you arrive home, hurries forward when he spots you through the trees, holding an umbrella up high.

And it's-- sweet. Just a really sweet thing to do, really considerate. He could have waited inside, in the warmth and shelter, but instead he's walking through puddles to meet you halfway with an umbrella.

He looks a little funny when he stops in front of you, hair disheveled and sticking up in random places, eyes all worried and sullen. He looks like a goose.

"You look like a goose," you say out loud with a little laugh, "I'm already wet though, so there's not much point in this, you know?"

Namjoon's smile is a bit dopey, a bit sloppy at the edges. "But there's not many trees to shield you, from this point on." He says, "Let's-- go inside?"

So you go inside, the house already setting the fireplace with its never-ending firewood, the frog figurine croaking and the wind chimes singing and everything feels a little right. A little more homey.

"Did you find your way back easily?" Namjoon says later, hands cupping his tea mug as he sheepishly adds, "I know this is your-- home, obviously, I don't wanna just assume anything, but-- For me, it's a bit harder to navigate when it rains like this. Fogs my senses and all," he clears his throat.

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, "Do you know how a wood witch works, Namjoon?" You continue when he shakes his head, "A wood witch is the one who planted the first seed that sprouted the first tree that grew the first forest," you say, half-chanting it, cite it like a rhyme long forgotten.

He looks a bit awe-struck. A lot awe-struck. Says, "Oh." And that's that.

You add, sheepish, "It's really not much. I'm not as powerful as other wood witches, but I am grateful to the woods." You hum, "They gave me this cottage. They gave me who I am, really."

"Oh." Namjoon says. "Oh." He stares and stares, open mouthed and in awe and sort of dazed but pretty, pretty. His gaze trails over the room once before settling back on you, says, "You're all the beauty in the world."

And the world-- stills, maybe-- balanced atop a drop of nectar.

You whisper a small, delighted "Oh." And that's that.

Namjoon somehow manages to drag you outside the woods.

You're being dragged through busy streets, cars and crowds and carriages that boggle your senses. The difference between the village and the woods is astounding. (Not that you've never been to nearby cities or villages-- sometimes you crave poptarts and there's nothing you can do about it-- but it's been a while since you've walked into the very heart of it).

You might be a wood witch, but Namjoon is the one who looks a little — lost, outside the woods.

"This is my favorite corner cafe," he admits proudly, "Um, if Seokjin-hyung says anything, please be aware I'm not associated with him."

"Got it." You like this Seokjin guy already.

Taylor Swift is blasting through the speakers when you walk inside, a broad shouldered man swaying from side to side behind the counter as he pours milk into a cup. Once his eyes land on Namjoon he positively grins.

"Namjoon, my man!" He belts out a particularly impressive high note as Namjoon approaches him, but no one around seems at all fazed. "It's been so long!"

"I've been here last week, hyung." Namjoon says but he seems a bit happy to be missed, sheepishly ducking his head.

"That's too long. You should visit more often, it's great! I get free coffee here and don't have to walk through muddy paths and ominous sounds to visit you."

"It's not free though?" Namjoon frowns, "You may own the shop but you're the one who buys all the coffee in the first place."

The man behind the counter makes a noise that's too distorted to understand. "If I wanted someone to tear apart my ideas with logic I'd talk to Yoongi, you're both insufferable."

You want to interject but at the same time don't. You get so absorbed in your own thoughts you almost don't notice when they mention a Yoongi. Huh.

"Oh, you know Yoongi? The cat?" You blink when two sets of eyes settle on you.

"Ah, yes. Yoongi." The man you've now established has to be Seokjin sighs, resting a chin over his palm, "The devious fiend. The pest of the nest. The gremlin goblin."

"Do you ever think before you speak."

"I do! I thought of those words and then I said them."

Namjoon sighs and none of them elaborate any further, but you decide not to pry. You can always just ask Yoongi, anyway.

You both sit in a booth in the far corner where light reflects onto it perfectly but not in an overwhelming way, just enough to be warm and comforting. Seokjin pads over with your drink and Namjoon's latte and shoots excessive finger guns as he leaves, and Namjoon looks a bit like he's refraining from apologizing on his behalf.

Namjoon doodles on napkins and talks like he's reciting a far off poem, except he's talking about what should be the correct pronunciation of pickles and you're kinda maybe really hopelessly endeared.

"Do you think I should paint my nails?" He's saying, closely inspecting his nibbled nails, "Maybe it will make me stop biting my nails."

"Have you thought of green?"

He hums delightedly, "Green! I love green. I'm thinking pink though, since gender norms are a social construct and pink is just pretty in general."

"You'll look like a pretty little winter fairy!" You grin. He flushes pink, too.

Then when you get up to order another drink he stands quick, as if intending to order it for you, but you're already grinning and skipping to the counter and when you turn to look at him he's slowly sitting back down, defeated.

You're maybe smiling too hard when Seokjin walks to take your order. "Ah, Y/n-ssi! How may I help you, my gentle woodland elf?"

"Can I just have the same thing, please?" You say and he hums, walking mechanically towards his cabinets.

Then after staring dazedly at the separate christmas mugs and cinnamon buns and droopy plants, you're looking around when you spot a box by the back counter that looks like an awful lot like a letter slot, a stack of envelopes sitting neatly on top. Oh.

"What's that for?" You gesture towards the box, and Seokjin turns away from the coffee grinder to smile something a little gentle. A little secretive.

"We're a letter shop too, you know?" He looks like he's suppressing a sort of devious smile he doesn't want you to see, "We deliver letters on the writer’s behalf, so the sender stays anonymous."

Your organs twist and melt together all at once. You mumble a small "Oh" and that's that.

Then when you leave Seokjin winks before sending you both off, the man waving boisterously and maybe obnoxiously but you're immensely endeared, wave back until the shop is out of sight and Namjoon is sufficiently embarrassed.

You predictably invite Namjoon inside after you arrive home, deciding that soup after coffee doesn't sound too bad. So you watch as the fireflies do somersaults and the moths hover over lamps as you both go for seconds and then for thirds and you don't say much, maybe say nothing at all, but that's okay, too.

The soup signals a change, you think. Either

1) You are in love with Namjoon and need to tell him.

Or

2) You are in love with soup and need to seek help.

So you walk through the forest.

Namjoon is at home, you know, but you feel that talking to Namjoon about your possible love for Namjoon is a bit counterproductive, so you walk through the forest instead.

Everyone is still adjusting to last night's downpour, the floors muddy and the leaves droopy and everything smelling like wet earth. You walk but you're hovering a few inches off the ground, silently thank the forest for its kindness.

You walk through the forest again the next day, think back to the tree with the bird feeder and think that maybe he wasn't so vague after all. Just wish that he could tell you what to do next.

It's easier to listen to a tree's vague advice than it is to follow through with it, you think, until a few weeks later, when the universe decides you need a little push. A big push. The biggest push.

Namjoon has been visiting consistently for the past month or so, sometimes staying over and sometimes staying just before nightfall, but for maybe a week you haven't heard of him at all. He's disappeared without a trace.

The forest guides you this time, patches of sunlight shining through trees as you follow. You think you hear the shrill argument between a finch and a jay on the treetops as you navigate through mushroom patches and mossy rocks.

It's the field of wisteria. You're in the field of wisteria when you find a small burrow, a little home for a woodland creature.

When you turn, you see-- Namjoon. Namjoon, eyes widened in horror, a strangled sound breaking free from his throat. Two white fox ears standing ramrod straight on his head.

You clear your throat. Say, "Hi, Namjoon."

He shrieks.

A finch flutters onto the bird feeder, eyes twinkling, "Guys, you will not believe what I just found out--"

"We know," the jay says.

"We know," the bluetit says.

"We know," the sparrow says.

Even Yoongi mewls from a higher tree branch.

The finch squawks, gossip stolen from right under its wing, "How on Earth did you all know?"

"The forest made the house bigger," Yoongi drawls, tail swishing here and there, "And we all helped deliver the letters."

"Different from someone, we can actually keep secrets!" Says the jay, chest puffed proudly, ignoring the offended squeals from the finch.

"You know, it was actually kind of obvious."

You hum from beside Namjoon, his arm draped over the back of the couch inches away from dropping onto your shoulder. He wants to tug you closer, comb a hand through your hair, but the mere thought has his face burning and ears threatening to pop out at the stress. He's kissed you before, dozens of times, for many reasons and for no reason at all, but it all still feels a little nerve wrecking, like one push will have you burst at the seams.

(Which, frankly, is ridiculous-- you're the strongest person he knows, but-- but.)

"What is?" He says to distract himself.

"The letters stopped coming after you started showing up, and you literally took me to a letter shop." You falter and add, "And just.. the way you say things, it sounds like how you sound when you write. I don't know if I'm making sense, but it's-- nice." You explain, a hint of affection on your voice.

That has nothing to do with being a fox shifter and everything to do with you sitting so prettily next to him, smelling like Ilsan sunshine and kept promises and damp earth, like the forest itself.

"Hmm," he hums, a hand settling on your thigh, finally gathering the courage to drop his arm onto your shoulder--

"Namjoon, you really don't have to hesitate for this kind of stuff." You say, turning to look at him with a grin. His face burns as he clears his throat pointedly, crossing one leg over the other as he finally drops an arm over your shoulder.

"M'sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be," You press a kiss to his chin, "And you better kiss me properly this instant, because it seems you still think that crocs are acceptable footwear. I'm gonna come to my senses any second now."

"Please don't," he says, a little wild. Then he's moving, nose brushing over your cheek, and then— and then—

A hand curling softly over your cheek, a little giggle, and his lips pressing gently over your own. Something a bit real. Un-takeback-able. You taste a lot like the poetry he writes, still writes, like you're pressing the wonders of the world to his lips, like he's skimming the universe with his hands.

(Once upon a time, you saved a fox lying in a field of wisteria.

The rest of the story is told in open envelopes, messages left for the moon to see.)

[kodzumie-archived]

OMGOMGOMGOKOKOK SOOO CAN I ask for a gentle vampire komaeda who has a crush on a very apprehensive and easily scared fragile girl who’s kind of scared of him at first but then after seeing how kind and soft he is, eventually comes around to like him? Also, he protects her bc vampires are vv strong 🥺 THANK YOU ILY DUDE <3

❝SERENDIPITY❞

Synopsis; Against the unruly clutches of chance, could the blossoming of a bond between two fundamentally forbidden species piece itself together?

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x Fem! Reader

Warning(s); Vampire Komaeda, blood, alternate universe (AU), injury description, slight gore, and themes of predator/prey.

Kodzumie’s Note; This was so fun to do! Thank you so much, dear, for the request! Aah, vampire Komaeda is forever welcome on this blog. Thank you for bringing this idea to life, I love you so much!! Muah, muah! <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ The inception of adoration is an enigma. A blossoming of a passion so seemingly fantastical, yet ever-so ontological. Love―in its most bare form―is unpredictable.

⤷ You’re meek; the glorious crumb of bread dropped in a fish pond. But life is much more unforgiving to those who are unfit for the calamities of the world. Reflecting upon existence in a metaphorical sense, that fish pond could only wishfully have been inhabited by mere Koi, but rather barbarous piranhas.

⤷ In this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival. A population divided into two―humans and vampires―you’ve been subjected to the former; necessitating hospitality and the protection of another.

⤷ If not by mere chance, you’d have met your doom inevitably. It’s alarming; your fate cradled by the clutches of chance itself. But, as cruel as life proves itself to be, you harbor no command over your own providence.

⤷ And chance, as it has instilled within you relentlessly, prefers to plays it’s promiscuous games unfairly. Which you are reminded of once more as you find yourself cornered. Yet again, you are the helpless prey.

⤷ Your heart pulsates; a beating that rings amongst your ears almost deafeningly. The sound nearly drowning out the malevolent growls of the vampires seeking victuals of whichever foolish, helpless victim to feed upon. If only the thumping of your heart could drown the tantalizing realization that you are the pathetic victim.

⤷ In the mere blink of an eye, eclipsed figures sprint towards you. Hauntingly, their footprints seemingly inaudible as though they were flying. But if only you’d known better. You were human; weak and delicate. Whatever fragmentations of survival chance had provided seemed void in that instance.

⤷ Even by the grace of your legs carrying you as fast as they could possibly go, the odds were tauntingly against you. Granted, you likely wouldn’t even have time to accept the bitter reality of your predicament; you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

⤷ Your breathing is erratic; uneven and forced out in puffs of desperation. But there’s a will within you. Though the poignant truth encapsulates your hope in shackles, you continue to fight. For every breath you take, you push yourself to run faster, dodge the clawed hands reaching for your feeble body, and to do whatever it takes to survive. 

⤷ It’s a humane instinct; to fight for a continuous existence despite fate’s stamp of undeniable death. You were steadily approaching your due date, and predictably by the end of the night, you’d be nothing more than the feed of the pack of vampires.

⤷ After a sharp turn, jabbing your heel into the ground as you whirl your body to turn; the air resistance inducing your eyes to clamp shut. It was a turn too fast for your body to handle, stumbling forward sporadically, but it was enough to throw the famished vampires off of your tail, even momentarily.

⤷ Run, run, run! Dumbified by the desolate venom of oncoming death, you leap forward, narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a climatic fault; tripping over the thick roots of an unforgiving oak tree.

⤷ The night air in which you once believed was refreshing and serene now plagued with the tang of your own demise. It’s suffocating; feeling fear for your life and yet unable to provide some sort of protection for yourself. You were cowardly, and you were weak. Yet in this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival.

⤷ And life doesn’t make exceptions for anyone. You, just as much as anyone who finds their fate at the mercy of chance, were no exception to its cruel deduction as a pair of arms envelope your form.

⤷ At long last, the chase has concluded. Of all nights you’d spent tossing and turning in a pitiful attempt to subdue the remanence of a nightmare―a lucid illusion of your innermost fears―nothing of that caliber could begin to compare to the piquant dread settling within you. You’ve been caught.

⤷ But even as the sinking anxiety pricks at your delicate heart, the tendrils of terror stabbing into your mind, you thrash. Kicking and scream, you fight against the figure engulfing your form, pressing your back against their abnormally cold front.

⤷ You, yourself, weren’t quite aware of why you kept insisting on resistance. Perhaps it was the hope residing within you; the hope that there’s even the slimmest of probabilities that you’d find a way out. Or perhaps that, itself, was the naked core of the human will.

⤷ Sobs tear through your throat, ripping your vocal cords raw as you screamed for help. Your desperate pleas for somebody―anybody―to help you. But even if they managed to hear you, who would be dumb enough to put their own life at risk for the sake of yours?

⤷ Such is life; we live, and we die. Those who are unable to fend for themselves are sacrificed to the grip of gravel as their corpses rot amongst the cycles of parasitism; cells feed upon your body until you’re nothing more than a husk of what once human; what was once alive.

⤷ Yet, even as you thrash and cry, begging for some sort of escape to the Hell you’ve been forced to witness and endure, you find that as moments pass, the anticipated pain of claws tearing into your plush skin as teeth sink into the conjunction of your neck never come.

⤷ You should be wary, you should expect for life to expose its cruel, ugly face to you in its hideous nudity. But such is the fragile mind of someone as meek as you; truly, you were what the world deemed as unfit for existence. You believed what embodied the hope towards a unified tomorrow. And that, in itself, was fatal.

⤷ As you calmed your body, easing the subtle tremors, you crane your head to meet eyes with your captor. Ghostly green hues interlock with yours as you gulp. It’s a man, an alarmingly paled young man.

⤷ His skin powdered in thin layers of dirt as he reciprocates your fearful gaze with a gentle grin. Features ever-so delicate you almost assumed that the mere flick against the plush would result in scarring. He was gentle and, at that moment, you felt as though you could trust him.

⤷ But trust is fatal in this world. And as you meet eyes with him, you finally push away with a shove of your shoulder against his throat. He chokes momentarily as you stumble back, albeit tripping over your own feet and landing on your rear.

⤷ Could it be that he’d come to aid you? Could it be that for once in the hauntings of this unforgiving world, you were provided with a temporary protector?

⤷ No. You’d be a fool to believe such audacious hospitality from the likes of what had damned you to such a corrupt fate; caught amidst a forest of brambles and blood-thirsty monsters, seeking to drink upon your viscous fluids.

⤷ As you continue to meet eyes with the boy, you manage to stutter a question that rang much too loudly for your liking. Yet you needed to stay assertive. One crack in your visage and you life would be taken before you could even comprehend it yourself. Who are you?

⤷ Truthfully, you didn’t even know if he’d muster a genuine reply. For all you knew, he could leave you with a cold shoulder and put an end to your miserable life. But, much to your surprise, he manages to croak out a choked answer; “I’m Nagito Komaeda.”

⤷ Though as soon as his name escapes from his lips, he shrinks his gaze away as he bows to you. A gesture that startled you as you quickly realized who he was. Or rather, what he was.

⤷ As he voiced his name, baritone voice resonating against the hollow oak, his fangs barely showcased themselves from within the caverns of his mouth. You, really and truly, were in a predicament. And one that would seemingly result at the end of your life; an unfathomable death.

⤷ He lifts his head as you shriek, finding your figure to be rapidly crawling away from his in desperation. There was no way in Hell you were going to stick around if it meant being in the presence of the one who―you were certain of―would take it upon themselves to feed on you.

⤷ “H-Hey, where are you going?” He questions, beginning to pace after you. How belittling. His jog was quick enough to synchronize with your frantic crawls. You stood no chance. You were at his mercy.

⤷ Lifting your head once more, a frustrating cry escapes. “You’re one of them!” Your tone sharp despite your countenance openly conveying your vulnerability. Even to him, it was blatantly clear that you’d dubbed your fate as under the terrorizing control of his will.

⤷ “I don’t mean any harm to you.” He admits. His voice a mere whisper amongst the chirping of the nocturnal melody the crickets sang. Ghostly green orbs glossed with earnest intentions as he respectfully kneeled before you, holding his hand out towards you.

⤷ It’s strange. This―in every way imaginable―was abnormal. A taboo, even. His lips curled into a smile that genuinely expressed his yearning to assist you was wrong; it shattered every miserable rule this corrupted cycle of life instilled.

⤷ And yet you still place your hand within his, allowing him to help you up to your feet. He even went as far as to pat down the front of your garments, ridding you of the accumulated dirt from your attempted escape. It unnerved you. Why is he acting as though he truly wants to help you?

⤷ “You were running away from a pact of vampires, weren’t you?” He asks, stepping away from you. The space allowing you personal room to breath yet enough closeness to ensure you’re within arms-reach. With a shaky nod of your head, you agree to his inquiries.

⤷ Yet you’re still cautious. He’s a vampire, he’ll easily be able to overpower you and strip you of your life, leaving you with the travesty of what you fear would only be momentary trust.

⤷ “Why are you helping me?” It’s a direct question, and one you prayed he wouldn’t dodge. You had to know; you needed to know. But were you truly prepared for the truth? Were you prepared to hear what the embodiment of your fate had to say over your very own survival? A confirmation of your death?

⤷ You almost managed to interrupt him and admit you don’t want to know, but he beats you to it. Truthfully, it takes a moment to register. You almost don’t believe it, but the haunting vivid reality of his lips moving as each word escaped his lips leads you to believe that it’s real.

⤷ “I couldn’t sit back and allow someone so hope-filled to be mauled by the obscene, hideous hunger of despair. I want to help you. I want you to survive.”

⤷ With a dazed mind, you begin to question whether or not you’d managed to hit your head previously. Was this an illusion? It’s against the principles of this perpetually miserable world to allow unity between the two ruptures of the population; vampires and humans.

⤷ But it was real, real, real. The ontological sensation of his hand cradling yours as he helped you up, that was real. His arms encapsulating you as he put a halt to your sprints of flee, that was real. This entire situation was so hauntingly real. Yet how could he insist on something so unworldly?

⤷ Though you weren’t allowed to voice your perplexed distrust as he ever-so gently takes your hand within his once more. The soft, alarmingly cold skin of his hand figuratively melting against yours; in which your body regulated to remain at a forgivable body temperature.

⤷ He tugs your hand to signal for you to follow him, his eyes glistening with the reflection of the moon as he smiles. The curling of his lips oozing with a foreign sincerity you’d never have guessed to be found from someone like him; someone you’d predicted would be the death of you.

⤷ “Come on, I know a place where you can hide. They’re not going to find you there, I promise.” It’s a voiced assurance; a promise of your survival. Or, at the very least, for your protection.

⤷ But did you really have any option other than to rely on him? Rejecting his offer could insinuate a possible rage and result in his teeth sinking into your flesh. Yet abiding could, too, result in the findings of your hideout and fatally subject you to the mauling of multiple slobbering, fanged mouths.

⤷ You nod, deciding to agree. “O-Okay.” It was faint, but induced the softening of his gaze as a breathy chuckle escaped him.

⤷ “It’s not the best place around, but it’s the most scum like me could find. Sorry I can’t give you anything more adequate.” He apologized. It was a charming apology, yet unnecessary. Truly, you’d have never expected him to provide a location for you to seek shelter within.

⤷ “No, it’s fine...” You trail off, eyes narrowing on your intertwined hands. He was abnormally cold, yet you still seemed to feel strangely warm. A flurry of fondness smothering your chest as you suppressed an oncoming smile, finally tearing your gaze away from your joint hands.

⤷ “Thank you, Nagito.” Amidst the crescendo of nocturnal chirping and the gust of the nightly breeze, you voice a mere echo. Yet it still is audible and resonates within the pointed ears of your fanged potential ally.

⤷ He turns to you with a momentary visage of bewilderment. It seems that he, too, is susceptible to shock despite the loops of flummox he’s thrown you in for the night.

⤷ After a moment, his confusion melts into his fond smile that you’ve rapidly grown fond of. This meeting, by all odds, was due to the clutches of unapologetic chance. As he squeezes your hand within his, you’re reminded that this is inexplicably irredeemable.

⤷ Hand-in-hand, the two of you fragment the shackles of taboo; the perpetual division of your diverse species. It’s by chance that a vampire has taken it upon themself to assist a human. And it’s by chance that what life’s fundaments deem an impossible allegiance is the blossoming of your potential bond.

⤷ But there’s a chance―an undoubtable hope―that a unified future between the two unaligned. It’s a slim probability. But when has life―when has chance―ever proven itself to be fair?

[holycatsandrabbits]

                                      Give Me A Kiss

Released as part of the #Great Good Omens Snake-Off event!

ficlet by @holycatsandrabbits (Dannye Chase) based on a comic by @hayamiyuu 

*comic reposted with permission*

Crowley learned that Aziraphale was comfortable with snakes in Crete around 3000 BC. Crowley had been fleeing from something—probably some mob of humans he’d played a trick on. He’d taken his serpentine shape to hide, turning himself small and dark and slithering beneath some stones in a field. It was cold, and the meager autumn grass didn’t offer much protection, but that had seemed the least of all evils at that point. Eventually, he’d become cold enough that he drifted off to sleep. Which was rather a dangerous thing for a snake to do, but again—a lesser evil.

When Crowley woke up, though, he was warm. No scratchy grass surrounded him, no dry dirt. He was somewhere with a heat source, somewhere soft. He opened his eyes to realize that he was curled up in the lap of an angel, who looked delighted to see him awake.

