#though thicker fabric does help in trapping said air

[bigolechompers]

as someone who has grown up in weather on the slightly colder side i have a pretty good idea what one might want to wear when it gets cold as fuck and what sort of things someone who lives in a cold as fuck area might wear

but i have no idea what constitutes as sensible wear in a hoot as fuck area like what the hell do you wear and why??

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

(Un)Wanted Part 1

Read on Ao3 

(Un)Wanted Masterlist

A child that sees demons in every dark corner is not a child that is wanted.

A child that cries and freezes and mumbles of terrible things is not a child that is wanted.

A child that jumps and startles and hisses is not a child that is wanted.

Unwanted things are purged from the Earth.

So Virgil runs.

In other words: Virgil is an outcast, ostracized and shunned for how he was born, forced to flee an angry mob only to stumble right into a fae garden. 

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: Implied/Referenced torture, child abuse, and self-harm, nothing super explicit. Sympathetic Deceit and Remus. Panic attacks, anxiety attacks. 

Word Count: 11,250

He’s running. He’s running, he doesn’t know what from anymore, all he knows is that they’re chasing him, they’re after him, he has to run—

 He tears through the cold forest. It doesn’t matter that he can’t see where he’s going anymore, it doesn’t matter that the branches reach out and tear at his clothes, at his legs, at his arms. The cuts sting in the cold wind as he runs. His feet slap against the ground, too ungainly to dodge the smaller roots but just quick enough to swerve around the bigger ones. He glances over his shoulder. Can’t see them. Can’t see anything. Run. Run. Run. 

 The trees get thicker. The branches no longer whip past his shoulders, they stick. He has to dodge. He has to swerve. He has to hold his arms up in front of him to block the ones he can’t. His arms sting, rending through the thin tunic easily. His lungs ache. His brain races. 

Demon. 

Evil. 

Bad. 

Cursed. 

 The branches disappear and he almost pitches forward, throwing his arms out to catch his balance a few moments later. The second his arms aren’t in front of his face anymore, he winces. Why the fuck is there a massive clearing right here? It’s so goddamn bright, he has to blink at least three times before he can—

 Oh. 

 Oh, no. 

 No, no, no, no, this is bad, this is really bad—

 It’s a fae garden. 

 It’s golden. It’s enchanting. No plants grow that artistically. The colors are just this side of too vibrant, bathed in the gleam coming from he has no idea where. he can hear it faintly in the back of his mind, calling softly, luring him, beckoning him deeper into the garden. 

 No. No, no no, he has to leave, he has to run away, maybe if he runs a different way he can escape both of them but he has to leave now before something catches him and—

 “Oh, and what do we have here?”

 Shit. 

 His eyes widen and he whirls around to see a figure leaning up against a tree with far too much grace, all long limbs and coiled power. He pushes off the tree and saunters closer, the golden lights gleaming and scattering off the scales on one side of his face. 

 Where the fuck did he come from? He glances around. Are there more? There have to be. Where are they?

 “See something interesting, pretty thing?”

 His gaze snaps back to the—when the fuck did he get so close—fae in front of him, his eyes raking over anything and everything to make sure he’s not looking at his face. He doesn’t exactly remember the etiquette when it comes to fae but eye contact is the actual worst. 

 The fae is dressed like he’s stepped out of some time capsule, black bowler, a black cloak wrapped elegantly around his shoulders, a black suit underneath. Golden clasps hold it together over a shock of yellow. And…how many—six arms? 

 He backs away. The fae keeps coming. Too late he realizes he’s walked further into the fae’s trap, now he can’t get out of the garden. Not without going past the fae. 

 A hand, gloved in that rich yellow, comes up, a single finger tilting his chin up to—fuck why is he so close?

 Close enough that he can feel breath on his face. Close enough that he can see each individual scale, placed delicately next to each other. Close enough that he can see one side of the fae’s mouth curving up the side of his face like a snake. Or maybe that’s just the smirk. 

 “As flattered as I am by your staring,” the fae purrs and fuck, that voice, “my eyes are up here, pretty one.”

 He’s never been very good at responding to flirting in a normal way, mainly because most pick-up lines are terrible puns and he will either be too absorbed in the pun-off or the implications of said pun. And, um, he doesn’t…really get flirted with a lot. 

 But this? 

 He’s in way over his head and he knows it’s not just the flirting, it’s not just the teasing smile, it’s not just the low voice, it’s not just the finger that’s just this side of too light under his chin, he knows it’s fae, but he can’t do anything about it. And if he says the wrong thing—

 The predator in front of him smells blood and pounces. 

 “Didn’t they teach you manners,” the snake chides, tapping his nose with the tip of his finger, and he's caught between the audacity of it and how effortlessly he makes him feel tiny, “about how it’s rude to stare? Though I suppose I can’t blame you, not entirely, now can I?”

 The snake’s eyes go wide, the smirk growing fiendish as his insides turn to mush. He locks his knees quickly. He won’t collapse. He won’t. Even if that one finger under his chin is the only thing holding him up. Also what the fuck is he supposed to do with his arms?

 “My, my,” comes that frustrating purr, “are all mortals this warm?”

 The finger slides along his jaw, the touch leaving an electrifying tingle in its wake. He’s frozen, staring at the snake’s mismatched eyes as the gloved hand comes up to stroke a thumb across his flushed cheek, touch burning and soft. 

 “Or, oh, and now this could be very interesting,” and the snake leans closer, his mouth right up against his ear, “I haven't made you flustered, have I, my dear?”

 The ’s’ in ‘flustered’ comes out as a hiss, and fuck that shouldn’t make him turn to jelly but it does. A low chuckle rumbles through the air as the snake pulls back, grinning like the cat that got the—or the snake that—fuck, his brain’s too offline to come up with any metaphors that would work. Simile. Fuck. 

 The snake’s hand comes up under his chin again, the fabric of his gloves making the drag decadent as he lifts his gaze back to his and he can’t help the whine that comes out of his throat. 

 The snake’s grin widens. 

 “Oh, I didn’t enjoy that at all,” he purrs, “let’s see if I can make you do that again.”

 No, no—

 The snake’s fingers hook and trace three little lines up the underside of his chin and he can’t help it. This time he doesn’t just whine, he tilts his chin back further, much to the snake’s delight. 

 “Lovely.”

 He doesn’t even have to touch him this time. He whimpers. 

 “Is that all it takes, sweetie? Just one word?” The snake’s thumb runs along the curve of his jaw again. “Aren’t you precious~”

 The words sink into him like honey, sweet and sticky, trapping him in his touches, in his voice. The snake hisses contentedly, tilting his chin back and forth. He can’t look away. 

 “Precious indeed,” he repeats, the hiss becoming more pronounced, “if not a little…flushed.”

 He burns warmer, the snake’s smile growing, full of sly mischief and sharp fangs. 

 “You look distressed, kitten—“ prey— “are you…nervous?”

 Goddamnit, he’s not gonna collapse into a puddle. He’s not. Every single ounce of his willpower goes into making sure he stays upright. 

 I don’t! Know! What to do! With! My hands!

 “Oh dear,” the snake purrs again, not sounding at all sorry, “have I rendered you speechless?”

 Yes. 

 “You’re the one that stumbled into my garden, lost little lamb,” the snake hums, “how was I supposed to know you would be so easily disarmed?”

 He tilts his head, mismatched eyes shining. “It seems awfully rude to stumble in unannounced and then not explain the reason for the intrusion, does it not?”

 The smoky haze the snake’s words had cast on his mind tightens, the quiet whispering lure of the garden sharpening into a call. The snake’s touch is still light but his voice has an unmistakable edge to it. The snake’s fingers are a blade perched delicately against his neck. He doesn’t know how to keep it from cutting his throat. 

 The snake chuckles. “You’re too easy, my little mouse. I’m only teasing.”

 That doesn’t make it any easier!

 “Are you too tongue-tied to speak, darling?” The snake smiles, the human side of his face softening just the smallest bit. he might be imagining it. He’s probably imagining it. “That’s alright, I have…other ways of figuring out what you want.”

 Wait, what? No, no thank you. Don’t like that. Huh-uh. Nope.

 “Just…look here,” the snake murmurs, cupping his chin properly for the first time, the amount of contact making his head spin. 

 He’s still trying desperately to keep his legs from collapsing and he knows if he even tries to move he will fall into a puddle at the snake’s feet. But that leaves him frozen, helpless in the snake's gaze.

 “That’s it…just look right at me.” The snake’s eyes gleam as he gestures to his face. “Yes…enjoy, sweetie.”

 Stop it, he wants to plead, let me go. he can’t. 

 “Now, then, let’s see what brought you here…”

 He gasps. The snake’s words reach into his head and pull forward memories, emotions, angry words called out in fits of rage. Fear. Angry clattering of swords and torches swung so close the tips of his hair is singed. Knives, daggers, blood—lifting something from the inside of a chest and carrying it over to—

 He gasps. Years of neglect, abuse, being scorned and turned aside, cursed for the scars littering his body, mocked and shamed for them. Years of whispers behind his back, forced smiles, fake faces. Years of always having to look over his shoulder, think twelve steps ahead, always have a backup plan. 

 He gasps. Tendrils curling into his jaw, wiring it shut, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Tendrils winding around his arms, his legs, his fingers. Holding a knife. Rewriting his memory. 

 He sees himself. His true self. Standing with a pair of battered gauntlets encasing his wrists, his hands covered in blood. More blood splattered across his face, across the three long scratches that threaten to take out his eye. More scars twisting across his stomach, black pooling out from where they refuse to close. A blue glow, sickeningly artificial, emerging from his mouth, from his eyes, winding around him, tying him up. It hurts. 

 He blinks. 

 His eyes sting, he’s crying, when did he start crying? Is he crying? He blinks again, watching the snake’s face swim back into view. The shameless flirty smirk is gone, replaced with a softer look. Another moment and something covers his eyes. He can’t help the frightened keen when his world is thrown into darkness. Is the snake gonna take him somewhere? Kill him? Something worse than death? What’s happening?

 “Shh,” the snake murmurs, no longer dripping with allure, “hush now, darling.”

 He shuts his eyes reflexively, the sudden loss of his vision sending him stumbling. Can he grab? Yes? No?

A hand catches his arm. Another his other arm. Another pressed to the space between the shoulder blades. Another curled possessively around his hips. The hand over his eyes stays firmly in place, gentling a little as the other hands press him against the snake, holding him up. His legs won’t work properly, pulled as he is at an awkward angle. 

 “It’s dark because you’re trying too hard,” the snake murmurs, the quote rolling off his tongue, “lightly, child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.”

 The snake adjusts his grip, pulling him closer. 

 “Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.” Another hand—that’s right, there’s six—cradles the back of his head. “Lightly, lightly—it’s the best advice ever given me.”

 The darkness doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t press. Just lays over his eyes. 

 “So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly.” 

 The snake leans closer, his lips almost brushing the shell of his ear. 

 “Lightly, my darling.”

 He shudders as the air wafts over him. The word ‘lightly’ has been said so much it doesn’t sound like a word anymore. 

 “So you can speak,” laughs the snake—shit did he say that out loud?— “and oh, what a wonderful voice you have.”

 Really? Back to flirting already?

 “Oh, come now,” he chuckles, “is it really so simple? Alright, alright, I won’t fluster you too badly.”

 Or you could not fluster me at all we could make that work too. 

 “But you are right,” comes the voice, still right next to his ear, “about saying a word too often before it stops sounding like a word. You mortals tend to do that with yourselves quite a lot, don’t you?”

 The snake must be able to feel his brow furrow. He continues. “You tend to look at something for so long that you start to create flaws out of nothing. You see cracks where there are no cracks, imperfections when you know perfection is a standard you will not reach.”

 Is…is the snake trying to…comfort him?

 “You do that with yourselves,” the snake murmurs, the hand at the back of his head cupping it gently, “and you must look away.”

 Do what now?

 “Look away,” the snake repeats, “look away and give yourself time to breathe, sweetie. The words are still words, you just have to give them time to rest. You are not as flawed as you think you are. You simply must look away for a moment. And don’t forget to breathe.”

 The hand on the back of his head moves, the others leaning him back a little so it can come around and pat his chest. 

 “Breathe,” says the snake. 

 He breathes. 

 “Good.” 

 So he…isn’t going to kill him? Has he not violated some guest rite that allows the snake to exact some fae revenge? Are mortals not too small and too petty to warrant this amount of…effort?

 The flirting…the flirting he kind of gets. He knows he’s shit at receiving compliments, okay, and he knows the way he responded to that flirting was…entertaining. Probably. Yeah, it definitely was. 

