#and maybe a vampire i have these two moles on my neck that look like a bite | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imagine-silk · 2 years ago

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Things sitting in my WIPs

You know when you start something and you have like a few things for it but not all of it. I have a reasonable amount. So look at them and maybe do my job for me or send a little thing for it. I'm spread thin. (Also, yes, I am getting to the asks. Just losing writing juice.) Marvel first. Also header here.

Steve Rogers finding some blood family

Summary: Steve wants a family, that much is clear from the movies, so the idea is he finds someone in Brooklyn that is related to him.

He couldn’t get himself to knock so he stood at the door uncomfortable close. Steve has nothing from his past life, his apartment was rented out to someone, everyone he knew was dead, the air smelled different, so did the growing winter chill. But he was never one to give in so easily. He was bound to have some sort of family. And he did. He was at their doorstep.

His mom's sister's grandson. Steve got one of the SHIELD people to get the info for him, he loved Natasha but she would have given him everything this man had ever done before and he didn't want that info. Now he was thinking maybe he should have.

Knock knock

It took fourteen heartbeats for the door to open and show a young man in a tank top scratching his head and squinting, skin tanned with freckles from the sun and two moles on his neck that made vampire bites. His squint didn't let up however. "What'cha selling. I don't want it."

"I'm not here to sell anything. I'm looking for [F.Name]."

[F.Name] stopped scratching. "I beg your pardon."

"[F.Name] [L.Name]."

"I can't see, who am I talking to?" He seemed to be one hundred percent serious about the sight thing, his eyes didn't focus on him.

"This is going to sound crazy but I'm your cousin."

"I can see color," He frowned, knitting his eyebrows in the same way his aunt would, genuinely confused but very willing to hear someone out.

"My name is Steve Rogers. My mom was your grandma's sister."

This was the part he expected to fight for, to show proof or explain further. He didn’t need to though. "Oh. Yeah. That. Come in then." [Name] stepped back and held the door from the side. So he took the invite with confusion, sat on the couch while [Name] took the other. "First things first. My mom is dead, but I guess you knew that. She said she didn't want you to see her if she couldn't recognize you. I'm guessing you've been through that too though."

Steve rubbed his hands and thought of his cousin, wondering if he could handle seeing her like that while Peggy was doing the same. "Yeah I have."

"Sorry, man. Can't imagine waking up from a nap to all of this mess. Then having to do what you do. I do not envy you."

"You knew we were related? And you never said anything."

"Why would I?"

"I've had people tell that to me before. Not all of them were kids." He was a big figure and had diplomatic immunity to a certain extent, after he saved the world last time he had it again. In short, a good person to have in your pocket.

"To be honest, I didn't think you'd want to see me."

"Why?"

"I'm 'colored'. You're from the 1930s." It made sense and he never thought about it before. To think that was what got in the way of seeing him was depressing. "I figured you wouldn't but I didn't want to risk it."

Peter B is a fucking HIMBO

Summary: Peter is very smart and not dumb at all. That being said, I just want a himbo so here we are.

It was so fucking hot. Summer was not your favorite time of year and it never will be. The beach was always crowded and so was every building, the good stuff at stores was always sold out unless you got to it early, and vendors had lines that led to the train. And here you were sitting on a bench in the park that had no shade waiting. There was shade a bit away but you told Peter you would be there and you didn’t want to risk it, even if the time was flying and baking you.

You looked around again not actually expecting to see the man you were waiting for, even less so that he would be running. Sweating to the point his work shirt was starting to show what was underneath and disappoint you it was another shirt. He did a hard stop in front of you and struggled to catch his breath, face flushed, chest heaving. “Hey, I’m sorry I’m,”

You swept your lust under the rug and let your panic take front. “Peter, why were you running? I thought you were taking the bus.”

“I ran to see you dingus.” He laughed and looked at you with a squinty smile that moved what was under the rug. “You won’t believe everything that’s happened but let’s go over there first.”

He all but collapsed under the tree shade and propped his arm on his knee while his thigh pushed his stomach pudge. “You should take off your shirt.” You said. “To get cooler.” You found out a long time ago he didn’t see your impure ogling. At first you thought it was something he was ignoring or thought it was weird but then you blurted out you wanted to feel his chapstick and he actually gave you his chapstick.