“You missed our lunch date,” Aziraphale said, with obviously false reproach, his blue eyes sparkling sharply as only an angel’s could.

“Sssssorry,” Crowley managed to say.

“Oh, no matter, dear. I was able to track you down. You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you as a serpent since Eden. It’s quite becoming.”

It took a lot of determination, but Crowley slithered off the warm angel’s lap and back onto the cold ground.

Aziraphale’s smile faded. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, I’ve upset you.”

Aziraphale got to his feet. He towered over Crowley like this, and Crowley felt almost claustrophobic. He stretched himself back into human form, the right size, right temperature, right face. He shrugged, and they said no more about it.

But he never forgot what it felt like to wake up feeling so warm and—and safe. It was a harsh thing to realize that he could trust an angel.

                                                          oOo

Crowley discovered that Aziraphale was comfortable with giant serpents in 1038 AD in Cappadocia. Hell had ordered Crowley to hang about in a cave, menacing the population of a nearby town, collecting treasure and making some sort of legend of himself. Crowley had thought that sounded like quite a nice assignment for once. Of course, Hell had failed to mention that the presence of an enormous serpent-monster in a cave would attract knights with swords. That part was not fun.

The first few knights ran away at the sight of Crowley, and so he’d relaxed a little. Then had come a braver man who’d held a blessed weapon. When he got past Crowley’s defenses and stabbed him, Crowley had nearly passed out from the pain. He managed to win the fight, sending the knight fleeing for his life, but Crowley wasn’t sure how long it would be until he came back, with more men and more swords forged with priestly aid.

Crowley needed to leave. The problem was, he was too injured to change form, and he could hardly crawl about the countryside hoping no one would notice a dragon. So he’d blocked off the entrance to the cave as best he could and tried to sleep enough to heal.

He woke later to a sharply cold sensation and the sound of someone humming a hymn. He knew who it was without looking. “Angel,” he growled.

Aziraphale stepped into view around one of Crowley’s enormous black coils, looking a little more dusty than he usually did. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, in an ordinary tone, quite as if he were talking to a person and not a giant snake. “I’m sorry, I had hoped you’d sleep through the healing. It can’t be pleasant.”

Crowley wanted to hiss at him, but in this form he feared he’d terrorize the angel. He pulled in on himself, groaning in pain.

Aziraphale gave him an admonishing look. “I’ve been here a week, my dear. If I was frightened of you like this, I’d have left by now.”

“A week?”

“And without my magic cloaking this cave, you’d have had other visitors by now. So you can be self-conscious later. Right now, you’ve got to let me heal you.” Aziraphale bustled away out of sight again behind a serpentine coil, but he kept chattering. “Bloody irresponsible of you to do this, you know. Become a dragon, fight knights. We just set up our Agreement, and now you’re risking it all without a thought for me. What am I going to do if you get discorporated? I don’t want Hastur or Ligur as an adversary. Disgusting, the both of them.” His voice fell low. “And if someone comes back with another holy weapon, you could be destroyed completely, so—”

“Ssssssorry,” Crowley said, and the sound filled the cave, making it uncomfortably loud.

Aziraphale popped up again, completely unimpressed. “I should say so. Now, hold still, I don’t fancy being knocked about by your tail.”

The healing took another two weeks, during which Crowley mostly slept. Aziraphale didn’t normally sleep, but the work seemed to take a lot out of him. Once Crowley woke up to the startling sight of an angel curled up for a nap with an enormous demonic serpent, tucked among his coils like a little white mouse. As if prey had found itself protected by its predator.

Apparently Aziraphale trusted Crowley as well. This was not good news. In fact, this was really going to put a cramp into the whole falling-out-of-love-with-Aziraphale plan that Crowley had been working on for the last thousand years.

                                                      oOo

It took a lot longer for Crowley to discover that he was comfortable being a snake around Aziraphale.

After the Abotchalypse, when Crowley was free to visit the bookshop as often as he pleased, he found that it was quite fun to lurk among the books as a small snake, scaring away customers (and startling an angel, if he could manage it). One day, Aziraphale made an exasperated noise and shooed him out of the Yeats section and onto a sunny windowsill. Crowley found that it was actually quite pleasant there, even if it was out in the open, and still a great place from which to menace potential customers.

The point of being a snake in the bookshop, Crowley had told himself, was just that it was an age-old instinct to avoid making it obvious that he and Aziraphale were friends. If Gabriel came through the door, Crowley could easily hide. The problem with that was, if Gabriel made one false move toward Aziraphale it was very likely that he’d be met by a giant serpent who definitely was not attempting to be inconspicuous.

The truth was that Crowley still just wasn’t sure how Aziraphale loved him. He knew that Aziraphale did love him. Aziraphale had said so, and looking back, he’d certainly acted like he had for millennia. But Crowley was a demon. Could an angel really love a demon? Could he love someone who didn’t even have a human face?

One night Aziraphale was sitting on the couch by the fire, reading a book with those ridiculous little glasses on his face, and he was simply the most adorable, impossible, beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen. So Crowley, in snake form, slithered down off of a chair and crawled into Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale gave him an absent-minded caress, still reading. Crowley lifted his head up over the top of Aziraphale’s book, getting in the way. They sat there a moment, human and snake, angel and demon. Aziraphale didn’t recoil or pull back. He never had. He just smiled a little, looking patient. Crowley kissed him.

It was a wonderful thing to be a demonic snake who was trusted and loved in all of his forms. But, Crowley discovered, after having given Aziraphale a small snakey kiss, that it really was much nicer to kiss an angel if you had hands to hold him with.

HolyCatsAndRabbits (Dannye Chase) on Ao3. Fic Commissions for OC’s open!

@summerofspock thank you so much for organizing this event!!

[2018shawn]

newborn???

I’m soft for dad!Tom atm so how about surprising him that you’re pregnant by giving him a mini Spider-Man suit. 🥺🥺🥺

a/n: I can’t believe how much I’m writing am I feeling OkAyY??? I really loved this request so THANK U I also really enjoyed writing this and think it may be one of my favourite things ever wieghnksd thank u to @shawnsmoose​ for putting up with me annoying her 

a/n 2.0: can we also appreciate the ending bc I feel it is true tom style ... caring ... but not necessary 

warnings: the teeniest tiniest talk of smut until Tom does a tom. swearing I think?? maybe??? fluff???? TESSA. BABIES. HAPPY BYE 

You sighed, looking at the ridiculously big clock on the wall opposite you. 6pm; Still at least another hour until Tom got home and that’s with the best of traffic. Straightening the table runner yet again, you brushed over it with your hands to remove any creases before moving on to straightening the cutlery. It was funny, really; that you thought cooking tom’s favourite dinner would somehow soften the blow of the news you had to break to him.

Okay, you said aloud to yourself, stepping back with your hands on your hips to admire your - if you say so yourself – perfect display. Checking under your seat where you always sat, you made sure the small gift bag was there, just in case you’d dreamt putting it there, nodding to yourself when you saw it sat waiting. Might as well make a start on the vegetables.

In the kitchen, you played some soft music to calm your nerves. You stood in the door of the refrigerator, the light hitting you as you squinted at the half-finished bottle of white wine which was screaming your name. It’s gonna be a long 9 months. Sighing as you grabbed the peach lemonade instead; you flipped it towards the counter, feeling super impressed with yourself when it landed upright. Tom and Jake would never, you thought, laughing to yourself as you recalled their excitement on the plane when they managed to get it in the cup holder in one go.

It was safe to say, after one and a half months of him filming in a completely different country, you were ready for him to return as even the pictures on the walls were rolling their eyes at you talking to yourself. Your phone pinged, and you pulled it from your back pocket before it had even stopped vibrating.

Traffic ain’t too bad. See you soon, baby girl 🥺🏡💛

Can’t wait, roastie’s are in the oven and beers in the fridge 🐷🍺

Marry me? 💛💛💛

You giggled as you were about to shove your phone back in your pocket, another vibration forcing you to open your phone screen again.

Actually, that’s not even a question. You will marry me 🍑😈

“Oh honey, I’m homeeeeee!” He sang, and you heard his suitcase roll across the hard hallway floor before it stopped, assumingly being propped up at the bottom of the stairs. You’d missed his goofy ways, he annoyingly loud voice, his warm hugs.

He practically ran into the kitchen, hitting the breaks when he saw you heading towards his direction. “HI,” he screamed, actually running up to you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You think he almost knocked you over, but you knew he wouldn’t allow that to happen. Holding you close, he made a super squishy noise as he bear hugged you, lifting you off the ground.

“Hi, baby” You giggled, pulling your head away, your chests still touching, and arms still tangled around each other.

His lips came crashing down, eager to feel you, touch you, taste you. He’d missed you more than he’d let on since he’d been away. He knew you struggled being alone for such a long period of time, so he took it upon himself to be the stronger one, insisting that it wasn’t long until he’d be home and you’re in his arms. He, of course, felt even possibly worse than you did, wanting nothing more to be home with you, to make sure you’re safe. He’d be lying if he said his brothers coming around to borrow his computer shit was all coincidental.

He tasted of a mixture of mento’s, the mint ones, and cherry pepsi max and it felt infectious. He hummed into your lips as your fingers found their way into his bouncy hair and his fingers curled into your waist, almost like he was checking you were actually real. “How long do we have until dinner’s ready?” He smirked, nudging your nose with his.

On cue, the timer on the oven starting a repetitive beep and he groaned, pouting his bottom lip out like a little kid when you walked away, swaying your hips with an extra bounce. He tried distracting you as you dished up your meal, which was the last thing he wanted to eat with you stood in front of him. “Tom, I need to talk to you first, remember.”

“Yeah, but we could also talk after?” His arms were wrapped around your waist as you spooned the vegetable on his overloaded plate; you were definitely a feeder. You swatted his arm away as he tried to steal a roast potato, which were of course covered in your secret seasoning. He managed to sneak one, groaning and whistling out loud when he realised it was far too hot for consumption. Raising your eyebrows, you scowled him as if to say I told you so.

To say he was more interested in tasting you than tasting his dinner, it wasn’t on his plate for longer than 7 minutes, approx, washing the whole thing down with the rest of his beer. He joked that he’d finished filming now, meaning there was room for more food without a strict diet for once.

“So, you wanted to talk?” He asked, leaning back in his chair as he patted at his stomach. Oh the irony.

“Uh, yeh…” you shuffled in your seat, palms feeling sweaty and throat going a little dry, “I got you something.”

You started to bend down, to retrieve your gift from under the table but he slid back in his chair, causing a screech across the wooden floor, “OOOO, NO. I got YOU something!”

“No, Tom, can it…” he was already out the door heading to his suitcase before you could finish, leaving you to finish your sentence, “… wait.”

He came back through, holding a tiny bag, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead. “There was this little store and I knew you’d love it, because you like silver jewellery, so I got this made.” He shoved it in your hands, pulling the seat out and sitting next to you, instead of in his normal seat opposite. Your heart warmed at his thoughtful gift, although you had to chew at your lip as your nerves built. Inside was a little box, wrapped in a delicate white ribbon, with assumingly the company name’s initials embossed onto the front. It was like he was watching you open a Christmas present, spilling tails of how he thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s got you yet and if you don’t wear it, he will. Your lips parted as you opened the lid, the silver bangle shining up at you. Wrapped around were three separate charms; two T’s, and your own initial. “Because we’re like a little family, right? And I wanted to be with you, and you…” he laughed as he stroked Tessa who was sat under his feet, “even if I’m physically not.”

You weren’t soft, by any stretch of the imagination, but something about tom made you feel like jelly and melt like butter. “I bloody love you, you idiot.” You beamed, “it’s beautiful, thank you.” You couldn’t help but note how there may soon need to be another initial on there, panicking as you played his words over in your mind. We’re like a little family. What if what you’re about to tell him is going to ruin everything? What if he doesn’t want it? What if he doesn’t want you?

“So… my turn now,” he smiled, fluttering his eyelashes at you. You sighed heavily. Here goes nothing. Reaching under your chair, his eyebrows raised with an impressed glow at your organisation, much different to his presentation. He furrowed his eyebrows, hands reaching out for the small, brown gift bag, clinching his fingers back and forth like a little kid himself.

If he thought you opened your present slowly, boy, did he wanna be in your shoes right now. He fought with the white tissue paper you’d wrapped the small item in, muttering to himself as he eventually just ragged it out and threw it behind him, tessa immediately jumping to it and running around with it in her mouth like the proudest dog in the world.

The pattern of the item was familiar to him - how could it not be? The red and blue suit, with black lines decorating the majority, was exceptionally smaller compared to the one he wore on set. His face was scrunched up in confusion, “you know I can just get one that fits me right?”

“It’s not meant to fit you,” you rolled your eyes, reaching over and turning over the size tag that was still attached.

“First size/newborn” he whispered to himself, “newborn...”

He sat for about 10 seconds in silence, and it killed you, because it felt like 10 hours. His eyes finally snapped up to meat your worried overwatch, “NEWBORN?!”

Excitingly repeating the word, he pointed at the small baby grow “newborn?”

Then to his (in true Tom style) his penis, “newborn?”

And then finally to your lower stomach, “newborn?”

You nodded, bringing your lips together into a thin line as you let him digest the news. He grabbed the small sleepsuit, clutching it in his hand as he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you, wanting to never let go. “I didn’t know if you wanted this yet, and I understand if you’re not ready, and we can talk, but I really think I...”

He pulled you back, a hand on each shoulder, resting his forehead against yours. “Y/N, this is the best fucking this to ever happen to me, to us. Thank you so much...” your eyes filled up, just as his did, only yours was with relief. You’d never considered getting rid of the baby, and hoped Tom didn’t want to either, but you did come to accept that he might not be ready.

“I think I should thank you, it’s you that looked really hot at the premiere. And it’s also you that didn’t pull out quick enough, evidently” You giggled, and he laughed too, using his thumbs to wipe the tears that were only just escaping your eyes.

“You looked hot too.” He stated, giving you a peck on the lips. “How long have you known?”

“About a week, I knew your dumb ass would fly home and ruin filming for something that’s the size of a blueberry.”

“Oh my god, we got a baby blueberryyyy” he grinned, his hand coming down to rest on your stomach.

“I mean, yeh, but at the minute all you’ll feel is just roast potatoes in there”

Tucked up in bed, you rested on his chest, his fingers drawing random patterns on your side as you leant into him. “Are we really.. gonna do this?” You stuttered out, feeling his lips press to the top of your head.

He adjusted so you shuffled gently onto your back, rolling himself on top of you, leaning on his forearms to be careful not to crush you, and your blueberry. “I wouldn’t ever force you to keep it... him... her? Baby berry?... But I know you’re just scared. And I am too but that’s ok.” He pressed loving kisses to your tingling lips between each set of words as your hands toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, “I mean, we were gonna have one eventually.”

“We were?” You smirked, interested to hear more.

“Mhmmm...” he hummed, moving his lips from your mouth and across your jaw, eventually ending up at the delicate skin on your neck as he spoke, “I think 3. 1 boy, 1 girl, 1 blueberry...” Your laugh filled the room at not only his tom-ness, but the way his breath tickled your neck as he spoke. “In a big house, and another tessa, maybe a couple more chickens because my kids are gonna love dippy egg and soldiers.”

His tongue lapped the areas his teeth were nibbling, swapping his needy, harsh touch for a more gentle approach. You groaned into him, back arching as he grazed all your sensitive spots, his hands running up your t shirt and cupping your breast. You moaned his name into him, with nothing but love filling the word.

Your nipples grew hard between his fingers as he toyed with you, barely noticing how he was moving around on top of you, reaching over to the bedside drawer and rummaging through.

“Tom, what on Earth are you doing?” You laughed.

“Getting a condom?

[teacupfulofstarshine]

pattonella part 11: gratuitous references to “the oh hellos” and also them SOMFT

cw: injury mention, hospital 

the song that logan sings is "constellations" by the oh hellos; it's linked in text. i recommend listening bc it's gorgeous

wordcount: 3.1k

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 // part 6 // part 7 // part 8 // part 9 // part 10 // read it on ao3!!

the villagers insist on throwing a feast that night to celebrate the bandits’ defeat. logan takes the opportunity to send a message to the castle via bird, telling thomas that they will return home tomorrow and telling remy and emile to prepare for virgil. roman dances around the bonfire with the villagers, laughing and joining in the party. logan, meanwhile, remains in the town’s small inn, sitting next to the bed. 

virgil is asleep, chest rising and falling. he’s been asleep since he collapsed in the woods, and logan is honestly unsure when he’s going to wake up. he knows that virgil is alive, but at the same time . . . 

he thinks back to virgil in the woods, glowing with power, eyes a blank sheet of light as he send shockwaves through the clearing. he thinks back to virgil’s voice, low and powerful, leaning in and calling him “beloved.” he thinks back to the way virgil dipped him, pressing a searing kiss to his mouth and burning the exhaustion right out of him. 

logan lifts his fingers and drags them across his cheek. his bowstring had snapped back during the fight, and it should have scarred and bruised or at least been tender. there’s nothing under his fingers but smooth, unblemished skin. he studies his fingers; they should be rubbed red and raw, he should barely be able to curl his fingers without pain. instead, he has full range of motion, and he isn’t in any pain at all. 

virgil had taken all of his pain and injuries and wiped them away like they were nothing. logan looks at virgil, wincing when he sees the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hair sticks to his sweaty forehead. 

“oh, beloved,” logan whispers, reaching out to touch his cheek. “i cannot wait to see your eyes open and hear your voice again.” 

virgil breathes, slow and deep, and logan gently leans in to kiss his forehead. 

*~*~*~*~*

patton is vibrating with nervous energy in the castle courtyard. thomas is standing on the steps of the castle, flanked by the advisor he’d been with when logan and virgil left and two guards. nate stands a few feet away from patton, watching him as he bounces on the balls of his feet. 

“are you okay?” nate asks. 

“yeah! i’m okay, i just - i’m so - i want - roman’s coming home! and virgil, and prince logan!” patton eagerly waves his hands around, bouncing up and down. “i’m so excited!” he turns around when he hears something behind him and sees the doctor from earlier, remy, coming down the stairs accompanied by two servants carrying a stretcher. “what - who’s hurt?” his stomach sinks. 

“easy there, patton-cake,” remy says. “nobody’s badly hurt. from the sound of prince logan’s letter, your brother went and pushed himself nigh on magical burnout, so he’s gonna need some serious help, but he’ll be alright.” 

“he - wh - what does that mean?” patton asks. before remy can answer, horns sound in the distance, along with hoofbeats on the cobblestone. patton whirls around, roman’s borrowed tunic swishing like a dress around his knees. the people gathered in the streets begin to  cheer loudly as the hoofbeats grow louder and louder. 

the horse at the beginning of the procession is a palomino shining like pure gold in the sunlight, brilliant white mane and tail streaming in the wind. roman sits tall and proud on its back, looking every inch the prince he is. patton can see logan behind him, riding a dappled horse with the reins of a black horse in his hand. there’s a body tied onto the black horse; patton tries not to think about it. the rest of the knights follow behind the two princes, one of them flying the banner of the kingdom. 

roman’s horse rears as he pulls the reins taught, coming to a halt in front of patton. “prince captain roman,” thomas says, voice booming and formal. “i trust you were successful in your mission?” 

“we were,” roman says. “the bandits are vanquished, and they will no longer darken the village’s doorstep again.” it’s strange, hearing the normally goofy and affectionate roman sound so formal and almost . . . stilted, but patton had been fully briefed. thomas, logan, and roman all have ways in which they are expected to act in public as the three princes of the kingdom. 

“excellent,” thomas says. “you have done well, prince roman, and you have made your family and your kingdom very proud.” stable attendants come up as roman dismounts, taking the reins of his horse. roman gently pats the horse’s nose. before coming up and bowing to thomas. “remy, i believe you have a stretcher for virgil?” 

“of course, your most royal highness,” remy says. logan carefully dismounts his own horse and takes virgil into his arms. patton makes an unhappy noise when he sees how pale and limp virgil is, but the stretcher attendants hurry over. logan gently lays virgil on the stretcher, touching his forehead softly. 

the rest of the knights dismount as well, taking their horses to the stables. two more attendants come for logan’s horse, as well as the one virgil had been riding, and logan comes up to stand next to roman. 

“i will receive you privately inside,” thomas says. “come with me.” he, the advisor, and the guards head back into the castle as roman and logan approach the stairs. patton looks at roman, and the youngest prince smiles at him, taking his hand and kissing it gently. 

“lord sanders,” he says, smiling. “truly, it is a blessing to be graced with your glorious visage.” he offers his arm to patton. “might i escort you inside?” 

“of course, prince roman,” patton says. he has to fight back a giggle at how silly and formal they sound as he takes roman’s offered elbow. they ascend the stairs together, nate at patton’s side, and roman leans down to whisper into patton’s ear. 

“i really, really missed you, pat.” 

patton looks up at him and grins. “me too,” he murmurs. 

*~*~*~*~*

roman is amazed that he maintains his princely composure until they get into the private sitting room. once nate shuts the door behind them, roman scoops patton up into his arms and whirls him around. patton shrieks with laughter as he locks his arms around roman’s neck. roman quickly grips underneath patton’s thighs, nuzzling into patton’s fluffy curls. 

“patton, patton, patton, patton, oh, i missed you so much, my sunshine love!” 

“roman!” patton laughs, clinging to him tightly. roman dizzily stumbles to a chair and sets patton down. 

“just one moment, my dearest. let me shed this armor and i will be all yours.” roman quickly sheds the heavy plates of his armor, his boots, and his chainmail, leaving himself in an undershirt and pants and socks. thomas stifles laughter as roman kicks the pile of armor across the room, scoops patton up, and settles into the chair with patton curled in his lap. 

roman reaches up and takes patton’s face in his hands, letting his fingers slide into patton’s hair. he leans up and showers patton’s face in little kisses all over - his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his chin, his jaw. finally, finally, after he’s pressed a kiss to every single other inch of skin on patton’s face, he lands on patton’s mouth. patton squeaks in surprise and leans into the kiss, and roman pulls back when he feels something wet on his cheeks. 

“dearest, why are you crying?” 

“i - i just - oh, roman, i missed you so much -”

“oh, my darling, i missed you as well,” roman sighs. “it was so hard to be away from you, knowing that you were all alone here in a strange place.” 

“i wasn’t completely alone!” patton says. “nate was with me!” roman looks to see the servant, standing next to the door and wearing the crest of the sanders estate on his chest. “he used to be the person who changed my bedding and stuff, but your brother made him my - uh - what do you call it, nate?” 

“personal servant, lord sanders.” nate’s voice is light, slightly teasing, and roman turns to face him more directly. 

“nate, was it?” 

the servant stiffens in terror. “y - yes, your royal highness?” 

roman smiles. “thank you for taking care of my dearest one while i was away. i appreciate it greatly.” nate smiles, looking less terrified than he had, and roman returns to thoroughly reacquainting himself with the feel of patton’s mouth and back and hands and hips and legs. 

“oh, i missed you,” roman says. “every night, i thought of you. every day, i thought of you. no matter what i was doing, you were always on the back of my mind. i just - i was waiting for the day i could come home to you.” 