 That doesn’t explain this. 

 “I can hear you thinking,” the snake hums, “I can hear your little mind whirring away in there.”

 Shit. 

 “Why don’t you just relax,” he purrs, drawing the word out in a way that has to be deliberate, “and stay right here?”

 And do what? I’m still standing here your six arms with your teeth basically at my throat and you seem to really enjoy making me not able to speak or do anything. 

 He tries. He tries to take another deep breath and let himself relax into the snake’s arms. It’s not easy. 

 “That’s it, good.” The hand on his chest gives him another little pat. “Well, now I could call you any number of things, my darling, now couldn’t I? But I did say I wouldn’t fluster you too badly.”

 He hums for a moment, he can almost feel his gaze through the gloved hand still over his eyes. 

 “May I have your name?”

 Nope. I know that one. 

 He swallows, his throat dry. his lips are dry too. he licks them quickly and clears his throat. “You may call me V.”

 The snake doesn’t seem too bothered by it. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. 

 “Clever boy. Very well, V, why don’t you just take another breath.”

 V breathes. 

 “Have you caught something new for us?”

 V’s breath catches. Fuck. 

 Another one?

 Judging by the approaching footsteps from behind him, yep. He still doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands. 

 “What fun,” the voice from behind him says, getting closer, “though from the looks of it…I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

 “No, of course not,” the snake drawls, “nothing of the sort. It’s not like I purposefully knew you were meant to be keeping watch today and sent you somewhere else.”

 They have a schedule? How many of them are there?

 “Well, good!”

 The snake huffs and the other one chuckles. 

 “So…” The voice stops just behind him and judging from how high up it is, he’s even taller than the snake. “What have we here?”

 Don’t fall over, whatever you do, don’t fall. 

 “Don’t be greedy,” the second one chides, another pair of hands resting on his shoulders and wow those are warm, “let me see what you’ve caught.”

 No, no, please, let me stay here, I can deal with the snake—

 No such luck. The snake releases his grip except for the hand over his eyes. 

 “There we go…”

 The warm hands turn V around slowly, one hand walking its fingers playfully over his shoulders as they do, across his collarbones, over the hollow of his neck, to the other shoulder. It’s just light enough to tickle, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. 

 “We’ve talked about this,” the voice keeps scolding playfully, “keeping things all to yourself…oh. Oh, look at this!”

 V knows his face is red, he can feel it. Then those warm fingers flutter up to touch just under his chin and tilt and shit he doesn’t want to do this again. 

 “Why are you covering his eyes? You’re not usually the type to…avoid attention.”

 “It’s not for me.”

 “You, doing something that’s not for yourself? Well, now I have to see. Move your hand.”

 No, please don’t.

 “Keep them closed,” the snake murmurs in his ear before his hand lifts. Even with his eyes closed, the light hurts and he squeezes them tighter. 

 “Oh, how could you?” Hands cup his cheeks. “It is a crime to cover up this absolutely adorable face. Just look at you, pretty thing.”

 Judging by the quiet chuckle from behind him and the delighted silence, they’re amused by his reaction which is definitely not to go even brighter and not to squirm a little against the hold. 

 “Well, well, well, isn’t today a lucky day?” Two fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, the soft touch drawing the blush right up to the tips. 

 If his eyes weren’t closed already, they sure as hell would be now. Unlike the snake, this fae didn’t seem to be content to restrict the touch to just a finger or the soft brush of a thumb. No, the new hand trails over his face, lingering in spots that make him twitch, where he’s sensitive. his mouth. Just under his bottom lip. The bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. Tracing a lazy path around his jawline, right under his chin. his face burns, each stroke setting his skin alight, until they blur together and he has no idea what’s actually touching him and what’s nothing more than a phantom sensation. 

 And because his eyes are closed, he still can't see anything. So he has no idea where they're going to touch next and he's in a horrible loop of being startled and making noise and then remembering he really doesn't want to move and getting frustrated with himself for moving and making more noise. 

 “Oh, I could stand here for ages,” the voice coos, “just coaxing more of those pretty sounds out of you.”

 “He has a pretty voice, doesn’t he?”

 Not you too!

 “I think he likes your voice,” the fae in front of him chuckles. 

 “I think so too.”

 “Which one does he like more?”

 No, no, let’s not test and find out, he’s barely staying on his feet as it is, he can feel the snake behind him and sure he could probably grab the fae in front of him too but he’s so close to being a puddle already, please—

 “I must say I was surprised to see you being so hands-on with him,” the voice muses, “especially because you know how…fragile little mortals can be, hmm?”

 “Mm.”

 “Shouldn’t fragile things be treated gently?” The warm hand is back under his chin, cupping it in a firm hold, one of his fingers stroking just the smallest amount. 

 “What if I were to talk like this? In a nice, sweet, gentle voice? Hmm? Would you like that, cutie pie?”

 No, no no no, that voice…despite how tightly V tries to stay, tries to clench every muscle he has in defiance, that sweet, soft voice wriggles its way under his skin and he melts. 

 “Aww, yeah,” the voice teases, “yeah, you do, hmm? Nice…and gentle…good…”

 He can’t help it, he whines. He can’t remember the last time he was praised, and he knows it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s just the fae toying with him, but it works and he hates his traitorous body for responding to it. 

 “I think you like this~” the voice coos, “I think you like the gentle voice, don’t you? Sweet voice…just like you, little honeybee.”

 He…he’s leaning closer, there’s breath fanning over his face, over his neck. 

 “Can’t you just give in to me,” he coos, “can’t you just give in, little cutie pie?”

 V’s lips part. His head tilts. Wait, no—

 “That’s right, little honeybee,” and he’s so close, his mouth is so close, so close, “give in…”

 “Enough.”

 Thank you.

 The fae in front of him laughs and drops his hand away. V stifles a sigh of relief, trying frantically to clear his head from whatever the fuck is happening. 

 “Don’t be jealous,” the voice says, “it doesn’t look good on you.”

 “I’m not jealous.”

 “Come now, you’re practically green around the gills over there.”

 “I haven’t gone yet.”

 “You had enough time before I showed up.”

 “And you didn’t see it.” The snake shifts. “You got him to whine, that’s all.”

 “Oh, I got several more than that, didn’t I?” A finger taps his nose and he squeaks, startled. “See?”

 “Oh please.”

 “Like you can do better?”

 No, no no, stop please, I would like to get off this ride. 

 A rustle. Then little puffs of air over his ear. 

 “Darling,” the snake purrs, and fuck, he’s already keening. 

 The snake chuckles darkly. “That really is all it takes, isn’t it, little mouse? Just…one word?”

 He’s too close. He’s too close and that voice like crushed velvet in his ears and he can hear his fucking smirk and oh god—

 “Squee for me, little mouse,” he purrs, “squee.”

 V squees. God fucking damnit he squees. He covers his face as the snake chuckles in his ear, trying to ignore how much it makes him want to squirm away. 

 “Thank you, my dear,” he purrs, a soft rustle signifying him standing back up. V doesn’t need to look to see he’s got a smug, satisfied expression on his face. 

 “Don’t hide,” the voice in front of him laughs, “why don’t you let us see that pretty face?”

 He’s gonna faint. He’s gonna fucking keel over right here because he can’t deal with this. He knew he should’ve fucking bolted the second he realized it was a fae garden. He knew he shouldn’t have let them chase him this way. He—

 “We didn’t break him, did we?”

 “He’s quite flustered, but no, I don’t believe so.”

 “Come on, cutie. Let us see.”

 “Lower your hands, little mouse, come now…”

 He fights down another whine and forces his hands away. The warm hands stipple playfully over his cheeks and fuck, he can’t help relaxing into it, making the voice chuckle again. 

 “Too much?”

 He nods, furiously squeezing his eyes shut. 

 “You’re the stunnable type, hmm? That’s alright. Someone could have told me.”

 “What, me? How could I have possibly known?”

 “Don’t act like you weren’t enjoying playing with him.”

 “Never.”

 “I thought we were taught not to play with our food?”

 Right. How the fuck did I forget that these are fae and the snake has literally been calling me ‘little mouse?’ What the fuck are they gonna do to me, can I run? No, no way, you’re not supposed to run from a predator, not like this, now there’s two of them, fuck, fuck—

 “Why is he still here,” the voice muses, still tracing his cheeks, “not that I’m complaining about the chance to play with this lovely little thing, but you’re not the type to share your food.”

 V’s…he’s kinda wondering the same thing. 

 The snake doesn’t respond. A gloved hand covers his fist. Something worms its way into his palm and forces his hand open. Gloved fingers lace through his. He presses his hand against a broad chest, hard. Holds it there. 

 The chest stutters. Tenses. Then sighs, letting all the breath out in a rush. 

 “Oh…oh, sweetheart…”

 The snake lets his hand go and he’s caught up in a powerful hug, enough to take his breath away. After the teasing, the feather-light barely-there touches, this…this—

 Warm warm warm warm! Solid alive real warm warm tight help trap? Hug? Hug? Warm warm warm too much too much not enough on fire burning don’t let go oh god please—

 “I should’ve known,” the snake murmurs, “that a prince never could resist a damsel in distress.”

 “You had all of your arms wrapped around him when I showed up,” the prince shoots back, “don’t act so superior.”

 It’s too much. It’s too much and it’s not enough and he needs it to go on forever and he needs it to stop. His breath is coming in great whooping gasps and he doesn’t know what to do. 

 The prince releases him, shushing him softly when he whines, already bereft of the warmth. “Don’t fret, sweetheart, I won’t hurt you.” He doesn't go far, wrapping him in a slightly looser embrace that still burns. 

 Something happens. Something happens and it’s too overwhelming for him to figure out what it is at first but then it stays and it keeps happening and is—is he—

 The prince chuckles as he pulls away, his thumb stroking over the spot on his forehead. “Never had a fae kiss before, hmm?”

 “It’s completely fair that you got to kiss him first,” comes the hiss from behind him, “it’s not like I’m the one that found him.”

 “Well maybe you should have done it before I showed up,” the prince says. “May I have your name, cutie pie?”

 Still no. 

 “You may call me V.”

 The prince laughs, unbothered. Then more darkness. V jerks back on reflex, startled by the contact. Honestly, every single time one of them touches him—

 “You look tired,” the prince says kindly, “rest your eyes for a little. Just keep them closed for me.”

 “Wow.”

 “Oh, please. I trust your judgment. And if he’s that easily overwhelmed…then yes, let’s have you keep your eyes closed for now, hmm?”

 “Are you tormenting mortals without me?”

 How many of them are there?

 He hears the prince huff and the arm around his back tightens. “Yeesh. Should’ve known you’d would show up.”

 “You know better,” the new fae says, “you’re supposed to tell me before you give someone else nightmares.”

 “If you would pay attention for two seconds—“

 “Oh what, like you can talk.”

 “Wow, guys, it’s so cool how you never listen to anything he says.”

 “Why are you here?”

 “What did you do to the mortal?”

 “Oh, shut up—“

 “Don’t tell me to shut up!”

 “Why the fuck is it bleeding then?”

 Oh fuck one of the new voices can double itself up and that is a bad noise and it’s too loud, there’s too many people, he doesn’t know where he is, the prince has left, he can’t hear the snake anymore, he can’t hear anything over the voices, so many voices, too many, they’re shouting now, it’s loud, it’s so loud, it hurts, he just wanted to run away why is he here now he should have run he should have run he just wants to go—

 Something’s touching him. Something’s touching him. Something’s prying his hands away from his ears—when did they get there?—with inhuman strength and he wants to go��

 It stops. There’s silence. 

 For a moment’s he’s terrified that he blacked out, or fainted, or something but then he feels smooth hands covering his ears. 

 “Shh,” says a low voice, lower than the snake’s, calmer, “hush now. You’re alright.”

 Is he, though?

 “Breathe, little one,” the voice soothes, “I know it’s loud. The others can get a little…rowdy sometimes. Just breathe. Focus on my voice.”

 He tries, tries to feel the rest of him. His head aches and he brings his hands up on instinct only to freeze. 

 “It’s okay,” the voice says, “you can touch. You won’t hurt me and I won’t let you hurt yourself.”

 The hands stroke over the crown of his head as he covers them with his own. They’re smooth, slightly cooler to the touch than he expected. 

 “I heard your pain when it was pushed through the connection,” the voice says softly, “and I can feel it now. The noise doesn’t help, does it?”