“i wanted you home so badly,” patton whispers. “i - i knew that you would come home safe, and i know it’s your job, but - but i was so scared for you. and - and vee, what happened to vee?” 

roman quietly details what happened during the fight - virgil’s glowing eyes, his magic, the way he’d healed them all and then collapsed. patton frowns. “he’s never expended that much magic before . . . will he be okay?” 

“he is with remy and emile,” logan says from the sofa. “they are skilled in their craft. they will take care of him.” roman looks over patton’s shoulders to see thomas pull logan into a hug. he’s shocked to see logan reciprocate, hugging thomas tightly. 

roman carefully sets patton on the chair and stands up, crossing the room to his brothers. when thomas lets logan go, he pulls roman in. “i was so worried for you, roman,” thomas hums, pushing his face into roman’s hair. “i know you’re strong. i know you’re capable. but every time i have to send you away, send you off to fight, to maybe die -”

thomas tightens his arms around roman, and roman lets himself melt into his oldest brother. 

“you and lo are really the only family i have left,” thomas says. “dad . . . he hasn’t really been here since mom died. and now that he’s sick, it’s only getting worse.” 

“i know,” roman says. he makes a grabby hand for logan, who rolls his eyes but lets them fold him into the hug. “i love you both so much. you know that, right?” 

“of course we know,” logan says. “we love you as well. you are our brother.” 

roman lets himself stay in that embrace for a few moments more before carefully pulling away and turning back to where patton is sitting on the chair, smiling fondly at him. roman bounces over to him, scooping him up and kissing him. “hello, my sunshine,” roman coos. 

“hello again,” patton giggles. roman lets himself fall into the rhythm of murmuring soft compliments to patton and petting his hair and kissing him and being kissed by him, and then -

“oh!” thomas says. “i have news for you all. it concerns virgil.” 

“virgil?” logan asks, frowning. “but remy has barely assessed him. surely we would have heard -”

“not about the magical exhaustion,” thomas says. “the other thing.”

“what other thing?” patton asks, looking at roman. roman shrugs. 

thomas sighs, sinking into a soft chair. “technically, there is a hitch with logan and virgil getting married.” patton gasps, and roman tightens his grip on him, soothingly. “the law does not permit royalty to marry anyone unless they are nobility or royalty themselves. as the heir to the sanders estate, you’re okay, patton. but virgil -”

“is my brother!” patton says defensively. 

“yes, but not by blood. you’re step-brothers, legally, and as such he isn’t recognized as nobility. so that means -”

“we can’t get married,” logan says softly. 

“that - that’s a stupid rule!” patton says. 

“it is,” thomas says. “unfortunately, i can’t change the law until i become the crown prince, at least, and since i can’t become crown prince until my brothers are married, we’re kind of at an impasse.” 

patton whines, low in the back of his throat. “so - so what do we do?” 

“i have found a loophole,” thomas says. logan sits upright, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with interest. “there are positions in the court that hold statue equivalent to that of nobility. one of them is court mage, and the other is court oracle. if we appoint virgil to either or both of those positions, he’ll essentially hold equal status to that of a nobleman. which means -”

“which means we can be married,” logan says. his eyes are bright and shining, and he begins to rock back and forth in his seat. one hand rubs at his pants in a fixed, repetitive motion. 

“what is he doing?” patton asks roman, softly. 

“stimming,” roman responds, voice soft and fond. “he does it when he’s really, really happy. he never does it in front of people, but he’s . . . i love seeing him happy like this.” 

“once virgil wakes up, we’ll tell him the news,” thomas says. “we’ll have a ceremony to appoint him to a court position, and then we can start planning the wedding in earnest.” 

“if we’re going to be planning for a wedding, i suppose i’d better begin planning for a proposal,” roman teases. patton’s pale face goes pink, and roman grins to see it.

*~*~*~*~*

“is he alright?” logan asks. he’s changed into a comfortable dark blue shirt with sleeves long enough to hide the way he stims nervously with his fingers. remy is carefully applying herbal poultices to virgil’s bared chest as emile grinds leaves together with a mortar and pestle. 

“he can’t drink the magic revitalization tea because he’s unconscious,” emile says. “so we have to get him to heal enough to get him conscious, and then we can dose out the tea. describe to me what happened, again?” 

“it was . . . incredible,” logan says softly. “he was siphoning energy from the bandits that he hit, and then he gave it back to our warriors to heal their injuries and restore their strength. it - it was . . . i do not have the words to describe how awesome it truly was.” 

emile frowns. “babe?” remy asks, touching his hand. “i know that face. what’re you thinkin’?”

“it sounds like a rare form of battle magic,” emile says. “i’ve heard of it, in legends past, but i didn’t know there was anyone who could still use it. it’s instinctual, you’re either born with it or you’re not, and it can’t be taught, only controlled.”

“will it always do this to him?” 

“no, prince logan,” emile says. “with time, he will gain a handle on his magic, and while he will still be tired afterwards it will not affect him with such severity.” logan sighs. 

“might i sit with him?” 

“course,” remy says. 

“i should warn you, prince logan, that you should not expect consciousness from him for at least forty-eight hours,” emile says. “he dangerously overextended himself. he must rest.” 

logan’s heart sinks a little, but he nods. “i understand. i am glad he is still alive.”  he pulls a chair up to virgil’s bedside and carefully takes his hand. virgil’s face is smooth and unworried, and logan can’t help the tiny smile that spreads over his face. 

“heal well, my darling. i will be here for you, from now until forever. i promise. i am planning for a proposal, do you know that? i wish to make you my husband properly, and when i propose to you i will make you feel as though you are the only man in the world. because you are the only man in the world, for me, virgil. i will have no one else by my side.” 

virgil breathes, slow and even, and logan gently squeezes his hand. 

*~*~*~*~*

patton is on cloud nine, even as they walk to the infirmary to check on virgil. roman is next to him, hair still damp from his bath, wearing a clean red shirt with light blue embroidery around the hem and sleeves. he’s holding patton’s hand, fingers laced together, and nate is on patton’s other side. 

“you look happy, sir,” nate says. patton grins.

“i am happy,” patton says. “i - you’re wonderful, nate, of course, but i missed roman so much i -”

“i understand,” nate says. “i’m happy to see you happy, sir.” roman squeezes patton’s hand, and patton squeezes back. 

his good mood sinks a little bit when they enter the infirmary. remy greets them, bowing his head in respect to roman. “prince roman.” 

“how is he?” patton says, clinging to roman’s hand. “how - how’s virgil?” 

“he’s exhausted magically and physically,” remy says. “he’s gonna be asleep for at least two days, and then he’ll need to drink a few buckets of that magic replenishing tea, but he’ll be alright.” patton sighs in relief, leaning against roman. “prince logan is with him. he hasn’t left his side since they came here.” 

patton blinks. “that’s . . . that’s so sweet!” 

“you can come in and see him,” remy says. patton nods, and remy points them in the right direction. they walk through the rows of beds together, but roman stops before they actually get to virgil’s bed. patton turns to him in confusion. 

“roman, wh -”

roman places a finger over patton’s lips. “listen,” he whispers. patton turns, and looks, and listens, and gasps. virgil is tucked into a hospital bed with his shirt off and covered in patches of green and white. there’s a wet cloth laid over his forehead, and prince logan is sitting at his bedside. he holds virgil’s hand in both of his, and he is singing. 

“this hill i’ll die on is about ninety meters of brick, 

colored indigo and inscribed with my name and lined with cedar,

but the words fall flat like 

cymbals crashing, like molars gnashing 

cause like constellations a million years away,

every good intention, every good intention,

is interpolation, the lines we drew in the array, 

looking for the faces . . .” 

logan’s voice is low and smooth, and patton presses a hand to his mouth. he had heard, of course, that the second prince was trained to sing and play music, but he had no idea that logan was so good at it. he sings to virgil, and roman carefully leads patton up to the bedside. logan lifts his head and stops singing when he notices that they’re there. 

“you’re such a good singer!” patton gushes. logan blushes pink. 

“of course he is!” roman boasts. “that’s my brother!” logan turns from pink to scarlet, but he’s rocking back and forth a little bit in his seat, so patton knows he’s at least a little bit happy. 

patton reaches down and gently touches his brother’s shoulder. “wake up soon, okay vee? we miss you.” virgil’s chest rises and falls, and patton pulls up a chair of his own to wait. quietly, logan begins to sing again.

[alias-b]

angel cake.

Summary: Former enemies, now friends and maybe lovers, Billy Hargrove and Evie Fenny start teasing in a church confessional. Things take a turn for the heated when Billy's imagination gets away from him. ~Also posted on my AO3

Billy/plus size!OC. Fucking in a confessional. Sin. Filth. Thanks for reading. Weird to write them romantically bc the start of the fic is Rough. They have work to do. Billy Being Nasty In Church. Teaser at later stuff for my new enemies to friends to lovers Billy/OC Fic, Sins of My Youth, that I want to start posting. XOXO.

Billy Hargrove x Evie Fenny

angel cake. 🍰

   “You really have to go to this thing?” Billy’s Camaro roared into a church parking lot. Looked out of place there. Multicolored tulips swept against the spring wind, too pleasant before the fender.

   “Told mom I’d help out. I’m not staying for the festivities, they just need extra hands setting up the food and Easter egg hunt.” Aviators flashed at Evie in the passenger seat.

   Billy with his arm propped in the window. Denim jacket and white button down tucked into tight jeans. Cigarette dangling out his lips. Exceptionally pretty, even against all the pastel flowers and banners set for the holiday. 

   “What a good daughter. Santa ought to put you on the nice list for sure.” He plucked the smoke out to exhale as she brought the car mirror down.

   “Hell, I forgot I had red on today.You have napkins in here?” She opened the glove box to sift through papers. Billy extended his arm.

   “Use the jacket, give me something messy to remember you by.” A wink followed before she took his wrist and smacked a ruby kiss into his forearm, printing the light wash. Eyes flicked as some of the red lipstick got swiped away, leaving a more pink tint behind.

   “Thanks, I guess.”

   “Red is the devil’s color,  Evangeline.” Came some mocking in a horrid southern accent. She scoffed with her eyes elsewhere.

   “You could always come help if you’re going to pout.” She dug around her purse.

   “Not pouting. Churches and I don’t mix. It’s the one thing dad and I agree on.” Billy pulled his shades down and folded them into his front pocket with the cigarettes. 

   “Well, pick me up in an hour, we’ll go catch something scary and sinful.” She applied chapstick and rubbed her lips together.

   “Sinful? I like that.” Billy’s fingers squeezed her thigh, hot on skin and just barely under the little black suspender skirt. Evie wore a brightly colored tee with sunflowers all over it. Her usual green bomber jacket covered in patches. “That new?”

   “The chapstick? No, it’s tinted and smells like watermelon though.”

   “Let me try.” Billy saw her offer the tube and instead pulled her in by the collar for a kiss. Mashing their lips together. He flicked his tongue out for good measure and heard her gasp against his ferocity. It still managed to catch her off guard. A light smack when he parted, tonguing his bottom lip. “Mm, tastes like watermelon too.”

   “Billy, there are people over there.” She pushed his wandering hand out of her skirt.

   “I’d like to see Jesus himself come out and...what the fuck is that?” Billy’s finger lifted so Evie followed it to see the Easter Bunny leaving a lone side door. Lavender fur with white tufts, huge goofy grin.

   “Yeah, they have someone dress up every year for when the kids arrive, which is in about sixty minutes, so I gotta go.” Evie had Billy’s wrist again to check the time. Pecked his cheek and shifting before he about howled. “What?” Her body jumped at the sound.

   “No fucking way!” Billy was scrambling out because the bunny head had come off so a quick smoke could be snuck around back. “No way! Hey, Harrington! That you, amigo? What’s up, doc?” 

   Steve spun on his heel, holding a cigarette in one hand and the bunny head under his other arm. His head fell back with a groan because Billy was leaning up against his chair, bent over to belly laugh.

   “Hargrove?” Steve looked mortified, but played tough. “Are they really letting you within five feet of a church?” Billy was too busy cackling to retort. Fist clenched and head resting upon his arm on the Camaro.

   “The fucking tail.” Billy wasn’t stopping so Evie crossed her arms.

   “What happened to Gary?” Evie approached Steve, head cocking. “Ignore Billy.”

   “I try to… And food poisoning. I dropped Dustin off at home yesterday to help Claudia out and she begged me last minute. I’m getting fifteen bucks for it though. Not bad for the Saturday before Easter.” He flashed a half smile. “Suit kinda smells like potpourri, I-...Is he gonna stop or what?” 

   “He’ll tucker himself out eventually.” Evie turned her head to see Billy unable to get air. “Billy, take a breath already before you pass out!” A huge gulp followed. More wild laughter. “Jeez.”

   “I’m never gonna live this down, shit.” Steve mumbled around his smoke, flicking it. “Asshole.”

   “Might want to get back in, Pastor will have a cow if he catches you smoking in the suit.” Evie took the head to help Steve back into it.

   “See you, Hargrove. Remember to breathe, dick.” The bunny snuck back in the side door. Another round of laughs at the sight of the puffy tail.

   “I wanna kick his ass so bad. You don’t understand.” Billy stretched out, eyes watering and cheeks blushed. Freckles glowing.

   “You short circuiting still?” Evie peered down at her boots.

   “I don’t know what Easter is about, but that...was the best shit I’ve ever seen.” Billy snickered like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar. Evie only rolled her eyes.

   “New beginnings, Billy.” Heels clicked up behind them so Billy straightened quick to get his composure.

   “Hey, mom.” Evie leaned out from behind the boy.

   Mona Fenny appeared from the main doors, her arms full of bags. Brightly colored plastic eggs packed with treats about to spill out. Hair pumped, unable to move, with a short 60s sheath dress clinging to her body. Yellow and orange print. Something that was definitely noted by the men around. Single and ready at all times. Evie felt her cheeks heat at her mother.

   “New beginnings, Miss Mona?” Billy repeated, one hand sliding into his jean pocket.

   “That’s what I always thought, sugar.” That southern twang thick beyond all reach.

   Billy always liked to poke fun at Evie, she had the slightest Louisiana touch to her voice that came out when she was in a more fiery disposition. She swore it wasn’t true.

   “Evie, they’re trying to get the dessert table set up. I didn’t realize Billy was joining us.” Mona continued.

   “Oh, I-”

   “You know, Billy was actually telling me he’s never been to a real Easter gathering before. Not a church event.” Evie’s sly smile crossed and he shot her a look. “I’m sure those big, strong arms you got would really help out setting up.” Evie came to him and gave his bicep a pat.

   “That’s lovely, Billy. You know the kids just love this event, fun in the sun and more food than you’ll ever eat. Go on inside, you two. We have decorations to get going.” Mona clicked away, peppy in stride.

   “I had a hair appointment.” Billy hissed through his teeth when Evie’s mother was gone.

   “You want to tell my mother that you’re going to get your hair done somewhere that isn’t her salon?” Evie’s lips pressed. Billy’s face scrunched because she had him there. “I panicked, the people here are too much. Please stay.”

   “Your mom never turns her volume down, does she? Looking more like a brunette Sharon Tate than a Dolly Parton.” Billy locked his car, stuffing the scorpion keychain into his pocket.

   “Been like that since dad left, she’s...on the market. Trying to feel good. People notice and they say some not great stuff. She went from dressing like a nun to a model overnight.” Evie was holding her arms close to her chest still, making this unconscious patting motion Billy always noted like she was trying to console herself.

   “Really bugs you, what people think.”

   “It’s a small town, it bugs everyone.” Evie turned, skirt flitting while her curls bounced. “Don’t like all these guys ogling my mom.”

   Doesn’t like that one might replace her dad. Evie peered back at Billy, lips pushed up to appear brighter. He decided he wanted to see her happier without force.

   “I’ll stick around. You owe me.” Steps followed. One hand gave her bottom a firm pat.

   “You know, the Easter Bunny has to do a dance before the festivities begin?” She whispered then. “It’s tradition.”

   Billy perked up like a dog.

   “Right, so, decorations?” He waltzed ahead with a giggling girl in tow. Spotted the moms passing boxes off. All stilling to see him there. Wind sweeping his blond locks like a beefcake out of a romance novel. Shirt open with his saint chain glinting upon his tanned chest. “Ladies.”

   “Hi, Billy.” Came the chorus.

   He ate that up a little. 

   Sunlight was barely felt through the spring breeze. Balloons and streamers glowed every direction. Twisted around Evie’s manicured fingers as she passed them up to Billy to be tied around the banner.

   “Feel like I might float away here.” The wind swept up her unruly curls as she smiled below when Billy peered to see her. Pink and violet balloons. Yellow streamers. She looked like a piece of decadent candy there. “What?”

   Billy snapped out of it.

   “Why do I have to be on the ladder?” He snatched another bundle of strings from her to tie them up.

   “I wore a skirt so I wouldn’t have to be.” Came the cheeky reply. Hawkins residents hurried all over to set up the grassy field.

   “Let’s switch. Although, the view here ain’t half bad. I can totally see down your shirt.” His tongue swept over eager lips as eyes lowered to her breasts. Brows furrowed to glare at him. It was striking how cute she was, even angry. High, apple cheeks and pillowy lips. The sun brought some gold into lush, dark curls. 

   “Jerk.” An arm hanging with streamers covered her chest. “We’re standing next to a church. Behave yourself, you’re fixing to get smited.”

   “God’s got bigger problems than me.” He shrugged, caught his tongue in teeth. Smirked. “Fixin’ to. Your Louisiana is showing.”

   “Shut it, I got too much family down there still. Sometimes it jumps out. I don’t have an accent.”

   “You so do. Just saying it’s cute.” He caught her cheeks flooding all strawberries and cream.

   “Hey, I have to keep my clinically unapproachable ice queen reputation. You’re not helping.”

   “Damn cute then.” Billy’s head cocked. A wink of those sinfully, long lashes. “Hand me another one.”

   Evie’s hand came to his to offer a new bundle of balloons.

   Green grass swept about as parents worked to hide eggs all over and a full spread of picnic food was set out on blue gingham tables. Kids started to pile in so Billy decided it was time to hide around the building after snagging the biggest piece of apple pie he could. Alone, they watched the crowds play beyond a row of vibrant tulips.

   “One fork?” Evie leaned up against the wall.

   “You had my tongue in your mouth this morning, don’t complain about sharing a fork.”

   “Fair enough.” She let him feed her a bite. “That wasn’t so bad, time flew. You want to jet?” A bouncy tune played as Billy craned his neck around the corner after a huge bit of pie. Evie followed his line of sight.

   “Easter is my new favorite holiday.” He let Evie snag the fork to finish off the slice, tossing the plate into the trash. Genuine laughter as Steve Harrington did a jig in his costume across the open field. Billy’s arm slid over Evie’s shoulders. “You think I can pay one of these kids to kick bunny in the nuts?”

   “We’re leaving… Before you traumatize some child.” She tugged at his wrist to sneak in a side door. “Left my coat and purse over here.”

   Absolutely empty and dim save for the morning sun spilling into stained glass. They passed rows of pews to the tables covered in empty boxes. Evie went for her purse and realized she already lost Billy, curiously rooting around.

   “Hey, don’t touch that.”

   “They actually have one of these things? I thought movies made this shit up.” Billy poked his head around the little confessional booth. Hardwood and sleek to touch. Ornate and out of place against bright blue wallpaper. Two doors on either side. “So, everyone’s planning on staying outside right? Should be entertained a few hours, hm.”

   He went in and a lock clicked.

   “Billy, hey.” Evie felt the urge to keep her voice low. “Get out of there. They actually don’t really use this thing anymore.”

   “Doesn’t get use, eh? Too bad.” His snicker was muffled. “Get in the other side, Angel, confess your sins.”

   “I’ll confess that I think the nickname is still silly.” She wiggled the handle and poked her head into the opposite side. Saw Billy’s pretty silhouette through the tiny mesh window. Both sides were cramped like an airplane bathroom.

   “Roomier than I thought.”

   “Some of us have hips here.” Evie huffed at him, the door shut while she slid inside. “Kinda creepy actually, let’s go.”

   “You gotta confess first, it’s the rule.” His wild curls flicked so she plopped into the wooden bench.

   “This is not even sexy, I feel like I’m about to be murdered here.” She pressed her hands on either wall.

   “Better confess quick in that case,” Billy leaned in, she saw his lashes flutter, “what color are your panties today?”

   “Billy.” She covered the mesh with one hand.

   “Do they match the bra?” He continued, voice lowering.

   “I’m not doing this.” Evie lifted her skirt and shifted a lacy pair of shorts aside to see. Billy’s breath drew heavier. “What’s it matter if they match?”

   “If they match, you walked into this church thinking you’d be getting some later.” He said that far too matter-a-factually. “Sinner. What color? Describe them exactly.”

   “You’re being gross.” She knew he heard the band of her little biker shorts snap. Caved. “Purple. Like a lilac.”

   “Cotton?”

   “...Satin.”

   A lengthy hum from Billy at that.

   “And the bra. I’m assuming the same.” He already heard Evie shuffling to check.

   “Ah, shit.” She let her shirt go and he chuckled. “I didn’t even plan that. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

   “Your subconscious knew, Angel. No denying it.” Billy propped his arm up.

   “Okay, what do you have on?” The challenge was easily met.

   “Nothing under the jeans, currently. You should try it.”

   “In a skirt? Without my little shorts? My thighs would rub, I’d be miserable.” Came a whine.

   “I’d massage your poor thighs, maybe blow the hot skin to cool it off if you like.” His suggestion wasn’t helpful. “Spread them and rub some ice to make you feel better. Few kisses all the way up.” That damn low baritone lingered upon the syllables like he might lick them. Evie gave a silent snort out her nose. “You’d probably squirm a little bit like you are now.”

   “I am not squirming.” Evie’s chest lifted, eyes turned to Billy’s outline.

   “Now, Angel, you can’t tell lies in here. The sins are just piling up for you today.” Billy peered around, couldn’t see much in here. Spotted her lips parting, but sound came out. “Betcha, you’re already soaked through those satin, lilac panties.” His purring was met with hard silence before a forcibly huff.

   “Billy...quit it.” She bit her lip this time sounding like she’d smiled. Billy spotted her cheeks lifting, full and blushed all pretty he figured.

   “I’ll confess, it took every ounce of fight in me to get you here on time. Lot of places in this town to stop and...park at for a bit. The one charming thing I discovered about this place.”

   “How sunny side up of you.” She hummed.

   “You would have let me have it because we would have parked for awhile. You’d be late. Probably left your wrecked panties in the backseat and walked around here with fireworks still going off under your skin. We both know it.” 

   “Probably wouldn’t have made it here at all.” Her slow reply was uttered and Billy grinned.

   “See, I behaved.” He got closer to the window. “Confess, Evie.”

   “Confess that you’re a total horn dog.” She drew in to meet him.

   “Confess what you want me to do to you in there.” Billy murmured. She blew a curl out her face at that. “I got it, I want you to be my first.” He’d offered that with huge, glittering eyes she’d caught the glint of. Eyebrows jumped.

   “What? Literally yesterday, we-”

   “I never fucked in a church before.” He got her eyes rolling hard, almost to the back of her skull.

   “Jesus Christ, Billy.” She covered the mesh again, heard him laughing on the other side.

   “Not the name you need to be moaning right now.” Billy smacked the window closed and came out. 

   “Finally, we can go-” Evie had the door open. Still blushing. Chest puffed. 

   Billy appeared from smoke, had his hands on either side before he pushed in. Catching her lips on the way until the door could shut behind them. Cupping Evie’s face so she pressed into the wall. Back of her legs hit the bench and managed to not buckle. Palms felt around the hardwood for something to grab for until fingers bunched up Billy’s jacket.

   She broke for air. Gulped on it before his tongue was back into her mouth.

   “We should…” Lips swelled with kisses. “Go to the car.”

   “Will you make that walk? I know I won’t.” Came the hushed reply. “We could cross something big off the bucket list.” Persuasive lips were already working on her neck, teeth tugged her ear and grazed back down. Billy got a handful of her tits and hummed.

   “Not...Not sure it’s on my bucket list.” She just held onto him. Knees wobbling as Billy massaged through the bra.

   “I’d add it now while you have time.” He pecked her throat. Felt the pulse under tender skin racing. “Confess.” It was a sinful purr. Evie’s head tipped back. Lungs starting to sputter. Billy made her heart a pile of volcanic mush.

   “What if someone comes in?” She let him tuck her curls aside. Lips on her cheeks and jaw. Finding her mouth again. Tasting sweet sugar from the apple pie they shared.

   “We’ll just have to keep it down and pray the party is entertaining enough to keep people outside.” He mumbled, coming out to pull the shirt from her skirt up over the pretty bra she had on. 

   Hands pulled her suspenders forth until Evie molded into him. Kissed back with the same fierce vigor he gave. Felt the chain around his neck while her fingers slipped under the collar of his shirt, four buttons already undone.

   The hard lines of his body sweltered with fire. Whatever resolve she might have had melted away completely. 

   Evie liked how he always cupped her face to look at her features close between steaming kisses. Fingers trailed to work her bra down just enough for her to spill into his touch. Into his mouth. Bruising suckles. Teeth edging across silken skin. Tongue swirling one dark, rosy nipple than the other as she tried to quiet herself and ran fingers into his gold mane. A hiss and Billy’s eyes lifted. Evie’s head was turned aside, teeth in her bottom lip. Eyes shut.

   “Cute when you try to hold it together.” Cool breath against her hard, wet nipple sent a vibration down her spine. Billy licked up her chest to inhale that amber perfume, a floral scent with a touch of vanilla from her lotion. Smelled lush to match him. She pushed his face back into her cleavage, partly to quiet him because he was too cocky.

   Chuckling and breathless, Billy came up to tease her lips. Twisting her nipples just so to elicit a sigh. Low and even, Billy ran his finger over her mouth.

   “Just confess, Angel, it’ll feel so fucking good when you do.” He caught her bottom lip and let it go.

   “Promise?” Evie’s lips parted involuntarily at his touch, let his finger stroke her tongue and slip out. 

   “I promise.” That same hand already hiked her skirt to tug at shorts until they came down. His finger inched under the waistband of her panties, teasing sensitive skin. She pressed into his body, vibrating for more. Swaying. Arms snug around his shoulders to stay upright.

   A shameless sound when her lips collided with his. Thigh hitching around his hips in a needy motion. Not shy about what she desired for one beat because he knew how to coax that side of her out. Billy teased lighter kisses, let his deft fingers dance along her inner thigh. Evie was stubborn and she knew what he wanted. 

  Confession.

   A growl rippled out her tense vocal cords. Trying to reel sound in despite Billy’s inherent ability to make her see new sparks of vivid neon colors here in pure darkness.

   “Okay…” She panted, pulling for him until their foreheads touched. “Okay.” A drunken moment where eyes could close. One beat of peace in obscenity. His free arm tightened around the small of her back so they were flush together. Perfect fit. Every curve to her body sloped easily into him. An almost Biblical fate because of how good they felt together. Evie parted her mouth to ghost it over his. “I sinned.”

   “Yeah?” Billy’s palm inched up to reward her sighs. A smirk crossed. “How’s that?”

   “Because I was hoping you’d pull over on the way here. Would have seen the new underwear in a better light. And I squirmed the whole way. Your loss.” All that cheeky strength simmered down when fingers pushed between thick thighs. Wet satin fabric slipped deliberately against her and Billy moaned at the mere feel. Rock hard.

   “Fuck, you’re soaked, Angel.” His tone thickened.

   Evie wasn’t able to articulate. Face in his chest with her needy fingers tight on his jacket. She played her demure self again. Billy felt her legs tremor, nudged them further apart with his boot.

   “All for me? I wouldn’t call it a loss. You gotta hold yourself up a bit longer, open that mouth again.” He gave her two slick fingers to suck so he could kiss down her tits some more. Plucked and nipped at every sensitive part of her body. “Fucking god damn it, I might give religion a shot after this.”

   “Yeah?” Evie licked the pads as Billy slunk down to marvel. Thought about taking her skirt off, but he decided he liked the way the straps framed her breasts partially spilling out of the bra.

   One hand forced her thigh up until her foot hit the bench. Evie was curved back into the wall, holding the side frame and gripping Billy’s shoulder.

   “Long as I get to go where you’re going, I don’t give a shit about anything else.” A chuckle warmed her leg as he pushed her skirt up out of the way.

   “That sounded oddly sentimental.”

   “Maybe I’ll bring you down to my level instead. Sinner.” Billy’s mouth placed one open kiss against her wet panties. Tongue following the hard swell of her bud. She decided she’d let him there in darkness. Every muscle in Evie’s body jumped at full attention. His divine and equally wicked mouth hummed blissfully. She craned to dig teeth into her own arm. Fists clenching.

   Billy maneuvered her leg over to get the ruined fabric down. Tucked them into his coat pocket and she figured she wouldn’t be seeing them again. Kneeling, Billy scooted closer and pushed her thigh back up, baring her to his mouth. 

   A cry hitched, snuffing out immediately as he tasted her. Filthy, open mouth kisses until her fingers tangled into his hair. Pulled. Billy moaned into her folds. Squeezed her thighs and loved the feel of them. God, he really couldn’t get enough of this girl. Every whine she let him have. Every nerve that wanted him. Needed him to ease the frays and sizzling. He just couldn’t get enough and was fine with following her into the dark.

   “Don’t stop.” Evie whispered. Hair falling into her face while her breasts rose and fell. She licked her lips and savored him.

   The dirty sounds he made against her that barely carried outside the booth. Billy squeezed her breast once he was certain she could stay up so she covered his hand. Craned to suck fingers. A gasp left. Evie’s hips rolled into his mouth. Asking for even more until two fingers pushed inside. 

   Billy moaned when her walls clamped. Pumped through the resistance to massage her nice and deep. Evie was quivering there. Using both arms on the sides to stay up. Shameless working into him now. Billy made a vaguely amused sound and gave an obscene pop around her clit, leaning out with arousal slicking his pink lips. It was music, the sounds her body let flow into crisp air.

   “Damn, no wonder you don’t go here anymore. Fucking yourself so hard and pretty on my fingers like this. You couldn’t make the nice list if you paid.” Being eye level with the sight had his cock twitching almost painfully. Evie’s head was tossed back. Clearly getting herself closer so Billy pulled away. Silenced her whine with a kiss. Let her suck and nip at his bottom lip. “See how fucking good you taste?”

   Evie’s hands were opening his belt. Quick and eager. Billy hitched as one palm slipped in, fingers ghosting trimmed blond hair to ease him out of the denim.

   “Confess, Evie, how bad you want me to fuck you right here.” He spoke as if he still had the upper hand.

   “Bet you I can do it without words.” Evie had his hips, guiding Billy to switch so he could sit. The question died and buried itself the second she sank down to lick precum pooling at his tip. Billy’s hips thrust up, eyes heavy and hooded.

   “That bad?” He shuddered, legs opening so she could lean into him. Evie unbuttoned the rest of his shirt to kiss the steel muscles. Twitching and molten. Nails scraped his skin. Stopped to stroke him idly. Kissing his abdomen, thighs, and tip. Evie traced the lines of vein and muscle. Down his shaft and back up his chest. So many sharp angles to explore.

   Little butterfly kisses while she leaned in until his cock slipped snug between her breasts. Spit slick and beading clear arousal. Billy moaned at the sight and gave a rut as she noticed and started to come out. 

   Hands latched to her shoulders. Billy hummed and rolled her nipple. Felt the weight of her tits and pushed them to squeeze his shaft. Idle fingers stilled to tuck her hair back in a way that was almost tender.

   “You’re pretty like this,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re pretty every which way.” Teeth tugged at her bottom lip. A shy kiss followed. Sometimes, he got so bold, she sank. Learned to savor it. Billy whispered against her. “Have I ever told you my cock looks great between your tits like that?” Frankly, he’d be happy to get off rubbing between her breasts or thighs alone. Fingers digging into supple skin. Evie had become a drug to him. Vanilla and amber immersed him in a high.

   “The occasion hasn’t really crossed.”

   “I’ll have to fix that next time I can lie you down.” Billy let her stroke him again and come up. Hesitating so he had to encourage her. “Get in my lap.” He was already pulling her into him. Smoothing hair back sweetly for lingering kisses.

   She long stopped worrying about feeling too heavy for him. Billy threw her around a mattress like it was nothing. Spread her legs, bent them up how he liked. Marveled at her flexibility. Kissed her obscenely and told her how pretty and blushed she looked. She liked when he was ample with her body. The boy certainly lifted enough weights, a fuller girl with hips was nothing to that. Jeans shifted lower as she straddled him. A kiss before she sank down.

   Billy moaned. A low honeyed sound into her ear. Almost musical. Arms wrapped tighter. Evie thanked God for birth control and moved at his coaxing.

   “C’mon, fuck me. I want it.” Billy kissed her fiercely. Nipples. Collar. Throat. Jawline. Mouth. And each time, he felt that same thrill rush his bones. A palm smacked her ass, squeezed it. Got drunk off the pulsing and little whines she gave him as if they were gift wrapped. “Confession. I want pictures of you. Spread out with my cock in you every way you like. They won’t beat the real thing, but fuck, I can’t...stop with you. Don’t want to.”

   Billy looked vulnerable when he moaned so pretty.

   His knuckles traced the curve of her cheekbone. Evie bounced, gripped his shoulders to stay upright with her spine curving. Unable to respond to something so passionate. Billy had that mode on him, sometimes it came out in odd ways. Filthy words to match his obscene way of caressing and worship. His manner of making Evie feel bold and sexy. Cute. Pretty. Fierce. Desired. The fact that sometimes he’d lie still for once and seek out her fingers across his curls and her lips on his cheek.

   Evie Fenny was a drug and cure to him, all at once. She gave back. Made Billy feel full and light. Made him feel present. Like he could shed his fangs. Lie back and feel the sun on his skin.

   “Confession,” Evie said between quick kisses with her thumb tracing the edge of his jaw, “I want more of you too. After....”

   “After?” He scoffed. “Like tonight?”

   “Just… After.” She slowed to rock into him. Deep thrusts that made them both moan in sync. So close. “After what’s next for us. Life. High school. Whatever. I want you to be apart of my after.”

   He could blame the sex for short circuiting her brain, he’d given it to her pretty hard.

   “I don’t know what I’m saying.” She rubbed her eyes, laughed because it felt silly. Felt Billy swoop in to kiss her. Wordlessly validating it wasn’t silly at all. That was another thing they did, pumped life into hopeful hearts and dwindling thoughts of something more. Something that was waiting...after.

   “We’ll deal with the after.” Billy skimmed a hand between them. Stroked her until she gave a cry into the denim of his jacket. A beautiful note. Evie thought she heard the twinkling music from outside, joyful and airy. Realized that maybe it was just playing in her head. “Right now, I want you to come.” He pecked her parted lips. “Cum for me, Angel.”

  “Billy.” She found his mouth again. They shared a godly nectar in one kiss. He worked her hips into his as she climaxed. Lungs heaving with a great arch. Billy watched her tits bounce and found his own release quick. Let her slip into him as he fell back to the wall. Lungs tried to find some peace. That New Orleans accent laced her tone again. “God damn it, Billy.”

   “Still a church, Fenny.” He massaged her thighs. Eyes shifting while she breathed even and fixed her bra. Tucked her shirt back in.

  “I need a bathroom. This is about to be a mess.” She slipped off him, pulled her undershorts back on because he wasn’t giving her panties up. Thighs hummed, sore and blissful. Billy tucked himself away to fix his own clothing back. Evie poked her head out. “Coast is clear.”

  Without thinking, she laced her hand in his. Hurried him out to the bathroom to pee and wash up. Saw her patchy, red cheeks in the mirror and huffed. Patted cold water on them. Billy finished at the sink and lit a quick cigarette by the window. That chipper music lingered outside.

  “Your mom is going to be here awhile. I vote your place.”

  “Movie on the couch.” She flicked hair aside. Billy flashed a smile, nodding as he snuffed the smoke out.

  “To start, maybe.” Two fingers grasped her chin, angled Evie’s mouth for a slow kiss. Tasted sweet, obscene, and smoky all at once. Made her dizzy.

  “I’d come back here under certain conditions.” He passed to go out with Evie behind him. She found her purse and coat again.

   “Let’s go, you had your fun.” She chuckled as they rejoined the event outside. Wind and all.

  “Uh, I think you did too.” Billy’s arm hung around her shoulder. Easy with their height difference.

  “You two leaving?” Mona had called, edging from her conversation to cross once the teens were outside. Evie pressed her legs together. Smiled. The Pastor who’d been speaking to her mother followed too. Plastic grin upon his face.

  “Ah, yeah, I’ll see you later, mom.” Evie had replied.

  “Thanks for coming to help.” Mona beamed. “Pastor Ray, you know Billy. Our neighbor. He was kind enough to help out.”

  “Mr. Hargrove. I’m surprised to see you here.” They shook tense hands.

  “Only thing I like more than Jesus is Christ. Who doesn’t want to turn water into wine.” Billy’s sarcasm was almost charming. He got a flat look in return.

  “I see...”

  “Evie, can you take some of the food home, honey? We’ll feed the neighbors.” Mona grasped Evie’s arm to pull her forth. “Just put it in the fridge. I’ll organize later.”

  “Sure.” Evie started to follow.

  “Be sure to grab the cherry pie if there’s any left. The ladies outdid themselves this year. Billy, you’re free to take some food home, son.” The Pastor addressed him kindly again. Billy’s grin flashed shiny teeth.

  “I love a good cherry pie, but I filled up on angel cake.”

  He caught Evie’s head whipping toward him as she went. Eyes ablaze which made his smile bigger.

  “Oh?” Ray’s head cocked. “I didn’t see that over there. Must have went fast.”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe, sir.” Billy patted the man’s shoulder and sauntered by. “Nice church, by the way. Pointy.” Evie hurried to his car with her arms full of Tupperware and boxes. Settled them in the backseat.

  “You’re so dead.” She looked sweet, waving at her mother across the lot. Billy laughed, starting his car. “I pick the music.” Her hand swatted his and a groan followed as she tuned the radio to some Etta James. Billy revved out of the parking lot, turning some heads as he went.

  “Admit it, you wouldn’t change what you did today. Sinner.” Billy’s free hand found her leg out of his usual habit. “Made my first church going experience special.”

  “Don’t turn on the waterworks just yet.” She teased back, sucking her cheeks in without looking at him. “Still mad at you.” A smile pulled her forcibly grumpy expression. Billy came to a stoplight. Tugged at a curl to let it bounce so she peered at him. Nose crinkling when she broke to chuckle.

  “Admit it.” Billy gave her thigh a squeeze, vibrant eyes flickering.

  “Make me.” Evie said, facing the road. “Later.” Lips lifted before the light turned green. His Camaro lurched forward.

  “Happy to.” Billy caught the song change. “Hey.”

  “Hm?”

  “It’s that song you’re always singing to yourself.” Billy turned it up. Irma Thomas. “The mushy one.” Her favorite. He played like it was a careless thing, but Evie stared at him. Warming. Reeled in too easily.

   Anyone…

   Anyone…

  “Shocked you paid attention to that.” She offered after a beat.

  “I have to hear it every day I see you, Evie.” Billy snorted, ocean eyes intent on the road. Evie knew better. “Not like I have a choice. Singing and plucking that guitar constantly.” He peered at the trees. “That stuff you were rambling about during the sex high about after.”

   “Sex high.” She scoffed.

   “Was that the fucking making a mess of you?” Billy asked slower. “Used to hate me.”

   “I didn’t hate you,” Evie paused when he shot her an unconvinced look, “we weren’t agreeable.”

   “Agreeable? Okay, now you sound like that prissy Austen chick you like to read.” Billy’s retort made her giggle. These little details he picked up about her that stuck with him. It was true, their relationship used to be in the negative for good reason.

   “I like when we hang out.” Evie shrugged. “Labels. Whatever. I just meant, we should...keep hanging out.”

   “After?”

   “After.” Evie produced simply. Billy twitched amusement at her, turned a corner.

   “Well,” he parked, “I don’t know, good. I guess”

   “Fine.”

   “Great.” Billy cut back in, challenged.

   “Wonderful.”

   “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

   Evie grasped his jacket, shut him up with a kiss. Made the boy breathless there. Billy’s blue eyes glimmered at her. Calm seas for miles. The sun shined into his car. Made the teens glow.

   “Movie?” She unbuckled to get out with him following. “Gotta get this food into my fridge.”

   “Only if I pick.” Billy stood there and let her set boxes into his arms before she grabbed the rest so they could walk up the driveway.

   “Sure. Our tastes align.” Evie peeked back at him with doe brown eyes. “I trust you.” She’d offered that too casually, Billy stilled at the door to watch her unlock it. Blinked.

   That was the thing about them, how nonchalant their hearts beat together. A totally on purpose accident. Billy remembering Evie’s quirks and her reluctance to show certain petals sprouting from her stem for fear the world might not like the colors. Budding to flash them with some fire and vibrancy because she had a boy who encouraged them despite it all. And she teased this incandescent quality back out of him with ease. Made him work to be still and feel the world turn once in a blue moon. Billy gave this little smile to himself without her noticing and followed Evie into the house.

   They hadn’t trusted each other before. And now it was approaching the after. Whatever that meant. Evie glowed to beam at him there and few things were mattering today. New beginnings.

   Billy let himself hope that the after would last.

[kpopblurbs]

6:13pm

Pairing: Chan/Reader Word Count: 2.2k Tags: Lingerie, tail plug, oral sex, face-sitting, begging, riding, sub!Chan, dom!Reader, female reader A/N: I have a few more of my own prompts that I’m gonna slip into smutmas so that I can get myself back on track easier lmao, the next two ill post will be my own so stay tuned for that if ur a fan of Jae’s hands or being mean to Jisung bc those are my main 2 interests lmaoo Smutmas Masterlist AO3 Link

Chan had woken up a few hours after you had left for work this morning, he always missed you while you were at work but today was different. He was needier, not wanting to bother you while you were working he did his best to distract himself until there was about an hour left until you would be home and he just couldn’t take it anymore. He had begun to prepare for when you got home, starting by hopping in the shower and using his favorite coconut and vanilla scented body wash. After his shower he grabbed his collar, gray tail plug, and matching gray cat ears. He made quick work of prepping himself for the plug, not wanting to linger on it and make himself cum on accident. Once the plug was in place he put the ears on his head and the collar around his neck. He looked at himself in the mirror admiring the way the ears looked in his hair before deciding that he was missing something. He rummaged through his lingerie drawer before pulling out the Christmas outfit you had bought him last year. He slipped on the red thong, adjusting himself so that the head of his cock just poked out of the waistband before slipping into the red fur-trimmed skirt complete with a black belt. He tied the matching bralette onto himself before turning back to the mirror and trying to get the santa hat to sit on his head without disturbing his ears.

He smiled once he got it situated before checking the time and realizing you were due home any minute. He hopped onto the bed and got onto his knees, sitting back on his heels. He moved the end of the tail around his leg so that you would see it when you walked in before placing his hands obediently on his thighs. He straightened up as soon as he heard the door open, the telltale signs of you dropping your bag to the floor and slipping out of your shoes echoing through the otherwise silent apartment.

You called out to him, you paused waiting for a response and when none came you figured he must have been sleeping. Deciding that a nap sounded really nice after the stressful day you had at work you headed straight into the bedroom. Opening the door your knees went weak at the sight of Chan dressed so prettily and sitting so obediently on the bed. "Oh, kitten," you said as you walked up to the edge of the bed, "Did you do all this for me?" you asked.

He nodded quickly, “Yes Miss, I was hoping you would take care of me.” he said looking up at you hopefully.

“Cute.” you cooed as you brought one hand up to his cheek holding his face gently while your other hand made its way down to the tail. You tugged on it gently making Chan bite his lip and dig his nails into his thighs to keep himself from squirming around. “You’re such a good kitten.” you said with a smile, “Did you get all worked up putting your tail in?” you asked softly.

“I tried not to pleasure myself too much, Miss, I know I didn’t have permission.” he sad looking down like he was worried you would be upset with him.

“Have you touched yourself at all today?”

“No, Miss, I was waiting for you.”

“Good boy.” you said, letting go of his tail before slipping your hand underneath the front of his skirt. You traced the outline of his cock through his underwear making him twitch and let out a small whine, “I think you deserve a reward.” you said.

“Thank you Miss.” he responded with a happy sigh as you switched to fully palming him through the fabric.

“What would you like your reward to be?” you asked, moving the hand that was on his cheek up to pluck the santa hat off of his head and toss it to the side so you could run your fingers through his hair.

“I get to choose, Miss?” he asked, eyes wide with excitement.

“You’ve been so good, kitten, I think it’s only fair that you get whatever you want today.”

He smiled, “Miss, can you, uhm, can you ride me?” he asked, looking up at you hopefully.

You smiled back at him, "Of course, kitten." you pulled your hands off of him and stepped away before walking to the closet to rummage through your box of toys and pull out the cuffs. "Lay down, kitten." you instructed, moving back to him. You waited until he got comfortable before fastening the cuffs around his wrists and bringing his arms up to connect them around one of the poles on your headboard. He tugged at them gently to test how it felt while you ran your hands over his body, occasionally you used your nails leaving soft red lines all over his skin. 

He let out a soft whine, "More, please." he begged. You smirked and slipped your hands underneath his bralette, you tweaked his nipples making his back arch off of the bed. You moved your hands down beneath his skirt and shifted his thong to the side, admiring the way his erection pushed up the fabric of the skirt. You pulled your hands out from underneath the skirt, setting one on his thigh and the other one on his cock through the skirt. You squeezed your hand around him moving across his erection the drag of the fabric making him hiss. He squirmed beneath you his toes curling from the stimulation, "Miss.." he whined his hips twitching slightly.

"What is it, kitten?" you asked.

"Please, Miss, I've been ready all day."

"Such a needy kitten." you cooed. You pulled back, slipping your clothes off and tossing them into a pile on the floor before climbing onto the bed and straddling his waist. You put your hand on the bed behind you and leaned back giving him a good view of your pussy as you pressed your fingers to your clit.