 He shakes his head, trying to lean as much into the touch as he can. It—it’s so hard right now and he knows this isn’t going to be free, nothing ever is with the fae, but he can’t help it, so much has just happened and he’s helplessly confused and he has no idea what’s happening and he just wants to be safe. 

 “I understand,” the voice continues, “shh, now you must listen. You are alright. You are here, standing in a garden. I am holding you. You will not be harmed.”

 He wants to believe it, he does. And he knows that’s how the fae trap people and he doesn’t want to be hurt anymore, but oh god, he wants to believe it so bad.

 “Can you not feel the flowers under you? Can you not smell them? Even with your eyes closed, can you not see the light?”

 He can. He can, but…

 “It’s okay,” the voice murmurs, “it’s okay.”

 The cool touch burns. It still burns, even though these hands aren’t as warm as the prince’s, nor are they as rough as the snake’s gloves. Why does it burn? It—it’s not trying to hurt him, is it? 

 “I’m just blocking out the extra sensory input,” the voice says, “I’m not hurting you. Though…I must say, you are the first touch-starved mortal I’ve seen in a while.”

 T-touch-starved? He’s touch-starved? Is that why everything burns?

 “Shh,” the voice soothes, “it’s okay. This isn’t a bad thing. Well, not in context right now. It is true that mortals, especially humans, rely heavily on physical contact. It is crucial to their health and development, particularly in infancy.”

 V nods, still clutching at the smooth hands over his ears. Why does this have to be so hard?

 The hands hold him firmly, then something touches his forehead. It’s warm and slightly chapped and—

 Is…is this one kissing him too?

 “It’s okay,” the voice murmurs after he kisses him, resting his own forehead against V’s, “everything is okay.”

 For the first time since god he has no idea when, he breathes easy, something finally releasing in his chest. V hangs on to the hands over his ears, letting the low voice wash over him. It’s like something’s reaching into his brain again, like the way the snake did, sorting through everything and tucking it out of the way and it…oh god it feels so clear. 

 “Do you believe me now,” it asks after a while, “about where you are?”

 He swallows, his voice refusing to come out as anything other than a whisper. “I’m trying.”

 “Why don’t you open your eyes, then,” the voice suggests kindly, “and see for yourself?”

 “The others…”

 “Have stopped yelling, if that’s what’s worrying you,” the voice says. 

 Not what he meant, but that’s good, right? 

 “Here,” the voice murmurs, moving his hands a little bit away from his ears, “see?”

 The ambient sounds of the garden. No yelling. 

 “Nice and quiet. I would hope,” the voice continues, raising a little, “that they would realize why that would not have been ideal.”

 “Be gentle, Specs,” the prince barks. 

 “I am not hurting him,” the voice assures, “although this next part might.”

And in an instant, V’s head fills again. 

Danger danger run run hurt it’s going to hurt they’re going to hurt me, oh god, I knew I should’ve run, no, no, no more please, not anymore, red fire knives sharp things burning.

“Hey, hey, it’s quite alright…” Something touches his forehead—another kiss?—and suddenly he can breathe again. “That was not my intention.”

 Specs, he guesses, doesn’t try and move again, letting him move his head around a bit to hear where he is. 

“Better?” V nods. “Good. You’re doing very well. May I touch your arms, please?”

 The first time one of them has asked before touching him. He nods, warily lifting his arms. 

 “Are these just from branches,” Specs asks, trailing a finger lightly over the—right, the cuts on his arms, “or did someone do these?”

 Nope. Nope. Bad things. So many bad things, no no no no—

 He shakes his head. “Just branches.”

 “Mm.” The light gets brighter behind his lids and he winces. “It’ll be over in a second, have patience.”

 His arms tingle, his skin itching as it gets warm, warmer, warmer, wait…

 Is Specs healing him?

 “It’s a good thing you didn’t try and take a dagger to the branches,” Specs says, “that could’ve been…bad for you.”

 “Better to be hacked at by a few branches than for their poisonous fumes to be unleashed upon you as soon as you slice open their limbs,” the other new voice says, the nightmare voice, right behind him, making him jump, “providing a slow, painful demise…as you choke on your own breath…”

 Specs sighs. “Yes, that is accurate. I am almost finished, one moment…there.”

 Curious, V runs his fingers over his arms and…yeah. The cuts are all gone. he opens his mouth to say thank-you when—

 Wait. Hang on. he’s not supposed to do that. 

 “…that’s better,” he chooses instead. 

 “Good.” There’s a moment of silence. “Are your eyes alright?”

 “Huh?”

 “It’s just…you haven’t opened them. And you, uh, the prince had them covered when we appeared up.”

 “They didn’t blind you, did they?”

 “No.”

 He really doesn’t want to say the wrong thing right now. He turns his head, trying to figure out where the others are. 

 “They’re just talking,” Specs says, “they won’t shout.”

 “What happened to you,” the other one—how fucking many of them are there, he’s gonna fucking faint at this rate—asks, “there was such exquisite pain in you when Snakey pushed it across…and you’re so tense…you need to loosen up.”

 No. No more flirting. Please, no more. 

 It’s not flirting, not really, but it makes his brain freeze all the same. 

 There are hands, warm hands, as warm as the prince’s, under his shirt, on his back, stroking his bare skin and it’s warm, it’s warm, it’s so so so warm and it feels so good but it burns but it’s too much he can’t think, he can’t hear, he can’t breathe—

 “V?”

 There’s a hand on his face. 

 “V.”

 The hand leaves his face. He whimpers. 

 “Stop it, Duke, he can’t think with you doing that.”

 “But—!”

 “Just for a second.”

 The hands are gone. His brain wakes up and he can’t help the soft desperate sound he makes. Wow, maybe he really is touch-starved. Specs shushes him. 

 “I know, I know, V,” he soothes, “I just need to talk to you for a second. Can you do that for me?”

 These have gotta be the fucking weirdest fae I’ve ever heard of. 

 He nods. 

 “Good. Can you hear me?”

 “Yes.”

 “Can you tell me what happened?”

 “What?”

 “How did you find this place,” Specs asks, his voice still tender and soft,“how did you get here?”

 “I was…” he swallows. “I was…running. They were chasing me.”

 “Why were they chasing you?”

 “Did they hurt you?” the duke growls behind him and he cringes. 

 He’s heard tales of fae anger before, and he expected it when he stumbled into the garden. He expected the fiery temper of an outraged fae. He expected stone-cold mutterings. He expected pretty words and sweetly soured threats as he was cursed for all eternity.

 This rage, this dark, hateful fury makes all of those sound like a child’s tantrum. 

 “Wow,” he distantly hears the prince laugh, “that didn’t take long.”

 “W-what’s happening?”

 “I believe the Duke has gone, as you mortals call it, feral,” Specs says, pulling him forward gently by his elbows, “only happens when he gets into a state of extreme protectiveness. It would be advisable for you to keep your eyes closed, otherwise it is likely looking at him in his current state would blind you/”

 Feral. Blind. Protective. 

 I’m so confused right now I’m not even sure what parts I’m supposed to be confused about and that’s confusing me. 

 How…how did this happen? Why is this happening? he just—he was just trying to escape. And then he stumbled into a fae garden and now—

 Now there’s at least…fuck, what is that now, one, two, three…at least four different fae here, two of them have kissed him, and one of them just went feral because of…why, exactly?

 Fuck, what kind of shit is he going to owe them after this? 

 The fae doesn’t do anything for free. Ever. Nothing comes without a demand for payment and they’ve…god, all of them have comforted him in some regard, he’s pretty sure kisses count for something, and one of them just healed him. 

 Out of the frying pan, into the fire. 

 Voices. They’re talking. They seem to be trying to calm down the duke. Specs…that’s right, Specs has got hold of him. 

 He’s…he’s warm too. They’re all warm. Is…is that because they’re fae or…because he’s touch-starved?

 Wow, you know, the more he says it, the more sense it makes. 

 Something wraps around his waist and yanks him backward, away from Specs. His back collides with something solid and he can’t help the frightened squeak. The grip shifts. 

 Oh. It’s a pair of arms. Is…is it the duke?

 “That,” he hears Specs murmur in front of him, “was adorable.”

 “Told you.”

 The chest behind him rumbles and he can hear something wet, like…like slime or something coming from behind him. He thrums with energy, almost making his teeth chatter. The duke clings to him like he’s going to disappear, or like a child would cling to a stuffed animal if a parent threatened to take it away. Trying frantically to calm his breathing, he keeps his eyes shut tight and tries to pat the iron grip around his waist…reassure it, if he can, ground them both. The arms relax, just the smallest bit, the hands—warm warm warm warm so warm—starting to move. It’s like they’re trying to map out his body as they pull him against him, comforting themselves by saying ‘it’s still here, right here’ through touch. 

 His tunic got rucked up when he was pulled back and the hands are so warm. One of them slips underneath and lands on his stomach and he tenses reflexively. The duke rubs softly. Warm. It’s warm. It’s so warm. The duke rumbles contentedly when he relaxes into his hold. 

 “Yeah, I don’t think he’s gonna let go of him now.”

 “It is highly unlikely.”

 “And you said it would be difficult.”

 “Ensuring the duke does not kill a mortal and keeping one are two different things.”

 Hold on wait what now.

 “Oh come on, you know the hardest one to convince is him.”

 “That’s such a flattering description.���

 “Like it’s not true!”

 Ugh, noise. 

 Wait. What’s that? 

 He jerks his head around only to wince when more light—honestly, he’s so not convinced they’re not actually trying to blind him, he hasn’t been able to open his eyes since the snake covered them—shines right at him. 

 “There you all are! I’m surprised you didn’t call me sooner!”

 “How many of you are there?” he mutters finally, only for the duke to chuckle. 

 “About time you got here,” the prince grumbles somewhere to his right, “I’m surprised you didn’t show up with Worry and Wart.”

 “Speaking of which,” the newest voice says and he can practically see the disapproving expression, “what have we said about trying to claim mortals?”

 The duke tightens his grip on him and growls. “Mine.”

 “Now, kiddo, you know better than that.”

 Okay, Dad has entered the chat. 

 The duke grumbles but lets him go. The sudden disappearance of the thing he’d been leaning against makes him stagger. Rude. 

 “Easy there, kiddo,” the new voice says, catching him, “don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself. What’s happened to your eyes?”

 “Nothing.”

 “Well, then, why don’t you open them, kiddo?”

 Because three of you specifically told me not to. 

 “It’s alright,” Specs says from…somewhere, “you will not be blinded if you look now.”

 “He gets a little…overexcited now and then,” the new voice says, “but it’s okay, kiddo. Come on, open up.”

 He’s still a little worried about the prince and the snake but not enough to outweigh the worry about what actively refusing could cause. Plus, this one kind of seems like a leader, so…

 He opens his eyes and immediately shuts them again, wincing and looking down. 

 “Oh, are you hurt? Did something go wrong?”

 “It’s bright,” he defends, and honestly, it was bright to begin with. Now that he’s had his eyes closed for god knows how long, it’s unbearable. 

 “I can fix that.”

 Well, the prince must do something because it dims. It gets to the point where he doesn’t have to screw up his eyes anymore and he blinks. 

 The garden still glows, but it’s nowhere near as noticeable. he registers the flowers first, still bright and perky. his gaze travels up a pastel blue cloak to a pair of black glasses. Oh. 

 He looks…ordinary. Kind of. He looks just like a human except there’s something just off-center. It’s like…a human but slightly to the left. Yeah? We get it. It’s like the human half of the snake’s face. 

 Actually…do they all have the same face?

 He looks around. Specs, he’s guessing, is the one in the dark blue suit, also wearing glasses. The prince has to be the one in the bright white, the crimson sash across his chest and the pieces of gold gleaming. Next to him stands the snake. He also waves. 

 Behind him must be the duke, then. He, well, he really kind of looks like the prince. Except he’s in black and green. And has a mustache. And like…four tentacles. Okay. Sure. At this point, why the heck not. 

Also, they’re all…really pretty. Like…really pretty. 

So pretty that just the thought of those flirty comments said by those faces are enough to make him blush to the tips of his ears. 

 Why are they all so pretty? This isn’t fair. 

 His attention is drawn back when the one holding him beams. “There you go! I knew you could do it. Can I have your name, kiddo?”

 Third time ain’t gonna be the charm. 

 “You may call me V.”

 He throws back his head and laughs. “Alright, alright, that’s fair. Then you may call me Pat.”

 …sure.

 “Have you met everyone else?”

 We’re putting ‘met’ in big scare quotes, right. 

 He shakes his head hesitantly. Pat pouts, looking around. 