He watched entranced as you pleasured yourself, "Please, Miss, please I need you please." he whined tugging at his restraints.

"Aw, kitten, you want to be the one to get me off?" you asked, he nodded quickly. You smiled before removing your hand from yourself, you made your way up his body before turning around and placing your knees on either side of his head. "Beg for it." you instructed before reaching down and dragging your fingers along your pussy, collecting some of your wetness before shoving them into his mouth. He whined and sucked them clean before attempting to beg around your fingers, the words tumbling out as a garbled mess. You chuckled before pulling your fingers out of his mouth and wiping his spit off on his cheek.

"Please, Miss, please let me eat you out let me make you feel good please Miss." he begged.

"Good boy." you said softly before lowering yourself close enough for him to reach you. You sighed contentedly as he licked a stripe down your folds, "I'll ride you after you make me cum." you said and he let out a whine. You felt him pick up the pace now desperate to make you cum so he could get his reward. You reached up to flip up his skirt revealing his erection, you ghosted your hand over his length watching the way his thighs tensed at even the slightest touch. He moaned as you wrapped your hand around his dick the vibrations making you let out a soft moan in response. You stroked him slowly, keeping your grip loose and teasing while your other hand gripped the base of the tail moving the plug gently and making him squirm beneath you.

Every noise he made as you teased him pushed you closer to the edge, he was working hard with his tongue switching between pushing it into your entrance and swirling it around your clit. Soon enough he pushed you over the edge, his movements slowed as he worked you through your orgasm, your thighs clenching around his head. You lifted yourself off of him, turning around and going back to straddling his waist you groaned as you saw his face slick with your juices."Such a messy kitty." you said as he licked his lips.

"Do I get my reward now, Miss?" he asked.

"Yes of course you do." you said with a smile before leaning over to the bedside table and pulling a condom out of the drawer. You tore open the packaging and moved back so you were over his dick before slipping the condom onto him and lining him up with your entrance. "You ready kitten?" you asked as you dragged the head of his dick along your pussy occasionally letting him catch at the entrance but not letting him push inside.

"Yes Miss, please, I'm ready, please ride-" he cut himself off with a moan as you sank down on his length. The stimulation was a little uncomfortable so soon after your orgasm but it was worth it to see the way he lost himself in the feeling of you clenching around him.

"What do you say, kitten?"

"Thank you, Miss." he breathed out, letting out another moan as you began to move.

You put your hands on his chest to support yourself as you lifted up and sank back down. You kept your pace steady, not wanting to tire yourself out too quickly. He began to buck his hips up, entirely too lost in the pleasure to remember his manners, normally you would punish him for being impatient but you decided to let him enjoy his reward. "Go ahead kitten, I'll let you set the pace." you said as you lifted yourself barely up off of him and held yourself still.

He looked up at you his pupils blown wide, it was almost like he was confused as to why you stopped until he registered what you said. He smiled goofily before planting his feet behind you getting better leverage so he could thrust up into you. His pace was quick and aggressive, the first thrust almost knocking you over if not for your hands stabilizing yourself on his chest. Almost immediately you could tell that he was getting close all the teasing had been enough to get him more than worked up.

You moved one of your hands to your clit, rubbing quickly as you moved slightly on top of him angling yourself just right so he would hit your g-spot with every thrust. "Miss, can I-" he gasped between moans.

"Not yet, kitten, just hold on a bit longer." you instructed, the added stimulation from your hand serving to bring you to the edge faster than before. He whined, his thrusts slowing down in an attempt to hold back his orgasm, “Nuh uh, kitten, you chose that pace you better keep it up.” you said, emphasizing your words by tweaking one of his nipples. He let out another whine but picked the pace back up, he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes closed, trying desperately to keep himself from cumming. “Good boy.” you praised him before going back to focusing on the feeling of Chan filling you up.

“Please, Miss, please I can’t hold it much longer.” Chan begged, tugging on the cuffs and doing his best to maintain the pace he had set.

“You can and you will, kitten, you’ve been so good today don’t start acting out now.” you said quickly, he whimpered in response. Watching him try so hard to please you combined with the feeling of your hand on your clit and him thrusting into you was enough to push you over the edge. You clenched around him as you rode out your high, he let out a loud whine, his entire body tense as he tried desperately to ignore his impending orgasm. “Go ahead, kitten, you can cum now.” you instructed, he came practically before you were done talking, he cried out loudly as his orgasm washed over him. His hips stuttering as he released into the condom, thrusting up a couple more times before relaxing with a sigh. You lifted yourself off of him and reached down to slip the condom off of him and tie it off. You heard the noise of him tugging at the cuffs as you got up to throw the condom in the trash.

“Miss, kitten needs cuddles.” Chan whined softly, his voice thick with exhaustion.

You made your way back to him and undid the cuffs quickly, letting him stretch his arms before pulling him into a sitting position, “Let’s get you changed kitten, as cute as you look that can’t be very comfortable.” you said. Chan pouted but let you slip the lingerie off of him, you gently removed his plug and pulled the ears off of his head but he stopped you when you reached for the collar. “Still wanna be my kitten?” you asked and he nodded, “Okay, baby.” you said and you ran your fingers through his hair. You grabbed him a pair of underwear and some pajama pants and helped him into them before getting changed yourself. As soon as you were in comfortable clothes Chan let out another whine, he reached out towards you and you cooed at him stepping close enough for him to pull you into his arms. He held you tightly and buried his face in your neck a soft smile resting on his face as he fell asleep quickly.

[eatprayworm]

tsomd/rongzhi animorphs au pt. 2

bless y’all for the kind feedback on my animorphs au!!! ;w; as promised in part one, i have some twitter fics for this ‘verse that i’ll cross-post here. i have three so far, which i call: ding rong & mouth mashing, homesickness is a bonding activity, & and they were shormmates.

so let’s gooooo

ding rong & mouth mashing

local andalite ding rong is able to shift into a human. it's a learning experience, especially bc he now Has A Mouth and wow what do mouths do. he has learned he can eat and drink with mouths, and he likes both very much!

then one day he and wang zhi are like,,,,, idk working on some case together, and they somehow end up in a situation where they need to divert attention away from something. maybe they're hiding and need to conceal their identities. maybe they're trying to make a distraction so ppl can't see some crime being committed near them. idk! 

but cue wang zhi being like we need some way to make this distraction, and ding rong nods and before wang zhi can say anything, ding rong just smashes his mouth on wang zhi's. wang zhi is ??!?!?!?!? WhAT

ding rong is Confused when wang zhi pulls back after a moment of Mouth Mashing bc "i understand that kissing is a good way to make a distraction." (he read this in one of tang fan's novels, bless him.) wang zhi is like "okay but that wasn't a kiss??? you were eating my face and people might have thought you were hurting me or devouring my soul." 

ding rong is aghast. "i'd never eat prince wang zhi's soul :(" and wang zhi is like look. whatever. not the point. 

but ding rong blinks his big eyes with renewed interest. "can you teach me to kiss properly?" 

wang zhi almost drops a file. "what?" ding rong is crowding into his space and wang zhi is suddenly flush like um wow is it hot in here?

“yes, in case we need to do this again,” ding rong says. 

and wang zhi is just Looking at ding rong, who is eagerly Looking back .wang zhi, who has never kissed anyone before in his life unless you count this mouth mashing.....teaching someone to kiss? ding rong really thinks he can do that? trusts him with it.

-wang zhi should say no. he should! it's stupid. but he's feeling warm and ding rong is awfully close, and he did notice that dr's human form is.....pleasant to look at, and so wang zhi nods. 

"okay. later. for science." 

and ding rong is very UWU (but also his own face feels warm and hmmm what kind of silly human reaction is this?)

later they meet up w/ tang fan & sui zhou who ask how the Mission went. ding rong smiles (mouths are good for smiling! he likes smiling. likes when wang zhi smiles in particular) and says "only minor setbacks. prince wang zhi is going to teach me to kiss so next time is better."

-wang zhi is smacking ding rong like shut UP. tang fan is trying to keep his screaming internal (he's....mostly successful) and then he's extending a hand to sui zhou. "pay up!!!!!" and wang zhi has the horror of realizing they took bets on what???? wang zhi and ding rong kissing?

-wang zhi declares he hates everyone in this room, and that they need to get back to work ffs. it kinda helps when ding rong morphs back into andalite form. kind of. bc now wz is even looking at ding rong's andalite form in a new light, and yeah he's gonna get drunk later to cope.

--

homesickness is a bonding activity

wang zhi can't sleep, and so he goes to visit ding rong in the western depot stable that is now ding rong’s lil home. ding rong is resting, long legs folded beneath him, but still awake. his eyestalks perk a lil when seeing wang zhi. sometimes, wangzhi hurries to the stable at night, telling ding rong to morph into a human immediately because there's an urgent issue he needs ding rong to look into. ding rong never complains.

ding rong is starting to stand when wang zhi lifts a hand to stop him. "no need to stand. there's no mission."

ding rong gets settled back to the ground. “prince wang zhi is up late,” ding rong remarks through telepathy. wang zhi shrugs. he doesn't really want to talk about it. so he doesn't. he just sits down on a crate beside ding rong, who regards him curiously.

for a while, they sit together in a silence that wang zhi finds isn't at all uncomfortable. strange, wang zhi thinks, how the presence of a large, only partially humanoid alien is more companionable than his own species. 

when he can breathe easier, he walks to the front of the stable, looking up at the night sky. "can you see your home?" 

there a rustle, then the steady presses of hooves on the dirt. wang zhi doesn't look away from the sky as ding rong sidles up to him, his four eyes following wang zhi's gaze. “no.” 

there’s just a hint of regret.

“but,” ding rong continues. wang zhi startles as a seven-fingered hand comes to rest on his. when he whips his head toward ding rong for an explanation, he finds ding rong is still watching the sky. the large hand curls around his, and both lift to the sky. once wang zhi's hand is lifted as high as it comfortable can, ding rong extends his index finger. wang zhi's index finger slides up ding rong's, joining it. 

“my home is this direction,” ding rong says, voice a soft murmur across wang zhi’s mind. wang zhi swallows, tries to focus.

"i see," is all wang zhi can say. he withdraws his hand first, slower than necessary as he stares at the cluster of stars ding rong pointed to. he tries to envision it, a planet full of ding rongs, large and small. their children, their society.

ding rong's family.

wang zhi knows he misses them.

“prince wang zhi's home -” ding rong says, though he cuts himself off. he knows wang zhi's history. not the details. but ding rong knows that, like himself, wang zhi too was torn away from everyone and everything he knew.

(he also knows that wang zhi can never return. ding rong, theoretically, can. maybe he will one day. wang zhi doesn't like thinking about it. at least ding rong may have a family to return to.)

wang zhi isn't aware he's gone silent until ding rong's apologies start pressing against wang zhi's mind. he blinks, looks up at ding rong, the way his eyes say more than any word could. wang zhi finds himself smiling, just a little.

he takes ding rong's hand, his smaller, shorter, fewer fingers wrapped around ding rong's. and now it's wang zhi's turn to lift their joined hands, out in the direction of guangxi. "my home is there."

ding rong stares in the direction, the eyestalks squinting, like he can see it if he tries hard enough. it's endearing, wang zhi thinks. their fingers slip away, hands returning to their sides. wang zhi glances to see ding rong still looking toward guangxi. after a moment, he looks to the sky, where he had pointed out his home. then to guangxi. then back again. 

wang zhi finds himself smiling.  "i feel like making noodles. would you like to have some with me?"

ding rong meets his eyes, blinks curiously. “noodles? now?”

“yes.”

ding rong doesn't respond with words. instead, his body starts shifting, morphing before his eyes. it's a grotesque process, watching an andalite morph into a human, but it doesn't bother wang zhi as much as it used to. a minute later, wang zhi is looking into two brown eyes as opposed to four green. ding rong wets his lips, and then there's a slight tug of a smile on his handsome face.

"i would like that." 

and so they venture to the depot kitchen together, side by side.

--

and they were shormmates

ding rong explaining the concept of a 'shorm' to his human friends. someone you trust enough that they could put their tail blade to your throat and you'd feel no fear. a close, intimate companion. everyone is like bruh.

at some point in time, late at night in the western depot stable, wang zhi asks if you have to be an andalite in order to be a shorm. ding rong says he used to think so, but now he thinks it's more about the Concept of that bond. wang zhi is like so like, for instance, someone could use a knife.

ding rong says he supposes so, yes. andalites have a sacred relationship with their tail blades, so there's more of a spiritual and emotional impact with using the tail blade than a knife. but he thinks it's roughly the same principle. (in human form, ding rong favors knives.)

and then wang is staring at ding rong’s long, sharp tail blade, like a scorpion, and ding rong is staring at wang zhi’s staring. and something is brewing, something has been for a long time, and now it's threatening to bubble over. 

and then ding rong’s whip-like tail is moving forward.

“look at me.”

wang zhi does: meets ding rong's main eyes, liquid green, as the second pair of eyes are down at him. wang zhi’s heart is pounding, the tail moving ever closer, but wang zhi doesn't falter. ding rong never looks away.

then there's a tickle against wang zhi’s throat, soft as a whisper. he doesn't look down, doesn't need to see to know that the blade is hooked around his throat; a slight shift forward, and wang zhi's life will end in a waterfall of blood. it's not so scary. not so scary at all.

and it's like in a dream; they hang in suspended air, time fallen still. all wang zhi can see is the deep eyes before him, the weapon at his throat an afterthought. he doesn't know if ding rong finds what he's looking for, but he hopes he can see him, here in a drafty stable.

because wang zhi can see ding rong.

the blade retreats slowly, slowly. he doesn't clutch at his neck, doesn't gasp in relief. all he does is watch ding rong's tail settle on the ground, and he finds himself thinking 'come back.'

“prince wang zhi -”

wang zhi stands at once, expression darkening. “goodnight ding rong.”

ding rong's response is a beat too late, but it comes, soft as the steady flow of water, “goodnight, prince wang zhi." 

they don't speak of this night. wang zhi makes an idle note to bring a knife with him when he visits next.

[mfingenius]

Hey so you take request, yes? I would love to see a soulmate, royal Drarry story something sweet, a little sad but with a happy ending

Yes babe, I am always taking requests (a reminder to all of u bc this is the last recent request in my ib so SEND ME SOME!!!! pretty please :D) 

———————————–

The first time it happens, Draco’s fifteen and terrified. He’s only had his soulmark - Harry Potter, written along his hipbone in dreadful handwriting - for about a week, but he should’ve known it wouldn’t take long for people to find out. After all, it is Prince Harry Potter who they’re talking about.

The Kidnappers have him tied to a chair and gagged, though thankfully not blindfolded. The back of his head is bleeding from where they hit him with the hilt of a knife, but otherwise he’s unharmed. It takes two hours for the prince to find him.

When he does, he comes in with his sword and - almost single handedly - harms or kills all of the kidnappers. Show-off, Draco thinks while rolling his eyes.

The Prince takes the gag out of his mouth and unties him, and then gives a blinding smile. He opens his mouth, but Draco beats him to it.

“Don’t think I am impressed by this little display.” He says, standing on slightly shaky legs. “I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.”

And then stomps away without another word, leaving Prince Harry standing in the middle of the room, mouth still open, with a confused frown on his face.

*

The second time it happens, Draco’s less afraid. It has only been a few months since the first time he got kidnapped, and it goes about the same; they hit him in the back of the head and then take him to another location while he’s passed out.

He’s tied to a chair again, and, this time, not gagged, but blindfolded. Draco’s rubbed his wrists raw trying to get out of the ropes by the time the Prince arrives, with more guards this time.

He takes off the blindfold with the same blinding smile as the last time and unties Draco’s wrists. Draco opens his mouth again, but this time, the prince beats him to it.

“I know, I know, you’re not impressed by me saving you,” he has a dimple. “Even if it’s the second time this has happened.”

Draco momentarily forgets how to speak. Heat rushes to his face, and he shakes his head to clear it.

“I wouldn’t need saving if it weren’t for you.” He points out.

“Technically, you wouldn’t need saving if you were more careful about getting yourself kidnapped.” Harry says. Draco glares tightly, and he laughs. “It’s alright, love, I’ll always be here to save you.”

It makes Draco’s cheeks absolutely burn - which drags a lazy, smug grin from the Prince - and Draco struggles for words.

“I - I - you-” He begins, and Harry slips his sword back into his belt.

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks cooly.

Draco glares. 

“This is your fault, Potter.” He snaps, and then walks away.

*

It’s - thankfully - more than a few months before he is kidnapped again. It’s enough time that Draco is sixteen now, and, somewhow, thinks himself more prepared for this. This time, however, it doesn’t stop with a knife-hilt to the head. Draco’s lost most of his fear by then, which means he doesn’t have much incentive for keeping his mouth shut. He earns a bloody mouth and a black-eye for his troubles.

When the Prince comes - not to save him, because Draco is not some maden in need - his smile fades when he sees Draco’s face.

“They hurt you?” he says, running careful fingertips along the edges of Draco’s split lip. It sends a shiver through Draco.

“I’m fine,” he says stiffly. He is, really. It’s no worse than he’s gotten because of fights at school. “Would you mind untying me, oh my saviour?”

Evidently, Harry thinks that if Draco can give him cheek he is fine enough, because he grins and straddles Draco’s thighs - he’s lying on his front this time, with his hands tied behind his back - and gets to working on the knots.

“You know, I’m your prince.” Harry points out. “And your soulmate. You should be treating me with more respect.”

He doesn’t sound like he particularly minds it, though, so Draco only shakes his head and bats his eyelashes, even though Harry can’t see him.

“Oh?” He says. “What is it that you would like me to call you? Prince Potter? King? Wait, no. Saint Potter?”

Harry laughs richly and shakes his head.

“Harry’s fine.” he says. Draco ignores the flutter in his stomach at the sound of his soulmate’s laugh. Harry gets off his thighs, and it takes Draco a moment to realize his hands are free. When he does, he sits up and rubs at them weakly. Harry’s worried frown is back again, and he runs a finger along the edges of the bruise around Draco’s eye. “Let me assign you some guards.”

Draco laughs disbelievingly before he realizes Harry’s serious.

“No.” He says. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Harry frowns.

“Why not?” Draco repeats. “I don’t know how often you get out of the palace, Potter, but us commoners don’t go around with a security detail on our tails.”

“You’re my soulmate,” Harry frowns. “You’re not exactly like everyone else.”

Draco barks out a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and leaves.”

*

It’s an entire year before he gets kidnapped again. He’s seventeen, entirely too busy for this, and wishing he had said yes to the guards Harry had offered. Instead of hitting him with the hilt of a knife to knock him unconcious, he recieves a stab wound to the side.

He’s so weak from the blood-loss he’s not even tied up.

By the time Harry arrives, Draco’s head is spinning, and his body feels incredibly cold. Harry presses a hand to his forehead and Draco whimpers and curls up, trying to get away from the scorching heat that is Harry’s hand.

Draco can’t hear past the ringing in his ears, and his vision is blurry, but he catches sight of Harry’s face and sees no trace of his handsome grin, only a grim frown between his eyebrows. Draco tries to soothe it away with his thumb, but, before he can reach Harry’s face, Harry grabs his hand between his and kisses his knuckles, before dropping it back to the floor.

There are hands around his back and under his knees, and then he’s being lifted up. His head drops back slightly, and there’s a sharp pang of pain from the bleeding wound at his side. He passes out.

He wakes in the palace, a day later, and is only let go after the physicians in the palace approve it. 

Harry doesn’t give him the option to refuse the guards this time.

*

When he’s eighteen, it happens again. Thankfully, it is not nearly as bad as the last time. In fact, nothing happens. He’s tied up again, but he’s not even knocked unconcious. When Harry finds him, the wave of relief is so clear over his face that Draco’s plan to taunt him goes right out the window and he can only smile reassuringly and murmur, “I’m okay,” as Harry unties him.

“This is getting tiring, Malfoy,” Harry teases lightly. He kisses the back of Draco’s neck as he unties the ropes - a liberty he’s been taking lately anytime they see each other, which never fails to make Draco’s stomach flutter pleasantly - and Draco smiles.

“Is it? For you?” he asks, voice dripping with irony. “Because I just love getting kidnapped yearly.”

Harry snorts and finishes untying him. Draco rolls his shoulders but doesn’t immediately stand from the chair. Harry comes back around and stares at him intently. His eyes are entirely too green.

“What?” Draco asks, a little defensively.

“Let me court you.” Harry says.

“What?” Draco asks again, out of surprise this time.

“Let me court you,” Harry repeats. “I want to court you, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco opens his mouth with the full intent to ask ‘are you insane’, but, instead, what comes out is, “Okay.”

Harry grins brighter than Draco’s ever seen him.

*

Over the next year, they go on dates on weekly bases. They kiss, but never spend the night together - it’d be inappropriate according to courting rules, apparently - and, somewhere along the way, Draco finds himself falling madly in love with Harry.

They court for a full year before Harry proposes, and, when he does, Draco doesn’t even think of saying no.

They set the date for may, on a relatively boring spring day. Everything’s perfect. Which is, of course, why Draco has to get kidnapped. Again.

*

“Seriously, love?” Harry complains, when he comes to save him. “On our wedding day? It couldn’t wait?”

“I tried telling them,” Draco says, waiting patiently for Harry to untie him. “However, they were busy next week, so it had to be now.”

Harry shakes his head fondly at Draco’s cheek and kisses along his spine as he unties his wrists. He peppers the irritated skin with small, light kisses that bring a dopy smile to Draco’s face.

“You’re going to cause me to gray early.” He says, frowning as he stands. “Is that what you want? A gray-haired husband?”

Draco laughs and stands, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and pecking the hollow of his throat, the only exposed piece of skin at lip-level.

“I’d love you even if you went grey at twenty two.” He says, tugging on the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. Harry smiles and indulges him, leaning down so Draco can press a small kiss to his lips.

“Let’s hope I don’t,” Harry says with a mock-scowl. “I wouldn’t appreciate it very much. So I’d appreciate it if you can stop getting kidnapped every two seconds.”

Draco laughs. “You’ll always come for me, anyways.”

Harry’s smile softens. “Of course I will, love.”

Draco smiles and buries his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

“My saviour,” he murmurs. It has somehow stopped being entirely sarcastic.

Harry laughs and pulls away. “Come on. Let’s get married.”

He opens the door for Draco, and then smacks his arse as he crosses the doorway, for which Draco sends him an amused glare. Harry gives him a cheeky grin, and Draco can’t quite keep the smile off his face.

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

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Little Lamb

Pairing: vampire!Wanda Maximoff x Reader, incubus!Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: Your simple life in the Sokovian countryside is no more. The events of a single night disrupt the natural order of your world. God is silent. He always is.

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: (oh boy..) violence, blood, gore, sacrilegious imagery, explicit smut 

A/N: This is my entry for @thewritingdoll​‘s freaky500 writing challenge! Congrats on 500 followers! <3 I wish I could have finished this before yesterday’s deadline, especially before Halloween since this shit is so dark aha 

I had a lot of fun with this! I honestly wish I could have done more bc I could write about Wanda and Quentin forever..I feel like I had to restrain myself a bit. I really like how both Wanda and Quentin can see someone’s deepest fears and thought that dynamic would be really cool for an au. 

I was also inspired to write this after seeing this beautiful moodboard by @tohomorii​...you honestly killed it with that Wanda vampire aesthetic. 

using the quote prompt, “He’s covered in blood again. Why is it he’s always covered in blood?” -harry potter and the half blood prince

Sokovia, 17th century.

Dawn breaks with rosy hues and warm, vibrant gold. The soft, streaky clouds of early autumn float lazily by, stippling the sky with pinks and baby blues. Your eyes follow a flock of blackbirds as they flicker across a patch of sunlit horizon in a melodious chortle, climbing and climbing beyond to lofty heavens. You smile.

Your purse jingles with the sound of newfound coin. You’ve had a productive morning at market, having left your family homestead yesterday afternoon for the day’s ride. You’d sold your stock of bread and eggs to Ms. Ryba, homemade jams to old Dmitri, trading your other goods for the groceries mother had asked of you. As a surprise, you’d also purchased a small leatherbound book for your papa, a new piece of stitching work and silks for mama. Gifts carefully wrapped in linen and secured in your saddlebag, a small bit of happiness glowing in the crook of your ribs. Your heart feels full. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

Times have been hard for you and your family. This summer’s harvest had been exceptionally low with heat and droughts. Money has never been a luxury and you’ve been broken with the disciplines of how to bargain hard, conserve, safeguard, and how to put the needs of your parents before your own. 

These gifts will bring favor and approval to their eyes. A godly daughter. Honor thy father and thy mother.  

You tilt your face upwards to the flushed morning, relish the fresh breeze tickling your skin and murmur a quick prayer of thanks.

O God, who hast folded back the mantle of the night to clothe us in the golden glory of the day, chase from our hearts all gloomy thoughts, and make us glad with the brightness of hope, that we may effectively aspire to unwon virtues, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

You ride atop Iryna, your family’s tender Carpathian pony now weighed down with your spoils, and watch the fields of your homeland ripple in red and honey light. Even Iryna seems to sense your good mood as her head bobs with her quick gait. You balance a basket of apples in your lap, a reward that you had purchased for her (and for yourself) after a long day’s journey.

This is a safe country, not at all uncommon for young peasant girls to ride to market alone. Broad plains and cut mountains, you’d passed your closest neighbors about ten miles back, welcome solitude on each homestead.

You like to spend your time on these rides daydreaming of riding in a royal procession as princess, or as cavalry returning from battle abroad. How you would be welcomed back home to your kingdom!

Smoke curls from your cottage chimney as the edge of your family’s property comes into view. You squeeze your heels against Iryna in encouragement and she trots faster, the promise of a waiting breakfast and the smiles of your mother and father urging you forward. 

The smell of hay and manure greets you as you lead Iryna into the barn. You adjust your skirts, woolen tunic, riding cloak, and wimplet before dismounting, careful not to catch anything on your saddle or packages. You slide off Iryna’s bridle and feed her an apple, rubbing soothing circles into her neck as she devours the fruit, snorting happily. 

You give her fresh feed, change her water, quickly removing your tack and supplies and turn her out into the pasture, whispering a promise to give her a thorough brushing later. She gallops away with a swish of her tail. With your arms full of supplies and balancing your bushel of apples, you kick through dust and dirt and enter your cottage.

You’re about to call out to your mama when your voice stops in your throat. The nauseating stench of rot fills your nose, familiar and ominous, like when papa slaughters the chickens for winter stock. Only this time it’s inside your home. 

Your arms go limp and your packages fall to the floor in a muffled thud of wrapped paper. Apples bounce, scatter, rolling through soot and blood. 

Your father lies crumpled, his strong body disfigured in a tangle of limbs. His skull has been crushed into a crown of grey matter and gore, leaking like tears down the planes of his face. His eyes and mouth hang open in a frozen, silent scream, twisted skyward in agony. Protectively draped over your mother in his final moments. 

Your mother is spread-eagled with her throat slit open and her veil stuffed into her mouth, rosary beads crudely circled tight around her wrists in manacles. Her skirts have been torn, bunched around her thighs and you see violet bruises in the shape of hands.

You stumble to the hearth and wretch up bile and water. You heave, vomit, tears stinging your eyes and mucus dribbling down your chin until there is nothing left in your stomach but a wriggling pit of nerves. You can’t breathe, can’t think. Strength evaporates from your body and you sink in front of the cooling embers of the fireplace.

You look to the bodies of your parents. You don’t bother trying to feel for a pulse. You are numb.

You stay beside them until the light outside turns bleak and grey, until your legs ache from kneeling on hard wooden floor for countless hours. Slowly, finally, you wipe your mouth, lift yourself up. 

You find the scythe used to harvest wheat. It feels good and heavy in your hands, makes you feel strong. You make rounds to the rest of the property with it tight in your grip.

Your homestead has been completely ransacked. What livestock that hasn’t been stolen lies dead, slain and swarmed by flies. You’re left with one cow, six chickens, two goats, and Iryna. 

You salvage whatever raw materials you can. You return the scythe back to the shed, unused, the sharp, pristine metal gleaming a cool blue. Part of you had hoped that the intruders still lurked about. Maybe then you could have descended upon them with all the silent wrath of Jael, as she had killed Sisera. 

You whistle a low blast. Iryna trots over to you, nuzzles your hand for another treat. It makes you smile and fresh tears to drip down your cheeks. You wonder if she can sense anything awry, sense that your entire world has been violently turned on its head. You don’t think you’ll ever crave apples again. 

They’ll only taste of sin. 

**

It takes you well into the night to dig two deep holes. The ground is frigid with frost and your breath clouds, fogging the air as you work the soil in an eerie echo of familiar, mundane times. Instead of the sun, the moon guides your hand. Instead of toiling the fields to lay in crops, you prepare the graves of your mother and father. 

Sweat slicks your skin, dirt streaking down your neck and arms. The moon has dipped below the hillside when you finish, plunging you in complete darkness. You thrust the spade into the ground.   

You are not strong enough to carry the bodies of your parents. You will have to tie them to Iryna and bring them here to the fields. But you cannot tonight with the last of the moonlight gone.

And tomorrow is the day of the Sabbath, your holy day of rest. You will have to wait to bury them.

You hug yourself tight. From the cold, from the juvenile fear of death and despair.    

Did Christ not feel this way upon the cross? Abandoned by his own father? Alone? 

And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" that is, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

**

You rise late. Fatigue still sits deep in your bones when you go and collect eggs and milk for your breakfast. You step over your mother and father. Splattered blood, now dry, ring around their heads in crimson halos.  

You spend the day idly. You read the book you had bought for your father, practice your stitching with the embroidery hoop and silks meant for your mother. You heat water for a bath and sprinkle in some of the salts and oils she kept tucked away in her bedroom. You wash away tears and dirt and grime. 

You relish the hot water as it seeps into your tense muscles, watch the milky surface ripple around your limbs. The cottage is quiet and seems to settle around you. 

You were always the last to bathe out of your small family. You would be told to fetch and heat the water, waiting until your father finished, then your mother. By the time it was your turn, the bathwater was always cold and dirty. You were not allowed to change it out as it was costly and a waste of time. You would be quick to rinse.

Now, you sit until your fingers becomes wrinkled and pruny, your skin and hair fragranced with the smell of rose petals and lavender. There is no one to scold you to hurry up. 

**

Iryna watches over you as you pack the last of the dirt over the burials. You’re both exhausted. You finish at midday. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

O God, grant unto us, in this dying life, that peace for which we humbly pray, and hereafter to attain unto everlasting joy in Thy presence; through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

**

You pass your days in solitude and in fear. You wonder if the bandits will return. It makes you pray harder, harder than you have in your entire life. You ask for forgiveness, for protection, for salvation.

The windy autumn nights bring chills and unease. The windows rattle in their frames, the cottage groans, and the goats bleat in the pressing darkness.

Visions of your murdered parents dance behind your eyelids. A crown of gore, blood red tears, suffocating rosary beads. The possibility of specters and demons and Satan’s lurking servants seem to hide behind each darkened corner. The homestead feels too vast, too isolating. You feel yourself slowly going mad, every howl of curling wind making you shudder in your cot.

You ask for companionship. A friend to share company.

**

A young woman’s voice calls out to you. The day is abnormally warm and you’re hanging laundry to dry in the sun when you first lay eyes on her.

She wears a riding cloak and veil, a pretty woolen dress of fine cardinal fabric. Her hair falls in loose waves down to her chest, catching the sunlight in a gleam of muted copper. 

She leads the most magnificent looking horse you’ve ever seen. A towering black Clydesdale that stands eighteen hands high with a glossy coat and tail, powerful muscles moving with every stride. Curiously, you see no saddle or tack, only the leather bridle she uses to guide him.

When you approach her, the young woman asks if you are master of the house. You respond with, yes. She smiles and takes your hands in hers, inquiring if she may stay for a few nights before continuing her journey to the next town. She says she will pay you with coin and labor, with whatever help you may need around the property.

The gesture surprises you. Travelers are few in this stretch of country and your family has never housed one before. But, you think of how turning this woman away would mean another day’s ride for her until she reached the next homestead. As you’ve understood, these trails are no longer safe. Especially for a young woman riding alone.

When you agree to offer her lodging, she blesses you with another radiant smile and kisses your cheeks. It’s enduring, warms your heart and tingles your fingers still laced with her own. 

**

As promised, Wanda helps you with your chores. She does not ask about your family or parents or why a young girl of your age could indeed be master of a homestead all by herself. You do not ask why a beautiful woman is traveling alone. Instead, she carefully listens to your instructions and assists you perfectly.

You’ve just finished gathering firewood when the two of you head to the barn to tend to your few and precious livestock. You muck out stalls, change hay and water. Wanda’s Clydesdale watches you from one of the extra stalls you’ve placed him in. 

When Wanda tries to lead out Iryna, she flinches away and flattens her ears in a shrill whinny. It catches you both off guard and you quickly take the rope from Wanda’s hands before Iryna can hurt herself, placating her with a low hush.

“She does not like me.” Wanda frowns. It’s charmingly youthful, makes her look like a pouting child.

“She is not used to strangers,” you soothe, smiling gently. You return Iryna to her stall and slide the door shut. “What is your Clydesdale’s name?” You ask. 

Wanda’s mood seems to lift instantly and you catch a glimmer in her hazel eyes. “Paimon,” she tells you. “Paimon is friendly to everyone, especially strangers. But, he loves pretty girls most of all.”

Later, you invite her into your home and the two of you relax your tired bones by the evening fire. 

**

The days grow cold and dark. You and Wanda now share the bed of your late parents, bigger and warmer than your own. You awake each glowing morning with her slender arms wrapped tight around your waist, her face buried into the crook of your neck. 

For warmth, you tell yourself.

Her sighs, her moans in sleep stir something in the pit of your stomach.

You’re unsure of what other reason you would prefer.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

**

Wind and rain whistle against the glass panes of your cottage. It is a dreary, bleak morning of storm, one that has forced you and Wanda to remain inside. A fire crackles in the hearth and throws dancing shadows along the walls. You sit and read while Wanda busies herself with housework. It is the first time you’ve felt peace in months. 

She returns from the pantry, setting down her washcloth and bucket with a faint groan. You look up.

Warm, flickering light highlights the skin of her collarbones and cheeks. Wanda has plaited back her hair to keep it out of her eyes, save for a few wispy strands that fall to frame her face.

You swallow, enraptured. 

She catches you staring and her irises seem to glow brighter with firelight. She turns slowly, sauntering towards you with measured, delicate steps. 

“Little one, didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s impolite to stare?” she whispers. She walks until she is flush against you and the fabric of her dress brushes your toes. Without looking away, she eases the book out of your hands and sets it facedown on the table. Your father’s bible.

Your mouth dries up, your pulse hammers. 

Wanda tilts her head, her expression clouding. Then, she sinks to her knees to straddle you completely, arms winding around your neck. 

“Sweet girl, when I ask you a question, I expect a response.”

Her fingers trace your jaw, looking down at you with a stern, flinty gaze. You find your hands holding the swell of her hips, pulling her closer.

“Those who see you will stare and wonder, ‘Is this the man who made the world tremble and shook up kingdoms?’” you recite into the ever closing gap between your mouths. She sighs, high and breathless, feel her overheated body slowly start to move against you. 

Your lips and tongue meet in a tangled kiss. Your first. She tastes of myrtle and honeyed milk. You feel yourself falling when you gently cup this young woman’s face in your hands, kissing and touching and her fingers lustfully twisting into the nape of your neck. Dizzy, ashamed. Your skin is on fire. 

You think of Lucifer’s wings burning away as He hurtled towards earth. 

“I’m so thirsty, my love. Thirsty for you,” Wanda gasps. Her pupils are blown impossibly wide, ringed in red. Her canines glint in the darkness. “Will you let me drink?”

You remember Iryna’s skittishness, Wanda’s beast of a horse, Paimon. No saddle, no luggage. A lone, beautiful woman wandering the countryside with exquisite eyes and sharp, sharp teeth. A devil in masquerade who never intended to leave. 

Slowly, you untie the strings of your dress’s blouse and expose your shoulders, the dip of your chest. Wanda’s lips part hungrily, the shadow of her eyelashes fluttering like feathers. 

She sets you back and runs her fingers over the thin skin of your neck. Her touch is smooth, gentle. Then, she leans over you, keeping you still with a single hand wrapped deliciously around your throat, pressing you deeper into the wooden chair. 

The bite of teeth, then white pleasure. Your vision rolls and you writhe against her in a fit of sighs and otherworldly bliss. Suction, flickering tongue, the obscene sounds of her mouth devouring you whole. You moan, cage her against your body and you hear her chuckle. 

Blood trails down her throat and drips between her breasts when she finally sits back, sated. Half-lidded eyes gazing down at you with more love and adoration than you’ve ever known.

You are her blessed wine. 

Take this, all of you, and drink from it,

for this is the chalice of my Blood,

the Blood of the new and everlasting covenant,

which will be shed for you and for all

so that sins may be forgiven.

Do this in memory of me.

“Amen.” she murmurs with a kiss. 

God is silent. He always is.

**

Wanda pulls you atop her. She cradles your face, smooths back your hair as she looks up at you in the silvered morning light.

“Little one, would you like to live forever?”

The question takes you by surprise, makes you pause. She takes the opportunity to kiss your fingertips, arch her hips into you. It makes your breath hitch, but your mind is clear. 

“As long as it’s with you.” 

She grins, gleaming and bright, the first glimpse of sun you’ve seen in this godforsaken autumn. 

“Oh, my sweet little bride, my princess of night.” she sighs.

“Yes,” you whimper. 

She gazes into your mind and sees what you’ve always wanted.

**

Wanda prepares for the ritual that very evening. Candles, parchment, a single serrated knife. 

She bathes the two of you in the shared tub, washes your hair and cleanses you, a mock baptism with soap and scented oils. Her fingers wander, coaxing pleasure as you lean back against her. 

Finally, she guides you to the bed when the world outside stands cold, silent, watching, at the cusp between night and day. 

Wanda eases your finger between her lips and pricks the skin with the point of her teeth. Her eyes flutter before reluctantly removing it, a string of saliva following suit. You watch the single bead of blood bloom and sign the parchment with a steady hand. 

Cold air brushes your cheeks, skin tingling as if touched, breath in your ear. You feel your vision haze in and out of focus, a foreign sensation overcoming your body. 

Then, a young man appears before you. He’s tall and lean and handsomely bearded, dark hair curling against his forehead, down the tufts of his chest and arms. His eyes, green and glimmering, inspect you carefully, tracing every curve of your exposed skin. You feel achingly vulnerable, pinned. 

Your eyes trail lower and lower until…

You find that he is completely bare. You flush and turn to hide your face into Wanda’s shoulder. She chuckles, gently takes your chin in her hand and tilts your gaze back onto him. 

“This is the flesh of Adam, sweet one,” she murmurs. “It is not shameful to lust. Did God not create man in his own image?”

Wanda reaches out her other hand in offering and the man takes it, lowers himself onto the bed. There is an air of familiarity between the two of them as they share a kiss of greeting. 

“Welcome, Quentin.” she hums. She fondly runs her thumb along his cheek and he leans into her touch. Quentin’s eyes then flicker to you.

“Is this my gift?” he asks. His voice is soft, sweet like honey. Wanda hums again. Quentin smiles warmly, looking you up and down. Your blood ignites.

With one hand on both of your faces, she guides you and Quentin together. He kisses you, surprisingly soft and gentle, cradling your jaw with a touch that makes your stomach flutter. You hear Wanda moving, feel her touch.

Some of the tension wound tight in your shoulders evaporates with Wanda beside you. It encourages you to be braver, bolder as you kiss the incubus back more urgently, touch his skin. Quentin responds with a purr and tangles a hand in your hair, mouthing at your neck, tracing your puncture wounds with a soothing, possessive tongue.

He draws you upon his lap, still pulled flush against him and the heat of him so close to the most intimate part of your anatomy makes you timid, afraid. 

“Relax, lamb.” he whispers. “Enjoy this, enjoy us.”  

The broad touch of his fingers against you makes you mewl in surprise. Wanda hushes you with a soft kiss, takes one of your hands in hers. Quentin’s palm rests on the plane of your stomach, his other easing into where you’re most aching and tight, where a man’s strong touch has never breached. 

He slowly guides your hips upon his hand, until his fingers glisten with your slick and your body starts to warm with the glow of angelfire. 

“Keep going, little lamb,” Quentin urges into your ear. “You know how, don’t you? Those lonely nights when your parents lay fast asleep abed?”

You moan. Indeed you do. Nights where darkness was most suffocating and you prayed that God would turn a blind eye to your lust. 

You shatter with the heat of hell rain. With your body still clenching and fluttering, Quentin lays you out beneath him, his eyes darker, lips turned up into a sly smile. You’re breathless.

He feels cold when he enters you, a sensation you would have least expected from a creature molded by burning sin and Lucifer’s fire. Yet, it pushes your poor, mortal flesh to the thresholds of pleasure and you reach for Wanda, keening. Wanda slinks closer and pushes your hair out of your eyes.

“How does she feel?”

“Like a dream,” Quentin moans, laughing. “You want Wanda and I both, lamb? I can see it in your mind’s eye. So needy, you are. I’ll give you what you want, lamb. You’re doing so good for me.”

**

You don’t remember waking up. A blood moon hangs in the sky.

You feel the lull of pleasure, of Quentin’s lush curls buried between your thighs. Your fingers catch on horns, his velvety tongue forked as it slips into you. 

Your world blurs around you, dreamlike. 

Again, you reach for Wanda and she laces your fingers together with a smile, kisses your damp forehead.

“Is this real?” you moan into her neck.

“As real as your God, sweet one. Are you ready to come home?”

You nod, drowsy with euphoria. You see Wanda take up the silver knife and again, you offer your hand. 

You wince when she slices open your palm, watch the blood seep over and down your arm in great drops. Quentin lifts his head from between your legs, intoxicatingly beautiful with shining lips and heat in his eyes. He keeps his gaze on you as he drives into you again, as your hand stains his chest and neck with crimson, ravishing you again and again. You feel Wanda’s tongue and then the bite of her fangs. 

You arch, reborn with the blessing of immortality and pressed between two demons.

You wonder how many times these two have completed a ritual like this, with Quentin’s powerful body covered in virgin’s blood. 

His blessed cup.

And the Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.

[madokasoratsugu]

have you no idea that you're in deep

[fritz/varg; witch/familiar au]

summary: It is always a war with the elements when he angers, when he despairs, a sorrow so profound even the heavens would bend a knee to. Were he not shackled by the curse, surely his magic could overturn even the scales of Fate itself. 

Silly notions they are - but such fanciful ideas strike Varg, when he sees Fritz; when he saw Fritz drenched in moonlight, saltwater lapping at his calves, clothes wetly clinging to his skin, casting a lovelorn look over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and unbridled laughter. Varg doesn’t peg himself a poet nor a romantic, but it is easy to spin such words when he has spent his life next to such loveliness. 

(in which Fritz is a witch cursed to staggered eternal sleep, and Varg is his steadfast familiar who struggles to understand why he stays, what love really means.)

a/n: uh. yeah! enjoy lol. read on ao3 if u can bc idk if tumblr messed up anything (as always lmao) and happy valentine’s day !

read on ao3 or below

People complain about such trivial things in relationships. Varg’s heard almost every mundane issue there is, and then some.

Being late, not shaving, not replying to messages within the hour. Those people on Yahoo answers and subreddits think they have it hard. 

Boo-hoo, Varg thinks. Try having an amnesiac, narcoleptic witch as a boyfriend.

Said boyfriend is currently leaning against his chest, nibbling on his lip. Varg curls his arms around Fritz’s middle, and Fritz leans his head into the crook where Varg’s neck meets his shoulder. Varg can feel Fritz’s lashes fluttering against his collarbone, and his heart leaps miles until he feels Fritz shift deeper, awake.

Fritz has not spoken much since he woke up. Had only blinked blearily, looked around, confused, before the look in Varg's eye killed the spark of curiosity in his.

This has only happened once before. Varg’s own eyes threaten to shut with the memory, a physical withdrawal from the thought. 

At least this time, he is quiet.

When Fritz is loud, nothing silences him, an unbidden strength drawn from his sadness that breaks more than glass and stone. When he is loud, he cries enough to drown a river, an ocean, himself, a million times over.

It is always a war with the elements when he angers, when he despairs, a sorrow so profound even the heavens would bend a knee to. Were he not shackled by the curse, surely his magic could overturn even the scales of Fate itself. 

Silly notions they are - but such fanciful ideas strike Varg, when he sees Fritz; when he saw Fritz drenched in moonlight, saltwater lapping at his calves, clothes wetly clinging to his skin, casting a lovelorn look over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and unbridled laughter. Varg doesn’t peg himself a poet nor a romantic, but it is easy to spin such words when he has spent his life next to such loveliness. 

Yet long as Varg’s spent by Fritz’s side, he still doesn’t understand how anyone could devote themselves so wholly, so unconditionally to something as fickle as magic.

But to love - maybe, he understood, just a little. It is nights like this when Fritz is soft and warm against him that Varg thinks his fingers are brushing against the concept of it, yet still too far to fully hold on to. 

A fleeting notion that his fear and the even breaths of a curse-induced sleep do not allow him to embrace. 

But tonight, arms full of Fritz, every beat of his heart synchronised to Varg’s, he lets the fear ease and the sensation of his lover pressed against him to wash over him instead, the prickling joy of closeness shared only when both are awake.

Quiet though he is, Varg knows he is upset. Running a thumb down his ribcage, Varg hums questioningly. Another day he would make a joke about having to prod and strum Fritz like an instrument before he offers even a hat for Varg to drop a penny in exchange for his tumultuous thoughts. 

Tonight he will not. Tonight Varg knows to simply wait as Fritz brews, tentative and new and quiet. 

So Varg closes his eyes, settles, and waits. Varg did not use to be so good at staying silent. But decades of experience have trained him well.