 “You didn’t introduce yourselves?”

 “L,” says Specs. 

 The prince and the duke glance at each other. “Yeah, that’s not really gonna work for us.”

 “What? No, it can!”

 “You may call me the Prince.”

 “Ugh. Fine. I’m the Duke.”

 Nailed it. 

 Pat looks expectantly at the snake. The snake just smiles. 

 “He likes being secretive,” Pat stage-whispers, “don’t take it personally.”

 “Eh,” the prince says, “he’ll come around.”

 “Oh no,” Pat says quickly, “not you too.”

 “As a matter of fact,” L says, “I’m afraid it’s just you that has not…joined in.”

 Pat looks around to see the duke nodding fiercely. “Now, kiddos, you know the rules. We can’t just take every mortal we find, we have to help them find their way back home. Especially if they’ve done nothing wrong!”

 So…so I haven’t done anything wrong? Does that mean I don’t owe them anything? Does that mean I…I can leave?

 But where would I go?

 He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to have to run again, away from the swords and the arrows and the hurt, away from all the people that would love nothing more than to put his head on a spike or watch him get pecked apart by birds. They…they hate him, hate everything that he is. 

 And for as much as they’ve all been, the fae, they’ve…

 None of them has hurt him. 

 It’s been so long since someone touched him without the intent to hurt. 

 Hell, one of them did go feral at the thought of someone else trying to hurt him. 

 Would…would it be so bad to stay here? 

 “Oh, come on, you’re the heart! You felt that,” the duke exclaims, “you know we can’t just—”

 “It’s not our job to interfere!”

 “On the contrary. We have indeed ‘interfered,’ as you put it on multiple occasions of a similar kind.” L gestures to him. “This one should be treated similarly.”

 “Ha, see?” The prince smacks L’s shoulder. “Even L agrees.”

 “That doesn’t happen very often,” L mutters. 

 “I, for one, think it’s a splendid idea!”

 “See, Duke does too! And you know how rare it is that we agree on something!”

 “The rules are there for a reason, kiddos,” Pat scolds, “and why are they there?”

 The prince groans. “‘To preserve the balance between their realm and ours and to make sure the two don’t collide,’” he repeats reluctantly. 

 “Exactly!” Pat looks back at him, resting his hands on his shoulders. “This has been a lot for you, hasn’t it, kiddo?”

 Boy howdy, that’s one hell of an understatement. 

 He nods. Pat smiles patiently. 

 “You’ve been through so much, haven’t you,” he murmurs, taking a strand of his hair and twisting it around his finger, “brave little kiddo…it still hurts, doesn’t it?”

 “…yes.”

 “You know what mortals are like, Pat,” the prince mutters, “they’re bad enough with their own kind, and they aren’t evolved enough to know how to deal with difference. You know how wrong that can go.”

 “Do you have someplace to go, kiddo?”

 Does he?

 Would anywhere ever be far enough away?

 Would he even get there?

 The prince sees his hesitation and seizes it. “No, he doesn’t, does he? Why can’t we just keep him? Don’t act like you don’t want to!”

 “We are not keeping him!”

 They’re…they’re fighting. Over him. Over…over whether or not they can keep him. Not whether they want to but…whether they can. 

 Oh. Oh, wow. 

 The prince opens his mouth to respond but—

 Footsteps. He can hear them. Through the trees. He jerks his head around in the direction of the sound. His eyes go wide. No. No, no. Did they find him? How did they find him?

 “Are you sure that little bitch went this way?”

 “I can’t see a damn thing!”

 “Why the fuck didn’t you lock the restraints properly, then this wouldn’t’ve happened!”

 “It’s not like he needs his arms to run!”

 “Then why didn’t you just cut off his leg and call it a day?”

 “Ah! Damn branches, what the hell—“

 “Where the fuck did he get off to?”

 “Told you that monster wasn’t human!”

 “He cursed us, I bet you. He’s probably laughing at us right now.”

 “With any luck, some animal found him and did the job for us.”

 “Hey, what’s that?”

 “What?”

 “Over there, see the light?”

 No, no, no, no, no no no not again—

 He turns and tries to run but runs into Pat, who grabs him tightly. He whimpers, tries to pull away but Pat holds him fast. He looks up at Pat’s face to plead, to—

 —oh. 

 Pat’s gaze is fixed over his shoulder, his face unreadable. He doesn’t move as the mob gets closer and closer. 

 “Hey, hey, stop!”

 “The fuck are you on about?”

 “Don’t you know a fuckin’ fae garden when you see one? I ain’t going in there!”

 “Think he ran through here?”

 “Fae probably caught him. Wonder what the hell those bastards did to him.”

 Pat quirks an eyebrow. 

 “Tore him apart, at least I fuckin’ hope so.”

 “Let’s go back. I ain’t running through there and if we’re lucky the fae got rid of him.”

 “Maybe we should thank them.”

 Loud guffaws trail off into the distance. he breathes a sigh of relief. They’re gone. They’re gone, they’re gone. 

 Pat still hasn’t let him go. He looks up anxiously at Pat’s face to see him clench his jaw. he has to fight the urge to shrink under Pat’s gaze when he looks down. 

 "Did they hurt you?"

 His words are frozen in his throat. The garden is silent.

 "Just nod or shake your head, did they hurt you?"

 When Pat sees him nod, sees how scared he is, something softens. One hand comes up to twist the strand of his hair again. 

 “Change of plans,” he says quietly, “may we keep you, kiddo?”

…h-he can stay? They…they want him?

 The prince whoops as he nods, the duke rushing forward to hug him enthusiastically from behind. Pat giggles, reaching forward to crush both him and the duke in a hug. 

 “Nobody’s gonna touch you again, kiddo,” he murmurs, pressing a—wow, is this, like, a thing? ‘Cause he just kissed his forehead too. Then he frowns and runs a thumb over the spot he kissed. 

 “Seems I’m the last one, hmm?” At his confused look, Pat smiles, holding his hand out. A pastel blue glow appears in his hand. 

 “We all have different colors,” he explains, “as you can…probably guess from looking at us.”

 V nods, still confused as to where this is going. 

 “When one of us makes a claim, it leaves a trace in that color. And you, kiddo,” he says, tapping his nose, “are a rainbow.”

 A…a claim?

 “Even though we didn’t discuss it beforehand…”

 “Pish posh,” the prince says, “he’s staying now. Which means—oh! Oh, we have to get ready!”

 “Oh shit.”

 “How did we miss that?”

 “We gotta go!”

 The duke lets him go with one more squeeze and a smacking kiss on the forehead—okay this must be a thing—grabbing the prince by the arm as they rush toward the other end of the garden. L follows a little more sedately. Pat squeezes his shoulders. 

 “Give us a few minutes, kiddo, then step through the portal.”

 He blinks, still a little taken aback by the sudden whirlwind of energy that just swept through the garden. Pat seems to notice and softens. 

 “This is a lot, I’m sure,” he says quietly, “and it’s okay if you need to take your time, kiddo. But you’re under our protection now. You can come when you’re ready, okay?”

 He nods dumbly. Pat smiles and draws away. As he nears the others, there’s a bright flash of light. So bright he throws his arms up to shield his face. Then it’s gone. When he looks, there’s just a shimmering doorway. 

 “They’re so dramatic, aren’t they?”

 He turns. 

 Right, the snake didn’t go with them. He comes closer, holding out one hand. 

 “Oh, come now,” he laughs when V hesitates, “we have just established we’re keeping you. There’s nothing for you to worry about if you take my hand.”

 He’s got a point, but V would be lying if he said the snake still didn’t make him incredibly nervous. Part of it’s just common sense, part of it is the fact that, out of all of them, he still has absolutely no idea what he wants. 

 Part of it is the fact that he looks like that and sounds like that and seems to really enjoy flustering the hell out of him. 

 “There we go,” the snake murmurs when he says to hell with it and takes his hand, using it to pull him close, “would you believe me if I said I didn’t intend for this to happen?”

 “'Believe me if I said.’ Hmmm. Yeah no.”

 The snake laughs. Like, properly laughs. Throws his head back and has to put a hand to his torso and everything. Oh, oh wow. Of course, it makes him even more attractive. Bastard.

 When he stops, he waves his hand. “Alright, let me rephrase: having the rest of them immediately agree to keep you was not at the forefront of my mind when you first fell into the garden.”

 “Wh-why did that happen?”

 The shake in his voice seems to sober him. The snake laces their fingers together and presses his palm against his chest, as he did with the prince’s. “We are all connected,” he says softly, “at a base level. We can communicate through it if necessary, almost like the telepathy mortals believe in.”

 “So…”

 “When I held your hand against the prince, I pushed.” He pushes his hand a little firmer against his chest, close enough for him to feel the powerful heartbeat beneath. “When the rest of them felt your pain…well. I wasn’t lying when I said they never could resist a damsel in distress.

 “I do wish you hadn’t kept that sharp tongue to yourself for so long,” he muses, “it almost makes me wish I hadn’t flustered you so badly to begin with.”

 A touch of gloved fingers under his chin and oh god, not this again. “Well,” the snake purrs, his eyes gleaming, “almost.”

 V’s able to look at him for all of three seconds before he has to look away, blushing panic mounting. 

 “Is it truly so easy, little mouse?” the snake laughs, “must I simply look at you in a certain way and you’ll fluster?”

 “Enough,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. 

 “You can open your eyes now, darling,” the snake says, still chuckling slightly, “you needn’t worry.”

 “Eye contact is the actual worst and you will not convince me otherwise,” he mutters. 

 He gives him a gentle smile and taps the underside of his chin. “Then I suppose me asking you to keep them closed was a good thing, hmm?”

 There…there’s something else bothering him. V opens his mouth to ask but…it’s kind of an invasive question. And he really doesn’t want to piss him off. Especially not now. 

 “It’s going to be an awfully tiring existence if you can’t work up the courage to ask anything, little mouse,” comes the gentle encouragement.

 “Wh…why did the prince say you were the hardest to convince?”

“Did you happen to catch when the duke called Pat the ‘heart?’” When he nods, he smiles. “Clever boy. It’s an apt description. Each one of us has a…different function. I am the Gatekeeper.”

 Gatekeeper. 

 “It is my job to ensure the barrier between our two races is held,” the snake continues, “to be cautious…about any sort of interaction. As you might have been able to guess, the others are…much more receptive to humans than perhaps they should be. The rules are in place for a reason, and I am the one who helped put them there. This is not the first time they have tried to keep a mortal. And the prince is right, I am the hardest to convince. I have never let them keep a mortal before, not like this, despite whatever claims the others may have made, despite how they try and use those claims to influence me.”

 The snake pulls him closer still, the hand holding his stroking it gently. “But I found you first. And my claim is the strongest.”

 Oh. 

 Oh. 

 “…you wanted to keep me,” he breathes. 

 The snake softens for perhaps the first time since he laid his hand over his eyes. 

 “Why do you look so scared?”

 Really? Are you absolutely fucking serious?

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs, still cupping his hand against his chest, “none of us are.”

 “Yes, and I’m sure that one sentence is supposed to counteract the rest of the incredibly overwhelming things I’ve had to deal with today. How incredibly irrational of me to believe otherwise.”

 “There’s that wonderfully sharp tongue again.” He tilts his head. “Perhaps that was the wrong word…you look unsure.”

 V huffs. “Because there’s nothing about this to be unsure of.”

 V knows tearing himself away from him probably comes off as rude. V knows turning his back is probably a bad idea. V knows burying his hands in his hair is going to hurt. 

 V does it anyway. 

 “V—“

 “Why do you want to keep me,” he blurts out before the snake can finish. Ge whirls around to see the snake freeze, reaching for him. “Why?”

 The snake frowns. “Does it matter?”

 “Of course it fucking matters, I don’t know what you want and I can’t—if I don’t know what you want then I can’t do anything and nothing the fae ever does is for free and I don’t know what you want and I—I don’t know how this happened and I just wanted to run away—“

 Oh god, oh god, he’s yelling, fuck fuck fuck he fucked up—

 Why is he on the ground? When did that happen?

 Right. Huddle. Small. Hedgehog. Scary things. Be as small as you can because scary things, why are scary things?

 Fae. Right, he’s yelling at a fae. 

 Oh, fuck he’s yelling at a fae. 

 Small. Just be small. Hide. Just hide and be small. 

 It’s cold. It’s so cold. 

 Then it isn’t. 