Eventually, Fritz tilts his head back. His lip has been worried till it chapped.

“So this isn’t...Brugantia?” Fritz asks, voice so small Varg aches. 

Varg swallows a sigh. Pulls Fritz closer by his waist, resting his chin atop his head. 

“Technically? Yes. But humans have redrawn the borders, so geographically, no.” 

The answer comes easy. Not from rehearsal or practice, but repetition. There is something funny in it, Varg thinks. To yearn and wait and repeat the heartache of succumbing to the ordeal of love again and again; to let yourself fall in love for a night and watch it wither to sleep the very next.

There must be, or why else does laughter bubble anxiously in his chest when Fritz looks at him like the morning sun when his eyelids finally flutter open, when Fritz touches his cheek and calls his name, when Fritz kisses the corner of his lips like it’s been a day and not decades.

“Huh.” Fritz blinks, then pulls a face. “Again?”

Varg laughs, a low rumble that has Fritz pressing his back into with a content sigh. 

“Again.” He confirms, squeezing Fritz.

A smile flitters across Fritz’s face, the first of the night. It is so sudden and breathtaking Varg finds his mind lapsing for the next part of the conversation. 

But Fritz’s smile is just as quick to fold into something more uncertain. He shifts so he is kneeling between Varg’s legs, face to face with the raven. 

Carefully, he slides his hands across Varg’s chest, over his shoulders and neck, threading through his hair. Varg hums, a lower note that Fritz delights in, in the way his fingers twitch a laugh and scratch his nails on his scalp. 

It isn’t until his hands stop at the brim of his boater hat that Fritz’s hands stutter. Tracing the lip with the pads of his fingers until his hands are on either sides of the hat, Fritz chews his bottom lip, lowering his eyes to Varg’s. Curiousity and nerves glint in his eyes, his paused movements. 

Varg dips his head, laughing softly at Fritz’s yelp when the hat slips into his grip. Permission given, Fritz gently lifts the hat off. 

A pair of fluffy wolf ears pop into view, and Fritz’s frame sags with relief. 

“There they are.” Fritz says, scratching the back of one. Varg leans into the touch, tail thumping on the floor, embarrassedly happy. Dust kicks up behind him, a sight that only makes Fritz’s smile grow.

Yet Fritz’s teeth only sink deeper into his lip, eyes still holding a faraway touch, a held back question. Scratches growing slower the deeper he sinks into his doubt, fingers tangling in thick hair and fur alike. 

Tilting his head to press his mouth to Fritz’s wrist, Varg feels his eyelids drop at the thrumming pulse against his lips. 

“I’ve got pennies if you’ll sing.” Varg murmurs, a hand coming up to caress Fritz’s side. He runs a soothing hand from the side of his chest down to his hip, resting on the bone to rub circles with his thumb. 

“We’re not -.” Fritz starts, hand flat on the crown of the hat, pressed tight to his chest. “This isn’t the eighteenth century, is it?”

Varg’s smile turns crooked. “Nope. Try twenty-first.”

Horror overwhelms Fritz’s features, twisting them into a pallid mess. “Twenty - Three centuries? I’ve been asleep for three - ?”

“You’ve woken up four times before.” Varg says. Humour somehow still manages to leak into his callous tone. “This makes it five.”

Words can hardly leave Fritz. He gapes down at Varg, flapping his mouth like a stranded fish. 

Then his arms are thrown tight around Varg’s neck, a vice grip as he flattens his face into Varg’s hair. There’s a stuttering inhale, and just as quickly, Varg is winding his arms around Fritz, pulling him flush against himself.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and the harshness of the truth in the air.

“I’m sorry.” 

Varg closes his eyes, clenching his jaw. Again. This was always the part he hated most.

“I didn’t - Fuck.” The swear is punctuated with a choking sob, a rare display of anger doused out with utter upset. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“To be -,” Varg pauses with a forced laugh, willing it to calm Fritz enough to still the apologies. “To be fair, the curse said you’d sleep, not forget. Hardly your fault he screwed us both over.” 

Fritz vehemently shakes his head, grip only tightening. “I made an oath to never leave your side. A promise.”

“You were.” Varg tries, but his attempt at silencing his partner ends with him being silenced instead, with the sudden chill as Fritz pulls away. Instantly, Varg’s hands fall to Fritz’s hips, holding him in place, the cold uncertainty of departure still looming over him.

Gripping Varg’s face with both hands, Fritz fiercely glares at him. But his anger doesn’t hold up as well as his sadness does, tears already glazing his champagne eyes a dizzying hue.

“I wasn’t. I couldn’t be, when I’d forgotten. Don’t deny that I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t keep my - my promise.” The gravity of the situation sinks in deeper, and Fritz falls forward, as if weighed by it, knocking their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

“...God, stop fucking saying sorry.” Varg says, vicious. Discomfort crawls beneath his skin, anger at the situation and at Fritz unearthing from a place he’d tried so hard to bury. “It’s not your fucking fault.”

Fritz bites on his bottom lip again. It is hard when your lover’s existence can be acknowledged in full only by you. It is harder still when the guilt cannot be absolved by words, only time. 

“I hurt you.” He quietly admits. “I didn’t….I didn’t mean to, but I am.”

A familiar look of guilt paints itself on Fritz’s face. Before he can pull away, run, as he is prone to do - prone to believe he should, Varg hooks an arm around him, drawing a startled yelp from the witch.

“You did. Shouldn’t have followed that shitty witch and got cursed.” Varg says, rolling his eyes. 

“No, I...I shouldn’t have.” Fritz echoes. The lighthearted tone must not have translated, because Fritz is dropping his head, hands curling into the hat instead of Varg’s hair.

“Joke. It’sa fuckin’ joke.” Varg snorts, tapping Fritz’s cheek with his knuckles. “You’re the fool for trusting him, but he’s the asshole for cursing you.”

Fritz looks up, frowning. “I can’t tell if you’re cheering me up or not.”

“Yes.” Varg says, straightfaced.

Fritz squints at him, prompting a smirk out of the raven. That has Fritz pulling the hat back atop his head, squishing his ears into the accessory in the process, earning an uncomfortable grunt from the familiar.

“Ass.” Fritz says, voice stupidly fond. Letting go of the hat, Fritz’s hands come to a rest on either side of Varg’s face. Despite his resurfaced anger, Varg cannot deny the comfort Fritz’s touch brings, the longing it soothes. “...Are you upset with me?”

Varg’s lips twitch at the question. Again, Fritz’s insecurities rear its head. Indignation simmers in Varg’s middle; the thought that Fritz could never hold onto the memory of repeated forgiveness, of repeated rows and shouts they've had over this same topic.

“Yes.” The reply makes Fritz duck his head in shame. Lifting his chin with a crooked finger, Varg looks at Fritz, amused. His reaction was always the same. And so would his answer. 

Maintaining steady eye contact, Varg leans in. “I’m upset that you left on your own. I’m angry that you tried to throw your life away for me. I’m suicidal too. Let me do it next time.”

Fritz’s eyes blow wide in shock, then narrow. “No. I’m the magic one. You’re not taking any hits, not when I'm still here.”

Their eyes lock, holding the stare for one long, tense moment. 

Varg pinches Fritz’s chin, dragging his face closer. Teeth bared, a low growl emits from the werewolf’s throat. 

“I said, no.” Varg snaps. 

A flash of anger that no doubt mirrors Varg’s own crosses Fritz’s face. The fierce overprotectiveness steeped in obstinance - it reminds too starkly for Varg to fold; the same look he’d seen before Fritz left the cottage and returned cursed.

“No.” Varg repeats, louder. “What, being amnesiac and narcoleptic not good enough for you? Should I go get another witch to pull out your teeth and cut out your tongue so you can’t agree to stupid deals anymore?”

Pressing closer until their breaths mingle, Varg grins sardonically. Relishes in the way Fritz only defiantly glares back, champagne eyes gleaming with the vivid opalescence of trapped moonlight. “Know what? Pull up a chair, I'll get some pliers and do it myself. Maybe then you’ll listen to me.”

Fritz leans in, eyes darkened through his long white lashes. His thumb smooths Varg’s jawline patronisingly, pressing painfully into the dent behind his earlobe. “Oh, I’d love to see you try, Varg.”

Another beat of silence follows.

It is times like this that Varg detests Fritz’s stubbornness, the reluctance to allow himself to be protected for once, the need to always stand strong running through his veins in lieu of blood.

Where did that lead them? To a cold cellar with naught but a coffin full of funeral flowers frozen in time.

Yet Varg cannot deny the way his heart had sung at the sacrifice, the distance his lover was willing to cross just for them. The way he’d cried as much as his heart had soared at the act, over the shallow rise and fall of the sleeping witch lain still amongst full blooms.

In the contradiction of what it meant to love and the love he sought, Varg finds Fritz; yet finds himself still yearning more, craving more of Fritz, of that intersection that is a mere side of him.

What was he seeking, really? Validation? Fritz’s reliance? Love? 

Glancing an absentminded thumb over the sore lip, Varg doesn’t know the answer. All he knows is when Fritz’s lashes flutter at the pressure over his lip, moonlight eyes cracking into stars, his heart patters a little quicker, a little more insistently with the need to close the distance between them.

Slowly, Varg leans forward to kiss the familiar indent in Fritz’s bottom lip, eyes slipping shut to the sound of a breathy sigh. Cradling the back of Fritz’s neck as the other slants his head to slot their lips in a more familiar pattern, the kiss is tender, a reassurance translated through the gentleness they share.

When they part, Fritz’s eyes drift shut for a moment. His expression is soft, dreamlike, as if awakening all over again when his eyes slowly reopen. 

Fritz hums, the sound exhausting the trepidation in Varg’s bones. His canines poke Varg when he presses another chaste kiss to the corner of Fritz’s mouth.

“Next time.” Varg promises against the skin. Fritz pauses, leaning back to look at Varg in amusement. “Floss and a door would do the trick too.”

Fritz rolls his eyes. “Sure, and while you’re distracted tying floss to the doorknob, I'll take the pliers and render you toothless.”

Varg fakes a loud gasp, laying a hand on his chest. “But I need them to survive!”

“And I need mine for my spells, so we’re even.” Fritz smiles primly, patting Varg on the cheek. 

“Asshole.” Varg grumbles. 

“Takes one to know one!” Fritz replies cheerily, pecking him sweetly on the lips. It makes any other words of discontent die in Varg’s throat, a satisfied hum sounding in its stead. 

The whiplash speed of which their relationship switches moods could give anyone vertigo - one moment it’s daggers and poison and the next is roses and honey, sticky sweet and soothing for the throat sore from swallowed knives. It’s a fast paced dance, unmatched by any other but a learnt partner who can predict your next step before you even take it. 

He’s missed this, Varg thinks, as he rakes a hand through Fritz’s hair, pushing the long bangs away from the left side of his face. Pinning the hair back, a few loose strands escape his grip, falling across Fritz’s face in a familiar pattern. 

“You should put your hair up again.” Varg says, as Fritz presses his cheek against his arm.

Fritz crinkles his nose in consideration. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll cut it.”

“Nah.” Varg says, slyly smiling. “Give me something to pull.”

Fritz barks a startled laugh, flicking Varg’s nose. “Watch yourself.”

The raven only laughs in return, teasingly digging his nails into the witch’s neck. Fritz jolts at the sudden sensation, and sends Varg a halfhearted glare. Varg only smiles innocently back, languidly tracing the base of Fritz’s neck with his nails, comforting the red lines with the dragging heel of his palm.

Unable to hold back an embarrassingly contented purr, Fritz flops facedown onto Varg’s shoulder. Despite the clear enjoyment, his shoulders are jittering in an effort to keep his giggles down. Cheek to hair, Varg grins. Fritz has always been ticklish in the weirdest places.

“Feeling sleepy already?” Varg teases, even as he does not give up the stronghold he has around Fritz’s waist, even as he feels his words stick to his tongue before they are verbalised.

“No?” Fritz replies, smile evident as pressed against Varg’s shoulder. Varg’s heart trips at the sensation, and trips again when Fritz turns his head to look up at him through his lashes, past his mussed bangs, a curious brow arched. His eyes are sparkling wide and aglow, fetching in the moonlight, undeniably awake. “Would be weird if I was sleepy now.”

“You’ve slept at odder times, love.” Varg sighs. The pet name slips past unbidden, the relief and moonlight reflected in Fritz’s soft gaze loosening his tongue. He flushes immediately.

Meanwhile, Fritz’s spine straightens instantly, face positively lit, an absolutely delighted smile splitting his face in half.

Before Fritz can say anything, Varg is crushing his mouth back onto Fritz’s, although it is less kiss and more a forceful manner to keep the witch silent. To Varg’s chagrin, the leaking giggles from his lover tells him it is a futile effort.

“Love, huh?” Fritz says the moment they part, eyes twin mirthful crescents. His cheeks are a bright rosy hue, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I haven’t heard that in a while.” 

Varg groans wordlessly, headbutting Fritz, who only giggles louder. At that moment, Varg feels his crushed spirits rise as much as they deflate. It is a surprisingly humbling moment that does not last long against his personality. But it happens, and Fritz pounces upon it with a vengeance. 

“Sa-ap.” Fritz singsongs, thumbs tapping to every syllable on Varg’s cheeks. “You’re a big fluffy sap.”

“I’ll throw you out.” Varg threatens.

“Of my own house?” Fritz tilts his head with a wide grin. “You don’t have that power, freeloader.”

“I paid your bills for three centuries. I’ll do whatever I want. Including this.”

Without hesitation, Varg mercilessly begins tickling Fritz’s sides. Fritz’s retaliation is to immediately fall on his side with an uncanny shriek, dragging Varg down with him.

They land in a tangle of limbs and wild laughter, uncaring of the cold where the wooden floor meets bare skin. There’s sure to be bruises forming from Fritz’s windmilling arms and Varg’s prodding fingers tomorrow, and maybe even a floor to repair. 

But tonight, there’s nothing but the two of them and their endless peals of laughter, warmed inside out from happiness and embarrassment, and the knowledge that they are alive, and awake, so, so awake.

Varg stops laughing long enough to turn his head to Fritz, and his smile only grows fonder at the sight. 

Upon the chestnut wood, white hair halos around Fritz, one arm lying across his eyes while the other clutches his middle in a pitiful effort to control his laughs. Shafts of moonlight stream through the blinds, cutting his figure into panes of light and shadow. Yet somehow his entire being appears to be aglow when he lowers his arm, tilts his head to look back at Varg, cheeks a pretty red and grin all teeth; utterly picture perfect.

When Fritz’s eyes find Varg’s, his expression falters, creases into one more somberly sweet, in the way his eyes still smile even as his lips lose their grin. 

Turning on his side, he reaches out across the small distance between their faces, fingertips brushing Varg’s cheekbone. It’s only then that Varg realises his own smile has slipped, facial features twisted into something surely ugly and bittersweet, from the tender way Fritz caresses his cheek.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I want to say it.”

Varg clicks his tongue, but it is less spite and more habit. “Should have known I can’t shut you up for long.”

Fritz only smiles; tucks himself into Varg, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Every touch feather soft and certain - a scream and a whisper of presence all at once. 

“I’m sorry. And I’ll say it as many times as I need to.” 

The inherent sincerity in the whisper makes shivers tumble down Varg’s spine. There is an ache in Fritz’s words that Varg has long since tired of hearing, long since fallen in love with.

Varg only mutely nods. He is not gracious enough to separate the wants from the rights, not gracious enough to shut down the unneeded apology. Not when the pain still hollows in his chest. 

It is a knowledge they’ll both share again in the future. Maybe on another day, maybe not. But it will be shared, either to an awaiting ear beneath the sun or to a silent body bathed in candlelight’s glow.

But the way Fritz looks at him tells Varg the knowledge is already shared, unspoken as it is. 

Varg leans in, pressing a soft kiss on the eye of his other half a soul. Fritz closes his eyes as he does, a silent sigh brushing lightly on Varg’s collarbone.

“Tired?” Varg asks again. This time the question is a tentative murmur, too aware of past proceedings to trust. He lays a hand flat on Fritz’s chest, waiting for the thrumming of his heartbeat to slow, for their time together to once again hasten to an end.

“No.” The rejection is immediate. Fritz’s hand comes to rest upon Varg’s, lacing their hands together backward. “But you are, aren’t you?”

Varg laughs, quiet. “Maybe just a little.”

The witch tugs his familiar downward, shifting just so that they fit neatly against each other, with his cheek upon Varg’s head. Fritz begins carding his fingers through Varg’s hair, scratching lightly behind his animal ears. Varg sinks into his embrace, eyes shutting to tune into the sensations on his scalp, the light hum his lover makes whenever he exhales.

“Then sleep.” Fritz says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

It is a fool’s promise. Varg would be one himself if he believed in it. 

But Fritz’s voice is a soothing lullaby, familiar and gentle like the moon he worships. 

As he slowly drifts off, Varg can’t help but think maybe this was love, to be warm and not so content and worried, but trying to trust in it still; maybe this is where he’s meant to be, gravitating towards Fritz with his ocean of unnameable emotions, yet dreadfully warm all the same, dreadfully heartachingly sweet like his lover’s lips. 

For the first time in perhaps decades, Varg lapses into a dreamless sleep buried in the scent of petrichor and dust; the only sweetness that lingers into his sleep not that of funeral flowers - but the press of Fritz’s lips upon his crown.

Warm, and so very awake.

.

.

.

Varg’s first memory was lying on his back beneath a full moon, the pungence of burnt grass mixed with rain, a man whom the smell clings to, undercut by the scent of a sharp spice.

His face filled with open wonder as he stood spellbound over Varg, eyes wide as saucers and pretty enough to get drunk from.

Then he’d laughed, hands coming together in a singular clap. And Varg’s heart had leapt, the joy shared with him so suddenly and intensely he couldn’t do anything but stare.

“Nice to meet you.” He’d said, voice ringing like a clean bell. Holding a hand out, the cut on his palm was already healing. He’d grinned, unconcerned of the blood that dripped down his arm. 

Dangerous, Varg’s instincts screamed. This man could ruin him with a snap of his fingers. But his eyes were kind and when Varg clasped his hand a profound sense of safety washed over him, certain and tangible as the pool of moonlight they were enveloped by.

“I’m Fritz. Please take care of me.”

.

Varg’s first incantation was one of anger, of morbid desire. 

His words had twisted, turned whiplike and pointed, coalescing into the fire of dying stars - 

Until Fritz slammed a bloody palm down and over the circle beneath his feet, an intermediary of a different catalyst forcing the spell to a fizzling halt.

Both had stared at each other for a long moment, one’s eyes wide with shock, the other in horror and confusion.

Fritz’s lips are pulled in a tight line of what Varg is certain to be held back reproach - the thought makes his hands curl into fists, defensive.

Before anyone can diffuse the situation, the moment is broken by a burning hiss of disagreement between ground pomegranate seed and blood.

“Maybe.” Fritz mumbled, deep in the night when Varg had stopped pacing long enough to sit next to Fritz’s bed, arms pillowing his head. It had taken the better half of the evening for the witch to convince his familiar to return home. The moon had been high by the time he had surreptitiously came out the back forest, only to find Fritz sitting on the front porch shaking a bag of dog treats. Mockery was the best bait, Fritz had said when Varg demanded an explanation. He wasn’t wrong, which only infuriated the werewolf more. “Maybe it was the date I called for you. That’s why your magic is so - unstable.”

Fritz’s bandaged hand played with the hem of his hand knit blanket, staring up towards the ceiling blankly. Varg fought down the itch to reach over and still the movement, scowling.

Seeing his twisting expression from the corner of his eye, Fritz’s expression falls, reaching out a hand. 

“Don’t.” Varg said, ears flattening against his head, voice still with a raw edge to it. 

Fritz hesitated, but only for a moment, before tentatively scratching at the tender spot at the base of his animal ear. Varg bared his teeth, but Fritz only scritched harder, another challenge posed in response to the challenge. 

Were it not for their bond, Varg thought he should bite off his hand. Physical damage did not carry through their unique bond, anyway. 

"I'm sorry for scaring you. I promise it won't happen again." 

All thoughts turn to a standstill in Varg’s mind. Fritz’s hand now strokes his hair, slow and staggered from the mild discomfort of the bandage.

Averting his eyes, Varg's tail flicked back and forth restlessly. "Issokay." He mumbled, the unexpected apology making him feel inexplicably guilty - for burning him, for running away, or maybe for even existing at all; cruel, angry and vicious.

Fritz smiled, rubbing a gentle knuckle into his head, making Varg grumble half-heartedly. "Promise I won’t make you want to run away again, too." His tone is light, but his heart stutters and jumps too quick to pass off as such, a telltale giveaway for his true anxiety. 

And Varg felt it, every staccato of Fritz’s heart - in Fritz’s trembling hands, in his own chest.

It unsettled him in a way it shouldn’t, and Varg disguised the discomfort with a scoff. "I’m gonna come back eventually. Don't have anywhere else to be anyway." Despite his flippant words, his ear gives a telltale flick of nerves.

Fritz turned, an arm tucked under the pillow supporting his head as he looked at Varg sideways. 

“So you'll stay?" Fritz's eyes are bright with hope. The sight twisted Varg’s middle into knots. From irksome, surely.

"What else can I do?" Varg asked wryly, tail swishing. Embarrassment coloured his face, the darkened cheeks visible even in the dark.

Hearing that, Fritz’s hand stopped, the battle between speech or silence clear on his face. Biting down on his lip, Fritz slowly inhaled, pushed himself up. Unwittingly used his injured hand, causing a flinch to run through his arm. 

The urge to reach out was instantaneous, but Varg caught himself at the very last moment, jaw set as he watched Fritz gingerly sit up. Watched Fritz glance at him, at his knees, then back at him again, an indecipherable look hidden in his eye, in his small smile.

"Nice to know my partner isn't going anywhere." Fritz said, and his smile cracked a little wider, a little shyer, but still undeniably brilliant even in the darkness of the room.

And the next heart that skips a beat -

Surely, it had been the witch’s.

.

Varg’s first, and only, regret is listening to Fritz.

“I’ll be fine.” 

Fritz had stood on the boundary between their cottage and the town, feet one step away from the circle of protection. Tall grass and overgrown weeds swayed in the gentle night breeze at Fritz’s feet, welcoming the witch into the night air.

Under the canopy of stars, Fritz’s smile had been as bright as always, as if stolen from the veil of night itself. In his basket were peace offerings - a pie and two bottles of wine. Hidden beneath, a vial of moonshine, a bundle of honeysuckle and a silver knife. 

Friends do not bring magic tools for casting into each other’s abodes. Friends do not take precautions against each other. Varg had said as much, earning a forlorn chuckle from the witch as he packed.

Yet Fritz stayed resolute, looking out the window as his hands paused over his scattered belongings on the table. The night had been beautiful, with skies so clear metal and petal alike glinted in the overabundant moonlight that filled their home. 

And when Fritz looked back at Varg to silently smile, his eyes catching in the light, Varg had found his ability for speech stolen from him.

“I’ll be back soon.” 

At the doorway, Fritz had curled his hand around Varg’s, careful and gentle, cautious. Touched their foreheads together, closed his eyes and inhaled softly, brows slightly furrowed. He had held onto the moment, the wolf, as if trying to etch the instant into his mind; the cool air turning Varg’s skin lukewarm, every wrinkle in Varg’s palm, every scent that Varg has carried since that first night under the full moon.

Varg had not done Fritz the same courtesy of shut eye. Instead, he chose to drink in the vision of the witch; of silver moonlight dancing on his cheekbones, of soft radiance settling into his nearly-white hair and lashes; of starlight that he appeared to be born from, all at once vulnerable and powerful and wished upon. 

When Fritz opened his eyes, Varg found himself unable to speak, unable to think all over again - already drunk from the champagne hue.

“Wait for me.” Fritz had breathed, a plea and a promise both.

For the first time, looking at him, with an intensity Varg had to swallow at.

“I will.” 

.

.

.

In another memory, another time, when Varg was still desperate and the pain of being apart still threatened to tear him into ribbons of pain with every beat of his shared heart, he was alone with Fritz. 

Late sunlight streamed lazily through the open windows, pooling at their bare feet and curling over their forms, curling into every whorl and lock of opalescent hair. The oaken table between them creaked with every shift of weight, every cautiously lifted hand. Day curtains flapped carefreely around their heads, occasionally wrapping itself around their shoulders before gently falling back. 

Fritz sat across from him, beguiling in the heat haze; chin in palm, other hand resting on his upper arm. Cool silks and gauzy fabric arranged loosely around his frame, pulling in the wrong directions; hints of rich sepia skin peeking through, blended soft through the translucent fabric. Eyes half lidded, concentrating only on the board game laid in front of him. 

Almost artful, but mostly a lovely, silken mess. 

In the air there hung the intoxicating scent of spices and myrrh, mingling with the heat, the knowledge that this was different, somewhere farplace and away - away from everything and anything, a slice of something nearly perfect for just them two.

In this lifetime, Fritz had awoken in a cramped room, amidst pillows of every size and shape, the warm scent of the sun and star anise clinging to him. Glided across the room to press a kiss on the back of a freshly tattooed neck, hummed “good morning” and asked no questions. Only looked out the window to the raucous, colourful street beneath and raised a brow, glancing back at Varg.

“We’ve traveled far.” 

Varg had thought of the sleepless horseback rides, the rattling caravans they’d stolen away in, the forest they’d crossed before it gave way to the town nestled deep in a seemingly eternal desert. 

“You wanted to explore.” Varg had smiled, heart lifting at the sound of Fritz’s returning laughter. 

There had been no snide remark, no wry comment on missing out on the sights, only a featherlight touch to the back of Varg’s neck, fingertips gliding over the familiar sigil. 

Illusory sight, to hide, secret. Fritz’s fingers traced the interlaced patterns, and asked no questions. Only drew another sigil lightly over the ink with his nail, too faint for Varg to parse.

A humid wind swept through the room, brushing through their hair and loosely fitted clothes. Varg had not dared to turn his head, not even when Fritz pressed a kiss to his shoulder and encircled him in a loose hug from behind.

He did not apologise. Only peppered kisses across the exposed panes of skin, laughter a touch softer when basking in the midday sun. Lips skimming the sensitive ink, a sorrowful sort of understanding translated in the way he had only lingered upon it.

Varg thinks maybe that is why it is his favourite memory; the memory he revisits when he is cold and leaning against an oaken coffin surrounded by candles, hand sinking as if endlessly into the chilled petals of hyacinths and lilies.

Back in the tiny room, Varg’s hand had rested upon warped wood, hot despite the setting sun. The balmy climate affects even the encroaching night, the golden hour turning all that it touches into something resplendent and warm.

Gazing only at the person before him, radiant in the filtered sunlight. A picture of slipping fabric and contentment, rolling a game piece between long fingers, movements languid in a manner that coerces the world to stop for him.

Outside, the indiscriminate chatter has given way to the buzz of cicadas, the strings and songs of a passing minstrel. Mellow and ascending, the lyre sings bright and full, accented by the hum of Summer heat. 

Fritz has tilted his head towards the window, a smile unravelling like the notes of a love song. Loose silver-white bangs framing his face, long lashes fanning his cheeks. Flecks of dust catch in the light, almost appearing aglow in the slice of weak sunlight he was framed in.

Enchanting even in gold, even in silver. Varg had felt his heart racing, slowing, bursting all at once, a messy emotional cacophony expressed by the minstrel’s low baritone, soaring and powerful to the lyre accompaniment. 

It had been new, it had been young, a dawning realisation that Varg had not understood, still does not. 

Watching Fritz’s features smooth in the light, the heartache eases for the first time, teetering into something sweeter, like a thorny rose in bloom.

So lost in the picturesque scene, it is another belated moment before Varg notices the even pattern Fritz’s breaths had slowed to. But it hurt a little less with the heavy scent of myrrh suffused in the heat, clinging onto Fritz’s skin and shawls, prominent as Varg gathered the sleeping witch in his arms.

Intoxicating, treacherous, the way his lips still curved in a smile as his head lolled against Varg’s chest; body carrying the sharp smell of star anise and sunshine, different and familiar yet adored all the same. 

He belongs here, Varg remembers thinking, sunken in embroidered cushions and silken threads, cheeks coloured by heat and swathed in light.

But he cannot stay. He won’t. 

Lying sideways next to Fritz, hair spilling into each other’s in the small space, tangling his fingers with Fritz’s own, still warm, Varg leans into Fritz’s shoulder, and closes his eyes.

And in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, wishes that Fritz might. 

But stay where, with who, he does not allow himself to wish, unspoken and wretched in his selfishness.

He only wishes, too lovestruck to do anything else more, too afraid to voice it as a promise.

He only wishes, back of neck burning with the ignorance of Fritz’s quiet confession.

Protection, safe harbour -

Home.

[i-rove-rock-n-roll]

Fruit (bc I already named one of these things Eden already like a dummy)

The tongue tasted fruit, sweet and ripe. The smell of sweat hung in the air, amidst the perfume of flowers and summer and rain. It hadn’t rained yet, though the clouds rolled overhead lazily and oh so slowly, there was time enough. The trees were tall, providing ample shade from the sticky heat, and proud of their job, despite being only a few weeks old.

The grass was smooth as the snake slid through, a canopy of blades crossing the curtain of leaves, only allowing the barest hints of sunlight to hit smooth scales.

The snake flicked its tongue again, looking for someplace warm. That is a tree, the snake reminded itself. And that is a bush. It turned its head, curiously. And that is a--

What was it called? The snake couldn’t recall. It knew it was a snake, of course, but it didn’t know the name of this other thing, though it lingered on the tip of its tongue. Animals had names, but they didn’t have names.

Not like the ones that tended the garden.

The snake strolled up to one of them, laying in the grass, green grass tickling their sides in the light breeze.

“Which one are you?” The snake asked, sitting down beside them.

“Eve,” they said amicably, not bothering to move their eyes from the sky.

“Oh.” said the snake, now knowing that this is what God called woman. “That’s a nice name.” Then the snake paused, realizing how rude it’d been, and aimed to correct it. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Eve blinked lazily.

“Lovely weather we’re having.”

“I suppose.” The woman said. “Not much different than yesterday.”

“No.” Said the snake. “I don’t suppose it is.” There was a pause. “It will be though. When the storm comes.”

“What’s a storm?”

The snake flicked its tail. “No idea,” it said. “But I can feel it. It’s coming.”

They sat in companionable silence, staring up at the wisps breaking through the bright blue of the sky.

Then the snake said, “Where’s Adam?”

Eve shrugged. “By the hydrangea bushes, last time I checked.” She stretched, one arm propped behind her head. “He wanted to ask God about colors.” The snake yawned and settled in comfortably, curling against her side.

“Does God teach you much?”

“Adam more than me,” Eve admitted. “I think he’s the favorite.”

“He is older than you, isn’t he?” The snake pondered. “Do you suppose that’s why God talks to him more?”

“I’d be doing an awful lot of supposing in one day if I did.” Eve huffed. “It’s more like God teaches Adam, then Adam teaches me.” The snake flicked a tongue out, curious.

“What things do you learn?”

“I’ve learned that I am woman and Adam is man.” Eve answered, one hand shifting to stroke the snake’s side absently. “Is that alright?” She asked, withdrawing as the snake stilled.

“Yes.” The snake said, soaking up the warmth of her touch. It didn’t much like how cold the air was getting with this ‘storm’. “Continue.”

“I have learned that the white things are clouds and beyond is the sky,” Eve continued. “I have learned the names of the animals. You are a snake. I am a human. I have learned the names of fruit I can eat, and that which I cannot.”

“There are those you cannot eat?” The snake cocked its head, uncoiling itself. “But you are the gardeners. I thought nothing was unavailable to you.” Eve stood, suppressing a yawn.

“There are some.” Then she said, “I’m hungry, would you care for something to eat?”

“Sure.” The snake said. “Could you carry me? It’s warmer up high.” Eve lifted the snake to her shoulders, letting it curl around her torso as it pleased. “Thanks.” The snake said. And they set off.

“What would you like?” Eve asked. “Do you like blueberries? I had blueberries for the first time yesterday, I rather like them. What about strawberries? Or mangos? Or--ooh, have you tried lemons yet? They make your face do funny things--” The snake slid into the branches and looked around, examining each fruit with a critical eye, tasting as it went. Eve laughed when it tried a lemon, the fruit almost the same color and shape and the snake’s eyes. After a lick, the snake hissed delighted.

“It is sour!” It exclaimed. “Just like me!”

“Your venom, you mean.” Eve corrected.

“How do you know what venom is?” The snake asked, licking the fruit again, nibbling at it as best it could. This was a fruit to be savored.

“Adam told me.” Eve said. “He accidentally startled something called a platypus the other day while it was napping. The platypus apologized, and later God explained what it was that made his hand swell up so much.”

“Huh.” The snake licked the lemon again, then turned away, bored. It wanted more fruit. “What’s that?” It nodded.

“A watermelon.”

“And that?”

“Raspberries”

“What about that hairy one?” The snake asked. “The one that looks kind of like a monkey.”

“Coconut,” Eve recalled. “It had the most wonderful sweet juice in the middle, almost like water.” The snake flicked its tongue in acknowledgment.

“And you can eat all of these?” The snake asked, impressed. It hadn’t even tried half of them yet. “Which ones are the ones you can’t eat?”

“The tree in the middle of the garden. The one Adam said is called…” Eve scrunched her nose up, thinking. “The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. I think.”

“What’s the one next to it?”

“The Tree of Life.” Eve said, relieved at how much less of a mouthful this one was. The snake curled down loosely, peering at the tree as they approached

“What’s the difference?” The snake asked, swinging up to nestle in the branches.

“I don’t know.” Eve shrugged. “All I know is that Adam said that if we touched the fruit, we would die.”

“That can’t be right.” The snake’s mouth turned down, in something that was almost a frown. “I just bumped this one.”

“What?” Eve cried, jumping back.

“Watch.” The snake turned and prodded the fruit with its nose. “See?” The fruit wobbled, stem twisting.

Then it fell, landing right at Eve’s feet.

Eve stared at the fruit, then at the snake, amazement lighting her features.

“You aren’t dead.”

“Well,” said the snake, dropping down to the ground. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

“You aren’t dead.”

“Do you think I should eat it?” The snake asked, circling the fruit, oddly fascinated by what was happening around it. “Do you think I’d die then?” Then it paused. “What is death, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Eve, backing away. “But I really don’t want to find out.”

“Suit yourself.” The snake called after her. “I’ll let you know if I’ve died or not later on.”

“Good news, Eve,” The snake called as it slithered through the garden. “I’m not dead.”

“Good to know,” Eve said, drowsily. She had eaten some of every other fruit, then took a nap, quickly bored with waiting for the serpent to return. She turned on her side, getting a full view of a very proud snake.

“Why is there a lump in your stomach?”

“That’s the fruit, silly.” The snake giggled, swaying. Eve blanched, bolting upright.

“YOU ACTUALLY ATE IT?!”

“Yup.” The snake said. “Quite the interesting feeling, I must say.”

“Why is it just...sitting there?” Eve poked at the lump. The snake’s head turned, following her gaze.

“It takes me longer to digest food than you, I think. Probably why I feel so loopy since this fruit is forbidden and all.”

“Huh,” Eve said, her hand falling. “Well, you learn something new every day.”

“In your case, that’s quite literal.” Said the snake, flicking its tongue out. “But I know what you mean. I feel like this fruit is actually living up to its name.”

“What?” Eve asked.

“You said this one was the Tree of Knowledge of God and Weasels?”

“Good and Evil.” Eve corrected. The snake shrugged.

“Well, now I know what weasels are.” The snake said. “I mean, I knew before, but they were really kind of vague, you know?”

“No,” said Eve. “I don’t.” She paused, then, against her better judgment, asked, “Then do you know what Good and Evil are?”

“I think so.” The snake said. “It’s just--It’s hard to explain.” Eve sighed, her eyes closing. The sun was warm.

“Can you try?”

“I can.” The snake admitted. “But it would be easier to show you.”

“Show me?” Eve mumbled sleepily.

“By eating the fruit.”

“You want me to what?!” Eve hissed, all idea of sleep now forgotten. The snake twisted around, amused.

“Eat the fruit.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said earlier?” Eve asked. “If I eat the fruit, I’ll die.”

“I ate the fruit. I didn’t die.”

“Yes, well…” Eve followed as the snake moved, winding a trail back to the tree, fruit bright against green leaves in the noontime sun. “You said you haven’t digested it yet.” Warm earth bent under her toes, leaving an imprint of Eve’s foot with each step.

“I feel like…” The snake said slowly, creeping up the trunk. “I feel like I can see better somehow. Like...this fruit is good for the eyes.”

“Like carrots?”

“Not quite.” The snake shook its head. “Like I said, it’s hard to explain.”

“Does Adam know Good from Evil?” Eve asked. “Since God teaches him many things?”

“I don’t know.” The snake said. “I doubt it. He hasn’t eaten the fruit, has he?”

“I think you’d notice if he did.” Eve’s fingers curled, fiddling with her hair. “And he’d teach me then, wouldn’t he? I mean, Adam teaches me everything.”

“I really couldn’t say.” The snake shrugged. “I don’t know him that well.”

“Oh.” Eve was silent for a moment. “So...if I ate the fruit, I could teach Adam something, for once.”

“Yes. If you want to put it that way.” The snake draped down, looping around, propping itself up on her shoulders.

Eve reached for the fruit, then stopped.

“I shouldn’t…”

“Then don’t.” The snake said comfortably. They sat in silence for a moment, making no move to move from the tree.

“I have a question, Eve…” the snake murmured, tickling her hair.

“Shouldn’t you have an answer? I mean, If you ate the fruit and all.”

“Do you think... “ The snake hesitated. “Maybe…” it trailed off into mumbles, then straightened.

“What?” Eve asked, suspicious.

“What did God say once you were created?”

“That we were permitted to name everything,” Eve said. “Adam named most things, though I suggested the name aardvark in place of his choice of anteater.”

“What else?”

“Well, God said we were allowed to eat what we wished, and we have eaten almost everything here at least once,” Eve remembered the journey through the garden, learning the names of the various fruits and passing them on to the creature before her. “I think we’ve listened rather well so far to our instruction. Well,” she said, thinking back on what God had told them. “So far.”

“And God said be fruitful did they not?” The snake chuckled.

“Yes,” said Eve. “And multiply, though I know not what that means.”

The snake choked. “Ah, well,” if snakes could blush, this one would have. “One step at a time.”

“What do you suggest?” Eve asked. The snake would know, wouldn’t it? It had eaten the fruit, after all. “How do we follow God’s word?”

“I suggest nothing, Eve.” The snake said, not willing to overstep its place, even with the fruit of knowledge sitting rather comfortably in its belly. “You must decide for yourself. Just think on what you have been taught.”

Eve thought.

“I think,” Eve said, beginning to think that she had honestly not used that phrase as often as she should. “I think that to be fruitful, one must eat fruit.”

“That,” said the snake. “Seems very wise.”

“And to be truly fruitful,” Eve said. “Is to eat all fruit.” She stood on her toes, reaching for the one she wanted. “Do you think this one is good?”

“Oh, yes.” Said the snake. “Good for the eyes.”

“I meant ripe.”

“Are you going to eat it now?” The snake asked, curling around her shoulders.

“No.” Eve shook her head. “I think I’ll wait a little longer.”

“You’ll lose your nerve.” The snake slid to the ground, flicking its tongue. Knowledge had made it insatiable. It wanted to find a weasel.

“No.” Said Eve. “I won’t.”

Eve palmed the fruit in her hand, staring at it. Almost gently, she washed the fruit in the lake. Then, fingers dripping, she brought it to her mouth.

With the first bite, Eve’s lips tingled. At the end she was gasping. Then Eve’s knees gave way, sending her toppling--careening--falling into the lake. Water seeped beneath her skin, cracking at the clay, washing away her mind.

For awhile, Eve floated, embracing the coolness that the lake offered, the emptiness it brought, the silence and the shimmering. All this was before.

Eve broke the surface, and for the first time, she saw. Thoughts rushed into her head, ideas, names, knowledge.

Knowledge.

Of Good.

And Evil.

Eve blinked slowly, then wiped the water from her eyes. The sun was beginning to set now, the sky stained with colors Eve had not yet learned.

“Adam must be done learning by now,” Eve said aloud, wringing her hair out into the dirt. “I think I’ll go find him.”

Eve found Adam where she had left him, amongst the flowers, bright and blooming, all reaching up, asking to be noticed.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” Adam said. He blinked. “Eve? Why are you wet?”

“Oh,” Eve looked down at her feet, dripping droplets gathering beneath her toes. “I went for a swim.” Her chest tightened. She had yet to realize she had lied, as she had not yet learned what a lie was.

“Really?” Adam asked mildly. “I didn’t know you liked to swim.”

Knowledge. Her chest tightened again.

“Ah, well.” Eve tugged at her hair. “I fell in, really. Swam a bit after.”

“Makes sense.” Adam nodded. “Would you like to get some dinner with me?”

Eve smiled, relaxed once more. “Of course.”

They walked for a while, plucking fruit from branches and tasting, having their fill of the earth with ease. Yet for Eve, none held the same allure as before.

“Adam?”

“Mhm?” He bit into a pear.

“Teach me the colors?”

So Eve learned of blue, the color of the sky. She learned of green, the shades that made up the grass and the pear in Adam’s hand. She learned of red--cherries-- mixing with yellow--daisies-- to create orange, sharing the name of the fruit and the color of sunset. They went on, walking, talking, and learning.

“Adam…” Eve interrupted. “Would you like me to teach you something?”

“Teach me something?” Adam echoed, confused. “What?”

“You know many things, Adam.” She said. “You taught me of the lights in the sky. You taught me of the plants of the Earth. You taught me the names of animals, and a reverence for God.”

“Yes.” Adam said. “And I have taught you much more.”

“I’d like to return the favor.” Eve touched his shoulder. “If you’ll let me.”

Adam smiled, his teeth lighting her world in a flash before his lips covered them once more. “What would you like to teach me?” He asked, wandering between the trees, thick with leaves and forming flower of fruit. A snake lay within the branches, half asleep.

“Knowledge.” Eve said, plucking a fruit with slender fingers. She spotted the snake and gave it a small smile. “Of Good and Evil.” Placing the fruit in Adam’s palm, Eve closed his fingers around the skin, her hand resting on his a moment longer, warm and waiting.

“Eve?” Adam asked, turning the fruit around, examining it. “What is this?” His features were dull, yet bright, ignorant, yet fearful. He looked at her, wondering what it was that made her so different now, what it was he could not see.

“Eat,” Eve said gently. “It’s good for your eyes.”

And Adam ate.

[dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt]

Are you still awake prompt. With Jesse and Vrox bc I love them

You… love…. my babies…????

ANON THANK YOU SO MUCH IT MEANS MORE TO ME THAN I CAN SAY THAT YOU LIKE MY BRAIN CHILDREN AHHHHH!!!!! I LOVE YOU!!

[Also this prompt could either be taken in a sexual way but I just realized that the only things I’ve written about Jesse and Vrox have been smutty, so instead here’s something Soft so everyone can enjoy!!

The apartment turned into an alien landscape at night. The darkness bleached everything to black and white, stripped away the warm colours and left everything cold and strange.

Jesse watched the moonlight filter through the window. It was easy to imagine each beam as a silver blade, shining sharp enough to cut. The moon was old, old as he was. It remembered. His body remembered, too: his throat burned, his neck ached. Almost a century had passed, and he could still feel his death.

He could have gotten up and slipped away, could have let the shadows melt him into another form. He could almost feel the open wind on him already, a cold kiss to his tortured bones.

But he would be missed.

Vrox’s breaths were as even and comforting as a lullaby. Any other night, Jesse would have curled up against him and felt his heartbeat against his own. He would have fallen back to sleep warm and safe, to wake in the morning with Vrox’s sleepy blue eyes waiting for his brown ones to open. Tonight, he couldn’t. He knew Vrox sometimes struggled to sleep, got caught up in his own thoughts and just laid still until sleep finally came with its tail between its legs.

“Vrox?” he whispered. “Are you still awake?”

A soft noise, not quite a growl or a sigh.

A small smile found Jesse’s face. He traced his fingers down the strong, smooth curve of Vrox’s shoulder. “Vrox. Hey. You awake?”

“I am now,” Vrox grumbled.

Jesse touched his lips to his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Shut up.” Vrox rolled over to face him, his eyes only inches away from Jesse’s; they were tired, lined with bruises, but serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jesse said, not knowing why he said it even as he said it.

“You just woke me up for nothing?”

“Would you be angry if I did?”

Vrox’s eyebrows furrowed. “Jesse. What’s this about?”

I can still feel the rope. My skin hurts. Things have changed, but not enough. It was so unfair. Why is everything so unfair? Why do I have to keep fighting? Am I even alive? Why do I care so much?

“I need you,” Jesse said, very quietly.

Vrox was quiet, too. His expression were so much softer now, the kind of softness only Jesse had ever seen from him. “Yeah, that’s a good reason to wake me up,” he muttered after a moment. He pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Jesse and pulled him up against him.

Jesse pressed his forehead against Vrox’s chest and closed his eyes tightly. Vrox smoothed back his hair, petting it in the way he knew he liked, and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m going to marry you one day,” Vrox told him, voice so low Jesse only heard it because of his hound senses.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Is that a yes?”

“On one condition.”

“I’m listening.”

“If you can get June to be the minister, I’ll marry you.”

Vrox’s chest shook with laughter under Jesse’s hands. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“They’ll kill me, Jess. Have fun getting married to my corpse. I’d still be handsome as all fuck, granted.”

Jesse gave in and laughed as well, feeling a little of the weight lift off his chest. “That was a joke.”

“Damn hoped so,” Vrox said, and his thumb brushed along Jesse’s jaw. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t.”

“You can. I’m here, and I’m sure as hell not going to let anything happen to you.” With painstaking gentleness, he tilted back Jesse’s chin to look in his eyes. Blue, even in the darkness, burning with love. “Sleep, Jess.”

Holding onto that blue, Jesse slept.