 “Shh…shh…there, there, don’t be so afraid, I’m not here to be cruel to you, shh…shh…” 

 “W-wha—“

 “Shh…breathe first,” the snake murmurs, his hand hovering over his shoulder, “I’m not going to touch you until you can breathe properly. Nice and slow, come now…”

 The dark clouds keep rolling, thicker and thicker, building and building until they crash so loudly in his ears. V presses his fists to his ears, hearing voices doubling, tripling, yelling, screaming, they hate you they hate you you’re pathetic you’re cursed they hate you—

 “I’m right here, I won’t let anything hurt you…”

 Lighthing flashes and the voices howl. V whimpers, curling in on himself. 

 “You’re overwhelmed, little mouse, I know…just breathe and then we can figure everything out…”

 Something…something’s covering him. There’s something covering him. He opens his mouth to ask wha—

 “Shh-shh-shh, don’t try to speak just yet, you’re still shaking.”

 The snake…the snake is covering him. The clouds lighten and he…he can breathe again. 

It’s…it’s raining? Is that why his face feels wet?

 “…oh, oh you’re crying, my darling…shh…is it too much?”

 It hurts. He’s so cold. He’s so cold, the snake is so warm. 

 “As I’m sure L would tell you, crying is the mortal response to any situation that’s overwhelming. It’s just you trying to cope with everything, let it out, sweetie, it’s okay…”

 V’s brain comes back online as the snake reaches out to tenderly wipe his cheeks, catching his tears as they fall. He’s looking at his hand, brow furrowed, leaving V to stare helplessly at his face. It’s so much easier without eye contact, so much easier. 

 The snake holds him firmly, crouched as they are on the ground. It…it feels…safe?

 He catches V’s gaze and tilts his head. He…he can’t look away but he’s not…the snake’s not doing whatever it was he was doing before. He just looks…soft. 

 “What is it, darling?”

 “What,” he croaks, “do you want?”

 “You are small,” he says, “broken, hated…lost, abandoned, persecuted.”

 He wipes away another tear. 

 “And you are kind. Hopelessly and relentlessly kind.” He lightly pats his chest. “When I looked to see what you wanted, when you stumbled into the garden, I saw pain. I saw heartbreak. And you…you didn’t want vengeance, no, you just wanted it to stop.”

 He shifts his weight, still holding him firm. 

 “You are lost in darkness and you are so afraid, my darling…so afraid,” he whispers, “you want to be safe, don’t you?”

 he nods. 

 “Is it so hard to believe that I want you safe? So hard to believe—” he catches another tear on his thumb— “that you are wanted?”

 “What use is a broken mortal?”

 “Why must a wanted thing have a use?”

 “What fae makes a useless trade?”

 “What mortal doesn’t accept a free gift?”

 “What fae gives something for free?”

 “What hurt caused this suspicion?”

 V’s mouth clamps shut. The snake stares at him, unblinking, unyielding. 

 “If I weren’t fae,” he says finally, “would you still be this afraid?”

 “…yes.”

 The snake inhales sharply. his eyes widen when he sees a rising tide of terrible fury, there for just a second, just a second, before the snake breathes out and it disappears. 

And that, that split-second of rage, is enough. Enough to reach deep into the anxious mess of his brain and start to say maybe, just maybe, he might actually be safe. If…if the wrath of the fae is between him and the rest of the world, then…then maybe he’s safe. 

 “Perhaps the Duke had the right idea,” the snake murmurs. 

 “Going feral?”

 “Mm.” He cups V’s face in his hands, pushing his fury away and replacing it with that same soft patience from before. “What is it that is making you so afraid?”

 “I…I don’t know you. I’ve never interacted with any of…your kind before, ever. You—when I first showed up, you—“ he swallows— “you seemed to really enjoy making me as uncomfortable as you could. Then there were so many of you and I was freaking out one moment and being calmed the next and now you’re doing something for me and I’ve given you nothing and you’re—“

 Nope. Nope, nope, nope, not saying that out loud. 

 “I’m…what?”

 V shakes his head, pressing his lips together firmly. Fuck, his face is burning again. 

 “Come on,” the snake coaxes, letting him break his grip and look away, “what were you going to say?”

 “…pretty.”

 The snake tilts his chin back up, not saying anything about his eyes being shut again. “A little louder?”

 “Pretty.”

 He braces for the teasing, the flirting, but it doesn’t come. 

 “Look at me, V.”

 “Is that strictly necessary?”

 The snake chuckles. “I must insist.” He smiles kindly when he looks at him. “There…I did say I wouldn’t fluster you too badly.”

 “You said that before you and the prince did…that thing.”

 “Ah, yes, I did, didn’t I?” The snake cups his chin carefully. “I admit, when you came in I wanted to play with you. Toy with you until you told me what you wanted and then…well, send you on your way. But then…then I cast upon you and I couldn’t.

 “I made that claim, this claim, because the garden responded to you. Most mortals can’t stay in the garden for long without being sucked under completely or driven insane. You melded with the magic in the air and it bound itself to you. And when I looked, I saw it. It’s one of the reasons I pushed you into the prince, into the others. They felt it too, I’m sure of it.”

 The snake lifts his hand, faint golden sparks floating around his glove. 

 “Unlike the others, as Gatekeeper, I am tied most directly to the garden. That’s why I’m the hardest to convince. The garden wants you, V. I want you.”

 He leans closer. “Don’t you see?”

 V sees. He brings his hand closer and he starts to glow. As Pat said, he’s got little bits of color shining off of him. Red, deep blue, and light blue glow from his head, fading into a rich green the lower he looks. And the whole thing is bathed in a rich, deep gold. 

 “And for the record?” The snake leans forward, kissing his cheek, burning soft. “You’re pretty too.”

 Shit. 

 “Oh, come on,” the snake laughs, “I wasn’t even trying that time.”

 “I’m just really bad at receiving compliments, okay?”

 “You are adorable.”

 “Hey!”

 “You are, sweetie, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, just accept it.” He chucks him lightly under the chin. “I imagine not many people have complimented you, have they?”

 “No.”

 “Well, I would prepare yourself. The others certainly will, as you may have guessed.”

 Right, he’s staying here. With them. They’re…they’re going to look after him. They’re going to keep him. 

 He’s safe. 

 He looks up to see the snake looking fondly at him. 

 “If I compliment your smile, will that make you stop?”

 “Probably.”

 “Then I won’t.”

 He swallows. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea. “…thank you.”

 “Oh, I’ll compliment you on other things.”

 “No…thank you.”

 His grin widens. “You’re welcome, V.”

 Well, I’ve broken the glass, I might as well push the button. 

 He licks his lips. “Virgil.”

 The snake tilts his head, his brow furrowed. “What?”

 Staring at him, determined to keep eye contact, he steels himself. “Virgil.”

 The snake looks confused a moment longer before realization dawns and a smirk crawls over his face. But it’s not the shameless flirty one, nor is it dangerous and full of fury. It’s…it’s the smirk you’d make if you were a little unsure about what was happening. 

 “Careful, darling,” he murmurs, “don’t you know how dangerous it is to give your name to a fae?”

 “You’re already keeping me,” he says, “aren’t you?”

 The smirk turns into a warm smile. “Yes. Yes, we are, Virgil.”

 Oh, oh yep. Yep, that was definitely a bad idea because him saying his name in that voice…

 Judging by the change in his eyes, he’s realized it too. 

 “And here you are,” he purrs, adjusting his grip, “all wrapped up in my arms.”

 He whines. “What happened to not flustering me too badly?”

 “I can’t help it, Virgil, you’re simply too easy, my darling,” the snake chuckles, “but I’ll stop. Just for now. Wouldn’t do to have you getting too overwhelmed, now, would it?”

 “After all,” he says, gentling his tone and pulling him into a proper cuddle, “we’ve got all of eternity, don’t we?”

 He’s warm. He’s so warm. There are hands on his head, around his back, around his waist, he smells of spice and pine. There’s a mouth next to his ear. 

 “J.”

 “Hmm?”

 He tilts his head up to look at him. “J.”

 Oh. 

 Oh. 

 “…thank you, J.”

 “You’re welcome, Virgil.”

[fandom-gt]

Harry Potter and the Cursed Object

Chapter 1 of a multi-chapter commission.

Additional Details

Harry and Sirius are living together when harry touched a cursed object shrinking him. Sirius is furious and makes Harry his personal relief toy.

Sirius warned him not to touch it the first day they moved in. Out of everything in the house, this particular artifact was the most dangerous for him specifically. It’s a spinning orb held in place on a base sort of like a globe, but rather than the world there are just intricate runes etched along its gold surface. A family heirloom, he’d said, that used to belong to his father. He seemed grim and a little disgusted by it, and refused to tell Harry exactly what it was. Just that it was cursed, and that under no circumstances should he lay a hand on it.

It took about six weeks for Harry to break that rule.

He’d had a nightmare, felt a splitting headache radiating from his scar, and got up to wander quietly through the house until it passed. His feet carried him to the old and dusty library, and the sight of glowing caught his attention. The orb was spinning soothingly, some bright moving light snaking through the runes like sunlight around and around. Compelling him. Calling to him.

Couldn’t be that bad, could it? Curiosity ran through him, and before he realized what he was doing he reached out to touch the thing. That’s all he remembered before things went black.

When he woke up again, bright sunlight was streaming through the windows, and an earthquake rattled the floor beneath him.

Except that it wasn’t.

Except that the great, terrifying booms stopped in front of him in the form of a pair of boots so bloody massive he barely came up to the tread. The rubber soles reach just under the top of his head if he were standing, several feet above that they curve around toes and block out his vision of anything until he lays flat on his back to stare up. Even then, it’s towering fabric and hanging robes, two massive knees and a set of thighs, a crotch, and that’s all he can see from where he lay.

He doesn’t even recognize who it is at first. Not even after an unsettlingly loud voice starts to speak, not for a few seconds, because it sounds a pitch deeper than he’s used to.

“What did I tell you, Harry?” It’s barked out with audible heat, loud as thunder, resonant enough to make him wince a little. “What did I say about touching that?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry calls up, voice just a little too hesitant to be a yell. Brave though he may be, he’s still rendered speechless and terrified by the absolutely unimaginably large man above him -- Harry still can’t see his face. “I didn’t mean t-”

“I told you not to touch it, that was the only rule I gave you,” he continues on as though he didn’t hear a word Harry was saying -- and it occurs to him maybe he didn’t it.

Mass roars toward him at a speed that feels terrifying considering the size -- it’s like a mountain descending from the sky, and he can’t help but flinch even though he knows Sirius isn’t going to crush him. Knees jut out and disappear a the edges of his vision, crotch comes down to hover almost above him to replace every other inch of what he can see.

“Two weeks,” it’s closer now, but Sirius’s voice lowered in volume to a dangerous, firm tone. “It’ll wear off in two weeks, so that’s how long your punishment is going to last.”

Swooping in front of the fabric-covered bulge is a hand so enormous he doesn’t even recognize what it is at first. Most of the fingers are larger than he is, the middle one nearly a full head taller. It descends claustrophobically, appendages touching down on all sides around him with an audible thud. He watches callouses drag across the floorboard picking up dust Sirius probably can’t even see, closing in on him like a cage. A massive thumb presses against his right side, an index finger at his shoulder, middle finger at his hip. They pry him off the ground squeezing not tight enough to hurt, but at least as hard as a firm hug. 

And then the ascent begins. He rushes through air so fast it makes his Firebolt look like an antique. The ground disappears so quickly it sends his stomach swooping, another spike of instinctive fear curling in his gut.

Sirius doesn’t lift him all the way up to his face -- nor his chest, nor even his naval. He can’t tell at first because palm takes up so much of his vision, only movement at his far right peripheral catches his attention and he realizes where he is.

Craning his neck over and down, he can just make out the waistband of Sirius’s trousers. Another massive hand wraps around the edge of the fabric and tugs, pulling a button twice as large as a hubcap through a button hole. They then deftly split the fabric over his zipper and curl around the metal bit. He’s confused beyond comprehension watching and hearing it drag down, watching his waistband separate to reveal the white boxer briefs underneath.

He watches a thumb hook into the waistband of his pants and pull, tugging it a few inches from his pelvis, and he doesn’t put two and two together until the hand holding him starts soaring again toward the gap.

“Wait, wait, wait, what are you doing, what- Sirius, don’t put me in there- don’t put me in there-” Yelled out in alarm, still without any indication he’s been heard. The descent begins; the waistband passes by him as he’s lowered, rising up far above his head and blocking out his view of nearly everything but Sirius’s hand and the distant light of the ceiling.

And then Sirius’s fingers open up without warning, and he suddenly plummets. 

His back hits a cotton canopy, bouncing him gently and sending him sliding down a steep grade until things level out and he comes to rest at the bottom. Rather, at the supportive groin area of the boxer briefs.

He stares up at what’s in front of him, mind gone blank, confused and horrified and affronted all at once.

It’s a cock. Obviously that’s what would be in here, but it’s hard to understand that even while looking at it. It’s an enormous cock, flacid, hanging heavy over a set of testicles that are laying lazily on the taut fabric floor. The slit of it is barely a foot above his head, it almost feels like it’s staring him in the face. His balls are sagging heavily, and Harry’s feet are scarce inches from touching the seam between them. Either one of them is larger than he is tall in diameter. Wiry hair is sparse there, but gets thicker above the base of his cock and farther up his pelvis.

Sirius holds his underwear open for long seconds, bent forward slightly so that Harry can finally see his face through the wide gap in his ceiling. His grey eyes stare dispassionately down at him from a mile up, though his cock blocks off Harry’s view of his chin. 

Harry notices flecks of gold in his irises that weren’t there before, the same color as the object that caused this mess. Dread hits him again -- there’s no way Sirius is in his right mind. This has to be part of the curse. Except what the hell is he to do about it at three inches tall?

“Given the amount of stress you’ll be causing me, it’s only fitting that your punishment be to relieve that stress,” Sirius informs him without any sympathy or apology in his tone. “I’ll be using you to get off until you’re back to normal, and I suspect that’ll cement the lesson. You’ll be spending the duration in there unless I pull you out. I expect you to behave, or I’ll be adding on another week.”

And then the ceiling begins to close, with Sirius still looking down at him until the waistband finally hits pelvis. The compression of the elastic drags Harry forward that last bit of space he’d had, forcing him unstoppably into Sirius’s privates. He’s flush with Sirius’s sack all the way up to the neck, where the head of his cock shoves heavily against his face, pushing him into the fabric with a bit too much pressure. He squirms, pushes at it, finally ducks down so that it springs up over his head -- but it means he’s trapped in a tight pocket underneath Sirius’s cock head and gently buried into the loose skin of his balls. 

That’s how Harry spends the rest of his evening -- trapped against testicles, struggling to keep himself from slipping under them when Sirius walks around. Desperately fighting not to let them roll on top of him when Sirius sits. Stuck staring up in disgust and awe when he reaches down to wrap those massive digits around his soft cock to whip it out and take a piss.

After several hours of this, Sirius sits again. A few seconds later Harry can hear the television -- volume far too loud for his comfort, clear as a bell through all the clothing.

He hears the popping of a button. The rumble of a zipper. The flesh around him moves, balls pulling in a little, cock twitching, and then dim blue evening telly light illuminates Harry’s room just before Sirius’s hand invades. It peels his soft cock away from the top of Harry’s head, lifting it up and out of the way. His fingertips dip underneath it, absently seeking out Harry by feeling along his balls and along Harry’s back.

When they find him, they don’t pull him out like he’d have hoped. 

No, instead they push him in. They press against his back, shoving him deep in between Sirius’s balls, which fold all around him and swallow his body. The fingertips retreat, and Harry’s fully encompassed. It’s not idle. Flesh moves around him like the tide, rolling against his body, tugging him in, flexing around him as Sirius massages his sack around Harry.

He does this for nearly five minutes, and it’s a struggle to keep skin from pushing into his mouth and smothering him.

He’s sweating by the time Sirius peels them open and manipulates his tiny body out, tugging it from beneath them and dragging him five or six feet up. His cock’s half hard now, he must’ve turned himself on doing that to Harry. It curves up toward his belly. Sirius smashes him face-first into the malleable skin just beneath the head of his dick, and then the flat of his fingers line up against Harry’s entire body.

They push and pull him into the flesh, rubbing him in circles against soft skin covering the rock deep beneath it -- it doesn’t stay deep for long. The more Harry circles a bundle of nerves around the vein, the harder the column of flesh he’s pressed against gets. Soon enough it’s rock solid, and it’s less of a circling push as it is a filthy grind. 

He can hear the telly in the background. Sirius still has his underwear on. He’s lazy and slow and absent, fondling himself with his hand stuffed down his pants, unthinkingly rubbing his godson into his sweet spot for the next twenty or thirty minutes while his program’s on.

He’ll worry about actually focusing on it once it hits commercial. He’ll want to get off on Harry quickly before it starts again.

[siribear]

with the paint job finished and dried, all that’s left is to prepare for the trip. the sun creeps overhead as minutemen continue to bustle about the castle. her people strap the minigun she took from the museum of freedom to the back of her new power armor; others load in enough ammo to take down another deathclaw. 

meanwhile, whisper and deacon sit underneath a canopy, double, triple checking their usual weapons of choice.

‘you’re sure this old thing will protect you out there?’ whisper rolls the fabric of the hazmat suit between her fingers. the material has thinned and worn over the past couple centuries, and even now her hands come away with dust.

‘no rips or tears,’ deacon says confidently. ‘des and carrington looked it over.’

this time, she switches to the helmet. the surface is scuffed and dirty, but intact. ‘the respirator? all the valves work? does it - ‘

‘yes.’ he sets aside his rifle and snatches the helmet from her hands. ‘it’s not as sturdy as your walking death machine over there, but it’ll do.’

whisper frowns. ‘i’m just trying to make sure you’ll be safe, deacon.’

‘then keep you and that minigun between me and any glowing sea creatures.’

another minuteman drops by with a bag of supplies: more stimpaks than she can count, a few bottles of rad-x, a handful of radaway. they’ve already packed away their rations and ammo. now they’re down to basic necessities and however many rolls of duct tape whisper can find. just in case.

the longer they sit, the more anxious she gets. every step brings her closer to shaun, but she has to take those steps. ‘i’m sure no one would notice if we just snuck out now.’

‘with the power armor?’

‘sure. i’ll distract them.’ he stands and points in a random direct. ‘everyone, look over there!’

they share a laugh when a few minutemen do stop and look, only to stare at them when nothing appears. though whisper has to wave them off in apology, she feels her nerves abate, if only a little.

-

an hour later, she’s back in her quarters, slipping into a spare suit of underarmor danse found for her. the muted black bodysuit offers little protection itself, but danse had said it would make walking around in the armor feel a little less awkward. pulling on the gloves, she finds they fit well enough just over her wedding ring. a break between the wrist guards and gloves gives her enough room to reattach her pipboy. the needle stings more than usual going under her skin, thanks to the mottled black and blue bruise around her wrist.

somewhere, back at home, is a picture of nate wearing a similar suit under a set of combat armor. 

all dressed, she returns to the courtyard. there stands deacon, just outside and away from the crowd, ready in his bulky hazmat suit. ‘well,’ he says when he sees her, ‘you look good.’

she adjusts her collar. ‘not as good as you, partner. are we ready?’

deacon nods his head toward the others, gathered around her new navy blue power armor. ‘they’re ready for you. careful you don’t get caught up in a parade.’

preston, sturges, ronnie shaw, and alan, who runs radio freedom, do look like they’re gathered with purpose. organized. preston better not have made this into an old minuteman ceremony she doesn’t know about. when she approaches, she asks preston the same question.

‘would have killed them to give ya a new suit of armor, huh?’ sturges puts a hand on the arm of the suit. ‘but she shouldn’t give you any trouble out there. she’s even an even better model than the one you picked up at the museum, and that survived a deathclaw, too.’

‘she gets the sturges seal of approval?’ she says with a hint of a grin. ‘maybe the brotherhood doesn’t hate me so much.’

‘but don’t take any unnecessary risks,’ preston argues.

‘can’t have the minutemen fall apart again so soon,’ ronnie chimes in. ‘not when you’re doing some actual good, here.’

whisper shakes her head. ‘if anything happens to me, preston becomes - ’

‘nothing’s going to happen,’ her second-in-command interrupts, shaken. ‘you,’ he says to deacon, approaching, ‘you’ll keep her safe.’ his tone brooks no argument.

‘of course,’ deacon replies easily, too easily, in preston’s opinion, because he frowns.

‘well then!’ sturges claps his hands. ‘let’s get you in this thing, boss.’

at the press of a switch, the back of the armor opens. arm and leg plates unfold, and she steps into it, fitting herself once more into the frame. the thin material does help, as danse noted, and the metal joints barely dig in with the protective padding the underarmor provides. sturges hands her the helmet and, because she has to try it once, she tosses it in the air and flips it like she’s seen danse do before. she catches it and clicks it into place, hiding the giddy grin she’s now sporting.

the heads up display boots up immediately, picking up information from her pipboy and feeding it into the edges of her vision momentarily. she checks the fuel levels, and it’s at - ‘uh, sturges? this is reading me at half fuel right now.’

‘ah, right. we took your old fusion core from the other set of armor. figured it’d give you a little more oomf to get you out there.’

‘everything else good in there, partner?’

‘one thing,’ she says, almost to herself. there was one modification she specifically asked sturges to handle, other than the new paint job. she flips on her headlamp and aims at the ground.

‘little early for the floodlights, isn’t it?’ deacon asks, looking at her. but when she directs him to look down, at the picture that will be lost when the light is cast into the distance, he smiles. in the center of the light, in a shadowed grey, is the silhouette of the railroad lantern. she turns off the headlamp, pleased.

‘everything looks good in here, then. time to head out.’

their escort takes them to the edge of the castle’s new neighborhood. minutemen fall in line behind preston and the others walking behind her and deacon. it is a parade, in its own right, but the entourage breaks off before travis can start a rumor about the minutemen marching through the commonwealth.

and then it’s just her, deacon, and the sound of metal footsteps on broken pavement.

-

whisper leads the way west across south boston, sticking to the flat roads. anything to conserve fuel. december hits the commonwealth differently than she’s used to. by her birthday she’d normally be bundled thicker clothes. long sleeves, jackets. but now that it’s passed, she’s content in the underarmor, and deacon hardly looks cold in his suit.

beside her, he stretches his hands upward. ‘you’re carrying me there if i get tired, right?’

she holds her arms out in front of her. ‘feel free to hop on whenever, as long as you return the favor.’

‘sure thing, partner. as long as i get to take that armor for a test drive.’

‘what? no. after all i went through for this, you’re carrying me and the armor.’

he takes a deep breath. ‘did i ever tell you about the time i carried a whole suit of power armor on my back?’

deacon proceeds to tell her a story of how he once saved a brotherhood soldier in the capital wasteland. ‘couldn’t get that hatch to open,’ he says, pointing toward the back of her armor. ‘so i had to carry him all the way back to the doctor in rivet city. mind you, that took hours.’

she doesn’t try to keep her indulgent hum even remotely convinced. he continues anyway.

‘dropped him off at the entrance to the city, where he finally woke up. didn’t know where he was, just remembered almost getting gunned down by super mutants. so, i told him that i,’ and he flexes, ‘brought him all the way to the city.’

‘let me guess, the city threw you a party for being a hero?’

he shrugs. ‘nah. he accused me of being a synth and held me at gunpoint until the guards stepped in.’

‘i see. there’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?’

his gaze catches somewhere to their left. the landscape is different. even from the road, she can see the metal fences and structures obviously erected long after the war. even the coast looks too close, with buildings half swallowed by the sea. massachusetts bay university. whisper remembers a few friends that went there. along with the poisoning incident that appeared in the news.

‘what’s over there?’ she asks when deacon steers them further away.

‘institute took over university point a few years ago,’ he says, gravely. ‘get too close, we might run into the stragglers.’

there’s something more to it, she figures. he’s too tense for fear. but she doesn’t fight him, instead finding a road outside jamaica plain to travel further west.

-

just outside milton general hospital, whisper picks up a faint distress signal. deacon stops his patrol of the area as she plays it through her speakers.

‘if anyone is out there, please... help.’ deacon sits next to her, face illuminated by her pipboy light. ‘what’s going on out there? i felt the ground shake, and nothing since. it’s been... four days, i think?’

‘this is... pre-war,’ she says. felt the ground shake. they’re still a few days away from the impact sight, but even from sanctuary hills, she remembers the sound of it. loud above even the grind of the elevator. a crack of thunder, then the shockwave coming over them like a wave only seconds later.

‘i’m so thirsty. please... somebody, hurry.’ the message ends with the woman crying, and the jarring monotone voice notifying them that the message will repeat. and it does. trapped in the jewelry safe - please help.

‘hey, shut it off.’ deacon reaches for the dial himself when she doesn’t move. ‘it’s been hundreds of years. you can’t do anything for her now.’

she snaps out of it. ‘i know. i know, but - ‘ four days. longer? no water, no one to save her. trapped in that small hole in the wall, like - like her neighbors in the vault. suffocating in their pods. and she just - slept. ‘i know.’ travis comes over the radio and flips to a new song. she lets it play through the night.

-

days later, they finally approach the edge of the glowing sea. blown apart trees and scattered car frames cover the area. the air grows thick with yellow-tinged fog. her geiger counter clicks slowly in her ears.

deacon snaps his helmet into place, the respirator hissing as it begins to recycle the irradiated air. ‘shit. never really thought i’d have to come out here.’

‘you can still turn back.’

he rolls his shoulders. ‘the walk back to hq would be boring without you. come on. sooner we get in, sooner we get out. maybe des will finally approve my vacation request after this one.’

stepping into the glowing sea is like diving head first underwater. whisper leads the way, branches crunching underfoot. with every step, the ground looks more cracked. ‘if not, you could always be a full-time minuteman.’ she pushes aside the shell of a car so they can pass. ‘i’ll approve your vacation myself.’

‘well, then.’ he gives her a salute. ‘yeehaw, sugar.’

through the fog, the entire landscape looks the same: stretches of fallen highway, buried underneath irradiated dirt; pools of orange water, feral ghouls wading through the sludge. one group notices them, and though whisper tears through them with the minigun, her geiger counter becomes a stream of noise instead of a steady click. deacon raises a hand in a thumbs up, unscathed.

they hardly speak, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. neither of them can tell what’s over the next hill, or the next. is that the sound of her steps or something else? did she breathe too loudly in her helmet? even though there’s nothing around them, whisper feels surrounded. even deacon is silent as he scouts ahead. quieter than her, he presses forward, keeping them away from roaming deathclaws.

though he can scout over hills, she has the advantage when the land becomes flat. a scanner built into her power armor picks out enemies in the distance, too far for him to see without a scope. when the yellow fog camouflages another pool of feral ghouls, she leads them out of the way.

as night descends upon the sea, it becomes almost untraversable. whisper keeps them at a slow pace with her night vision, but deacon is forced to stick close. a church steeple becomes her beacon in the night as she aims for a place for them to stay. though it’s half-buried, when she looks through the hole in the roof, she can see the sanctuary is still safe. mostly. she picks off the few feral ghouls she can see through the holes.

‘we can climb in through the steeple,’ she tells deacon, crouched at her hip. ‘clear out the last ghouls and we’ll be safe for the night.’

‘and how are you getting in there? you step out of that suit, you’ll die.’

he’s right. though the power armor has kept her safe from most of the radiation, her rads are still ticking upward every second. she won’t last an hour without it.

‘i jump through the roof, obviously.’ she turns on her headlamp, illuminating the broken roof for deacon to see. it’s definitely large enough for her to fit through, and with the armor she won’t even feel the impact. ‘the steeple is big enough for me to climb back out in the morning. it’ll be fine.’

they aren’t left with very many options. the area is dangerous enough during the day, but at night? and with deacon unable to see, they have to stay somewhere. there’s nowhere else nearby that she can see, either.

deacon laughs, shakily. ‘you first.’

-

they find a room underneath the stairs for shelter. a priest’s room, it looks like, with a now-broken desk and filing cabinets full of faded sheet music and sermons. a wooden cross still hangs stubbornly above the desk.

‘feel at home?’ whisper asks, taking up the space near the door. if anything gets curious about the gunshots, they’ll have to go through her solid power armor first.

‘ha-ha,’ he intones. ‘haven’t heard that one before. you’re as bad as glory.’

‘don’t compare me to her. you’ll hurt her feelings.’

deacon settles himself in a corner, helmet hitting the back wall with a dull thunk. whisper remains standing, fearing if she sits she’ll never get back up. ‘we’re in a church, sugar. i’m a deacon. anything you want to confess?’

‘bless me, father, for i have sinned,’ she begins, and deacon leans forward to listen. ‘i made fun of a brotherhood paladin, once, for sleeping in his power armor. and now i find myself in such a situation.’

‘i see.’ deacon sighs heavily, playing the part. ‘your penance will be to step in his shoes. rest in your armor for the night and pray we don’t have to do this again,’ he finishes, breaking character near the end. she laughs.

‘amen.’

-

her alarm wakes them just before dawn. deacon climbs the steeple first, stairs creaking beneath his feet. he calls to her when he’s outside, and then it’s her turn to mount the stairs. she climbs quickly, each one threatening to give with every step. but it’s only when she ducks under the steeple roof to jump to the ground that it gives. the tower leans, wood cracking beneath the power armor’s weight. she jumps, landing hard on her knees. the wood snaps, tower crashing to the ground.

‘uh,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘that’s not blasphemous, is it?’

deacon raises a hand, makes the sign of the cross. ‘you’re forgiven. but let’s get out of here before something comes and smites us.’

they head west, toward a building barely visible on the satellite view of her pipboy. given that they have little information to go on, checking any potentially sealed building sounds like their best bet. there’s nowhere for him to survive anywhere else out here.

keeping up their previous strategy, they make quick work across the sea. any heavy footfalls that don’t belong to her drive them slightly off course but they continue to follow her map west. they’re almost upon it when deacon holds out his hand to stop her.

‘do you hear that?’

whisper holds her breath. her scanner doesn’t pick anything up on the horizon, but she does hear... something. a slight rumble, then - rain. light patters turns to a downpour in moments. she relaxes, thinking it’s just the storm, until something shifts in her peripheral. she only has time to turn before a giant creature bursts out of the ground.

she sidesteps an oversized stinger before drawing her minigun. the thing steps back, large, black claws held high and threatening. it looks like a scorpion, but its size easily dwarfs a car. its body is covered in a hard, black carapace, broken up only by its exposed joints, glowing a faint green. the thing screeches, high and piercing, and whisper brings the minigun to life, firing directly into its face. green blood splatters across the ground, but it doesn’t stop the thing from charging.

deacon fires, hitting the stinger hard enough to send it plunging into the ground instead of her face. whisper continues to spray into its head, bullets flying wildly. the scorpion squeals again, and a roar answers to her right.

a deathclaw stares the trio down with pale red eyes.

‘the building!’ deacon yells, and she spins without a second thought. stinger still stuck fast in the ground, the scorpion doesn’t follow immediately, but the thundering footsteps that follow tells her they aren’t the only ones running.

she looks behind her to see the deathclaw tear into the scorpion. its massive jaw closes around the tail, snapping it off with ease. though it tries to fight back, the damage it sustained from the minigun keeps it from lasting very long. another roar, victorious, the albino deathclaw turns its attention toward the fleeing humans.

deacon turns the corner on the building’s second floor, easily accessed from a nearby hill and a hole in the wall. she hears two gunshots before she’s upon him, two feral ghouls dead on the ground. the footsteps grow closer. he runs toward an elevator at the end of the hall, and she pries open the doors to - an empty shaft.

rifle held ready, he turns back toward the hall and the albino deathclaw, slowly turning the corner. no need to chase prey it knows is cornered, apparently. but whisper has other thoughts. she grabs deacon without warning, scooping him into her arms, and jumps. they land on top of the elevator cart, the crash echoing through the shaft. above them, the deathclaw roars, thundering down the hall. it tries to fit through the elevator door. head first, then shoulders, then -

‘down!’ deacon yells, lifting the elevator hatch at her feet. this time he jumps and she follows, down into the basement. the deathclaw roars long and low, but never follows.

-

they head deeper into the building’s basement, clearing any feral ghouls in their way. ground zero, she thinks with each one they kill. each feral wears the tatters of office suits and dresses, likely still working before the bombs fell. too late, before anyone saw it coming.

she doesn’t know when, but her geiger counter stops clicking at the constant presence of radiation. she double checks it, just to make sure it’s working, but her screen still shows her status. and if those numbers are correct, then likely she and deacon need to stop regardless - their rads are at the edge of ‘healthy’ levels.

stepping out of her power armor in a back room, she breathes a sigh of relief. she unzips the top of her underarmor and peels herself out of the sleeves. the cooler air of the basement chills the sweat on her skin. after a moment, she returns to the main room they’ve made their shelter with a bundle of food and radaway. deacon sits, legs outstretched, in front of a fire he’s built out of old papers. whisper rests her legs atop his as she prepares to hook up their bags of radaway.

deacon flinches when she pulls away from inserting his IV. ‘what happened to you, hero?’ he reaches out toward her neck, fingers brushing against her throat, down her arm, to her wrist. she follows the trail he leaves, and sees what he means. illuminated by the firelight, her bruises stand in stark contrast to the orange glow against her skin. ‘maybe i should have gone with you, if this is what going with the brotherhood gets you.’

‘danse stopped it from being worse,’ she says, leaning back to set up her own radaway.

‘is this the lead up to, you should have seen the other guy?’

her stomach churns from the radaway. ‘considering the supermutants are dead now?’

‘i should have gone with you. the brotherhood - ‘

‘i know! look, i don’t like the brotherhood either, but danse and his team - ‘ well, haylen, if anyone. ‘ - they’re not bad people. if i hadn’t found preston first, i could have been in the brotherhood.’

‘you wouldn’t have lasted.’

‘how do you know?’

when he shifts, his knees brush against hers. she refuses to move. ‘i know what kind of person it takes to be in the brotherhood,’ he says as she stares him down.

‘deacon - ‘

he sighs, and turns the basement of the abandoned offices into his confessional. ‘you’ve put up with enough of my bullshit. if there’s one person i should come clean to, it’s my friend, right?’

whisper swallows, throat as dry as her bag of radaway. she removes her needle as he does the same. ‘i’m a liar. everyone knows it. i don’t try to hide it, because the truth is: i’m a fraud. to my core.

‘when i was young,’ he tilts his head. his eyebrows rise just above his sunglasses. ‘a hell of a long time ago, i was... scum.’ his voice cracks on the word, voice rough. she wants to tell him to stop. it’s okay if she doesn’t know if it hurts him too much, but she finds that she can’t.

she wants to know.

‘i was a bigot, like the ones in the brotherhood.’ he tosses his empty bag into the darkness. ‘a very violent bigot.’

‘like the brotherhood?’

‘worse. i ran with a gang in university point.’ he pauses, lets the pieces fall into place. that’s why he was looking at the old university. running away from his past, not the synths. ‘we called ourselves the UP deathclaws. for kicks, we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.

‘we kept egging each other on. started with some property damage. broken windows, broken fences. graduated to some beat downs in back alleys. then, inevitably,’ he swallows, ‘a lynching. the claw’s leader was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. looking back, i’m not so sure.’

she blinks. doesn’t say a word. nods when he continues to stare. she isn’t running away, not from him.

he hangs his head and continues. ‘i broke all contact with my brothers, after that. time passed, i became a farmer, if you can believe that.’ he laughs, smiles, wistful. then, ‘one day, i found someone.’ he removes his sunglasses and looks to the dark ceiling, blue eyes bright. watery. ‘she saw something in me i didn’t know - didn’t think - was there.’

‘what was she like?’ she asks, curling her legs against her chest, resting her head on her knees.

‘barbara,’ he sighs her name, ‘she was... she just was.’ he looks to her. ‘when she smiled, it was like those old magazine covers. her eyes - ‘ with a hand on his face, palm pressed against the bridge of his nose, he laughs softly. ‘ - we were trying for kids.’

she sits up straight, at that. a family. he wanted -

‘then one day, it turns out, my barbara? she was a synth. she didn’t know that. i certainly didn’t. i don’t know how the deathclaws found out, but... there was blood.

‘they killed her,’ she says, knowing. blood - nate’s vault jumpsuit turning red with it.

when he croaks out a, ‘yes,’ she slides in next to him. barely touching. ‘i don’t remember much clearly after that. i know i killed most of the claws.’ he laughs again, this one broken. ‘i must have made a big impression because the railroad contacted me. figured i’d be sympathetic, seeing that i lost my wife. and, well, what i did afterwards.’

‘you know i know what that’s like.’

‘yeah. you against kellogg? that was - i should have said something sooner. i’m sorry. i don’t even know why i lie anymore, but i can’t tell the truth. everyone - tom, des, you, even carrington - they deserve to be in the railroad.

‘i don’t. i’m everything wrong with this whole fucking commonwealth. but you’re the only friend i got. i don’t deserve you being okay with this, and i’m not asking for forgiveness. i just... figured you should know who you’ve been traveling with.’

‘i know who i’ve been traveling with,’ she says quickly. takes her own sunglasses off, just to prove it. ‘you’re deacon. the one friend i’ve got in this place. all that you’re doing with the railroad, everything you’ve been helping me with - you’re trying to make up for your past. that’s admirable. i’m on your side, you know?’

deacon shifts back against the wall. ‘well, i’m not really the hugging type so. good talk, partner.’

and yet, he doesn’t move away when she shifts that extra inch closer to lean her head against his shoulder. nor does he move to put his sunglasses back on. instead, he rests his head against hers. ‘john,’ he mumbles, eventually. ‘my name’s john. feel free to forget that in the morning.’

together, they watch the fire burn down to embers before bedding down, back to back in the shadowed corner of the basement.

[ask-puppojiminnie]

Hyung will make you feel better

((So here’s a bit of sin for you guys… Not super intense smut, but I mean… It is smut ^^ This is how Jungkook’s first heat went with Yoongi helping him ))

“-okay, Kookie…. Please, don’t cry!” Yoongi frowned at the panicked voice coming over the phone, followed by a loud whining. “Hyung will be right back, okay, Sweetie?”

There was a bit of rustling and a door closing on the other end, though loud cries could still be heard, just slightly muffled now.

“Hyung? I need your help,” Hoseok said breathlessly and Yoongi sat up from where he was sprawled across his couch.

“What’s going on? Is Kook okay?” Yoongi asked, already making his way over to the door to slip on his shoes and coat.

In the five years that Hoseok had owned Jungkook, Yoongi had never heard him this scared and worried. In those years, Yoongi had grown fond of Jungkook and the idea of something happening to him was terrifying.

“I always assumed it wasn’t going to happen…. it was taking so long, I thought he wouldn’t get it….” Hoseok paused before Yoongi heard him sigh, stress evident in his tone. “He’s…. I think it’s he’s in heat….” Yoongi paused for a moment, his shoe half on his foot.

“Are you…. Are you asking what I think you are?” Yoongi sighed as he lowered his head a bit. He has known for a while about Hoseok being asexual, but he had never really thought it would lead to something like this. At the same time, he knew he could never let down Hoseok in a time like this, especially with Jungkook practically screaming in the background, pain evident in his cries.

“Please, hyung…. You have to help me out…. I don’t want to just leave him like this….” Hoseok sounded almost desperate as he spoke, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. Yoongi was quiet for a moment before he pushed his foot into his shoe completely.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes….” Yoongi finally responded, hanging up the call before pushing his phone into his pocket. “The shit I do for that kid….”

The moment Yoongi stepped into the house, he could hear the loud cries from down the hall, his stomach dropping just at the sound. Hoseok was giving him a worried look. Yoongi could tell that this was taking a toll on his friend. He cared so much for Jungkook, and Yoongi was pretty sure that Hoseok would have probably tried to help Jungkook if Yoongi had refused.

“Why don’t you go out with Joon for a bit? I can take care of him,” Yoongi said softly as he gently rubbed a hand against Hoseok’s back, trying to calm him a bit. The younger glanced at the room with a pained expression before turning back to Yoongi, biting at his lower lip.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Hoseok had zero experience with a Hybrid’s heats, having assumed Jungkook’s heats weren’t going to happen. He’d done lots of research during the first year, but when the heats never came, they all believed that Jungkook just wouldn’t get one.

He guessed that inexperience was why Hoseok called him. Yoongi, at least, had had some previous relationships with some Hybrids, so he had a general idea of how to help.

“I promise he will be fine,” Yoongi said, grabbing Hoseok’s coat from the couch and tossing it to his friend. “Now go. He’s in good hands with me.”

Yoongi waited until he heard the front door close, which took a bit of time, as Hoseok seemed to hesitate at the door. Once the lock clicked, Yoongi walked over to Hoseok’s room, the heavy scent of a heat filling the air. Knocking on the door, Yoongi heard the cries die down a bit, only heavy pants and whimpers reaching his ears.

“Jungkook-ah? I’m coming in,” Yoongi said as he cracked open the door. The air in the room was much thicker than Yoongi had expected, the room humid and uncomfortably warm. The room was dim, the only light coming from the fairy lights Jungkook had convinced Hoseok to buy. But Yoongi could still make out Jungkook’s figure curled on the bed, his fingers curled in the blankets and what seemed to be a pillow trapped between his thighs. He could see that Jungkook was only wearing a pair of black briefs, having probably discarded the rest of his clothes due to the heat.

“Y-Yoongi…?” Jungkook practically whined, his voice broken and weak. Yoongi let it slide that he had dropped the honorific, focusing more on how pained Jungkook seemed, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to sit up, his swollen lips parted.

He looked horrible and Yoongi felt sick just seeing him like this.

Yoongi made his way over to the bed and gently ran his fingers through the boy’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead. The Bunny closed his eyes as he let out a soft sound, lifting his head closer to Yoongi. The human laughed softly as he sat down on the bed, moving so he could lean against the headboard.

“Hyung is here to help you, Jungkook-ah….” Yoongi said softly as Jungkook crawled over to him, pushing the blankets out of the way as he made his way over to Yoongi’s open arms. He straddled Yoongi’s thighs as he let Yoongi pull him into his arms, one of his hands running through Jungkook’s soft hair, the Bunny whining as he pressed closer, grasping at Yoongi’s shirt.

“It hurts…. It hurts so much… Make it stop…” Jungkook breathed, nuzzling his face into Yoongi’s neck. Yoongi shushed him softly, rubbing the boys back when he felt wet tears dripping onto his neck.

“Hyung will help you… You can take control…. Whatever you need, I can help you….” Yoongi whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Jungkook’s shoulders, the Hybrid letting out a broken sob as his hips slowly rolled against Yoongi’s thigh, his fingers curling tighter into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt.

“Is…. is this okay, hyung….?” Jungkook breathed as he wrapped his arms around Yoongi’s waist, the rolling of his hips getting a bit rougher. Yoongi felt the Bunny’s lips pressing against his neck and his shirt lifting from his back.

“Yes… you’re doing so well, Kook-ah….” Yoongi moaned softly, his fingers gently running through Jungkook’s hair. The sound of heavy pants and broken moans spilled from Jungkook’s lips as he tried to press closer to Yoongi, hands finally slipping under the thin shirt Yoongi wore.

Yoongi could feel the desperation for any sort of release radiating off of Jungkook. His lips were now parted and sucking marks onto Yoongi’s pale neck, pulling low moans from Yoongi’s lips as he tipped his head back. The Bunny began to tug at Yoongi’s shirt until he lost patience, grabbed two handfuls and tore the shirt down the front, tossing it off to the side.

Normally, Yoongi would be mad, since that was one of his favourite shirts, but he couldn’t find any complaints as soon as Jungkook’s hands began roaming across Yoongi’s stomach.

“You’re doing so well, Kook-ah…” Yoongi breathed as he ran his fingers through Jungkook’s soft hair. The Hybrid whined as he lifted his head from Yoongi’s neck, their eyes meeting. There were tears brimming in Jungkook’s eyes and his cheeks were flushed.

“I-it still hurts…” He whispered as he pulled Yoongi closer by his waist. Yoongi gave him a soft smile, wrapping his arms around the Hybrid’s shoulders, pulling him closer until their chests met.

“Do whatever you need to, Kook-ah…” Yoongi felt Jungkook shifting their position a bit, Yoongi’s thighs now on either side of Jungkook’s hips. Jungkook’s hands tugged at Yoongi’s jeans a bit before the older boy laughed softly and lifted his hips a bit so Jungkook could pull them off, tossing them to the side. A soft smile was on Yoongi’s lips as he felt Jungkook gently nuzzle his cheek before pressing their lips together, the kiss slow and sweet.

“For being in heat, you’re being so gentle….” Yoongi tried to keep his voice steady, but there was a slight waver to it.

“I’m nervous…” Jungkook whispered, a soft whimper leaving his lips. Yoongi could feel the Hybrid’s arms shaking slightly.

Kissing the Bunny’s jaw softly, Yoongi slowly rolled his hips, letting Jungkook know that he didn’t need to be nervous. He wanted Jungkook to feel comfortable with this. A shaky moan left the Hybrid’s lips when he felt the slow drag of Yoongi’s ass.

“Hyung will take care of you, okay? You don’t need to be nervous….” Yoongi kept his voice low, his lips pressing to Jungkook’s neck as he spoke.

With a hesitant nod, Jungkook lowered his hands to Yoongi’s hips, pulling them closer to his own until Yoongi could feel Jungkook’s arousal against his ass, pulling a soft gasp from his lips.

“S-shit, Kook…. You’re big….” Yoongi murmured without thinking, only realizing the awkward phrase when Jungkook let out a loud whine and lowered his face until Yoongi couldn’t see it anymore.

“Don’t just say stuff like that, Hyung…. It’s weird….” Jungkook whimpered, his grip tightening a bit on Yoongi’s hips. The older let out a soft laugh as he kissed Jungkook’s shoulder gently, finding the boy’s embarrassment cute.

The cute embarrassment didn’t last long, however, as Jungkook let out another soft whine, rolling his hips again, probably needing some sort of friction to ease a bit of the pain. Yoongi couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from his lips, his head tipped back. Jungkook’s movements were a bit unsure and inexperienced, but at this point, the heavy scent of the heat was starting to effect Yoongi too.

Yoongi shifted until he was laying on his back and pulled Jungkook over him, kissing the Bunny’s neck as the younger lifted one of Yoongi’s legs a bit more, raising his hips. When Yoongi felt the pressure of Jungkook’s cock against his ass, he let out a shaky moan, fingers curling into Jungkook’s hair.

That seemed to encourage the younger a bit and Yoongi soon felt the slow grind of Jungkook’s hips, the boy’s body relaxing a bit as he seemed to find some relief.

“Does that feel good, Jungkookie?” Yoongi whispered as he rolled his hips as well, matching the pace Jungkook had picked. The Bunny nodded, his lips parted to let out a string of soft moans, his movements quickening a bit. “Are you close…?”

Jungkook didn’t answer this time, seeming too far gone to say anything as he leaned his forehead on Yoongi’s shoulder, his hips jerking roughly. The movement pulled loud moans from both of the boys, Yoongi’s arms tightening around Jungkook’s shoulders.

It was a bit unexpected when Jungkook lowered a hand down to Yoongi’s briefs to pull them down just enough to free his neglected cock. Yoongi let out a sharp gasp as Jungkook wrapped his fingers around him, slowly stroking over his length.

“Ah, I’m…. Fuck-!” Yoongi tossed his head back as Jungkook pressed his thumb against the slit, hand moving at the same pace as his hips. It wasn’t too long after that Yoongi let out a loud moan, his stomach and chest now covered his cum.

“Come on, baby…. Cum for me…” Yoongi whispered as he pulled Jungkook into one more kiss, their lips parting as Jungkook whined into it. His hips stuttered and his body shook slightly before he relaxed, lowering his head to rest it on Yoongi’s shoulder again. The older could see cum staining Jungkook’s briefs and Yoongi couldn’t help but think of how uncomfortable that seemed.

Helping Jungkook to lay down, Yoongi kissed his forehead and smiled when Jungkook hummed softly. Yoongi paused a moment before he pulled off Jungkook’s boxers and tossed them off the bed before he pulled the covers up around the Bunny. The Hybrid seemed to be relaxed for now, but Yoongi was sure it wouldn’t take long before his heat hit him again.

“Get some rest, okay? I’ll be back soon,” Yoongi murmured, earning a nod from Jungkook before the Bunny rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The older smiled softly before he stood up, picking up the torn remains of his shirt before sighing and using it to wipe the cum off his torso.

After fixing his briefs and slipping on one of Jungkook’s oversized shirts, Yoongi made his way out of the room.

He had been set on making some coffee, but stopped when he saw Hoseok standing awkwardly in the kitchen, holding a mug of the steaming drink in his hands.

“I thought you went to Joon’s place…” Yoongi murmured, frowning a bit as he poured himself a cup before he hopped onto the counter, sitting across from Hoseok.

“He wasn’t home, so… I just came back…” Hoseok said, looking at his feet. Yoongi felt a smirk pull across his lips as he looked at his friend.

“So you came back in time to hear all that?” Yoongi asked and was only answered with silence. A laugh left his lips as he took a sip of his coffee. “His heat is going to last a while longer, so I’ll probably be here for the next few days.” Now that he had his drink, Yoongi dropped back to the floor and began to walk back to the room. “Not complaining though. The kids good.”

The last thing he heard before closing the door was Hoseok coughing wildly after choking on his drink.