“Yeah.” Like always he listened and agreed before going on. “So the epic tale goes a little like this; I wasn’t supposed to go to work today but I got roped in to do a half shift so when I got out I had to come straight here. Then the buses got out of order so I took the wrong one. I ended up a few blocks down and the next bus was going to make me even more late if it even got me here. So I ran.”

"You didn't have to do all that just to meet me." You knew what he was going to say. He was a creature of habit.

"I wanted to." Kind to a fault. ->

-> There was one thing in your way of you asking to have him. "Oh, I have new pictures of Mayday." He was married, even had a kid.

And if I die before I wake

Summary: Now, I give my characters fucked up powers to the point I think I might be sadistic. So imagine not being able to die. Also I grew up very religious so I know this prayer very well.

I pray the lord my soul to take.

But you learned God didn't want you by his side. At the age fourteen you were in an accident. In the hospital you and your father were pronounced dead, but you woke up on the operating table. It was a miracle. Then you died in an alley, a mugging gone wrong. You looked out to the bustling street from the shadow and held a bleeding chest. But you did wake.

The great tale of Cain and Abel wasn't something that needed to be recited to you. It seemed to you like your father was Abel, blessed to salvation, and you were Cain, doomed to walk the earth. What was your crime? You couldn't imagine what you did as a child that warranted punishment but you did everything to repent for your sin.

At church there was a man, a broad man with posture somehow tensed and slouched praying in mumbling Spanish. He went when there were no sermons and less people, his time was for him and no one else. Just like you. So you did your best to not bother him. He seemed not to notice and it was nice for you. Together but not. You doubted he felt the same.

Then a fucking Rhino man busted into the hall and destroyed everything. You would say desecrated but you weren’t feeling particularly preachy after. Maybe that was why you were how you were. Spiderman was there to save the day and all was well for everyone else. You left through allies to succumb to your wounds, to bleed out praying it was the last time. As you stumbled you heard a person behind you. You told them you didn’t have any money or anything of value on your person. But they caught you and lowered you to the ground. They seemed to recognize nothing could be done so they just held your hand. You asked them to let you die alone and they shushed you.

You woke up to the sounds of ambulance sirens and you ran before you found out if they were for you or not. It was a traumatic event when you died but you steeled yourself first so you could get safe before you dealt with your mind. Like every time you went back to church. You followed the signs to a temporary place of worship to atone.

The second day of your repent you saw the man and when he saw you he didn't move so you didn't notice him.

He grabs you because his knee jerk reaction is that you are still dying so he is trying to catch you before you fall

Say in Spanish you are haunting him

He is making a very big scene that he is then going to have to explain especially if he has to take a few steps

He looks you horrified and goes to you later to ask if you were okay alluding to the idea he knows you got hurt he just doesn’t know to what extent

Say in Spanish you are haunting him

He sees you but you don’t so he has time to collect himself before he goes to speak to you and you both have a half honest conversation (WINNER)

You do not admit you are repenting and it may or may not be obvious you are not praying for others

He says he was checking on you because he was there but you didn’t see him there and he may or may not have noticed exactly who you were

It's something you would never know but he did see you before he walked up. You figured as much but you never knew for sure. Unlike him you didn’t mutter your prayers but unlike him you made it very obvious how you were dealing with the prayers. He knew you were losing your mind.

He asked to sit with you before asking if you were okay. A small gesture, one you would have welcomed at any time but now, so soon after death, it was hard. He said he was checking up on you because he thought he saw you get hurt. You told him nothing of the sort happened and mentioned in passing you didn't see him there. You both were hiding, one just had a question that needed answering. ->

->You felt like you were being watched, when you were walking home from work, from church. Nueva York wasn't the safest place in the world but you had never felt like that. And it happened for a very good while before something came of it. A woman attacked you in any alley. You didn't know why but she said it was your fault.

Spiderman swooped in and did his thing but added to the routine. He asked who you were and you panicked, rightfully so. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Most people don't get up after bleeding out. Answers, talk fast." He said walking forward. Slow, painfully slow. And you backed away even slower because you knew there was no way you would out run him.

"I don't know, it just happens." He kept walking. That wasn't enough. "I get back up and I can't explain it. Every time I think it's the end, it's not." It still wasn't enough. "I don't want to be like this. I just want to stay dead." That was enough.

Two weeks after the initial incident he finally came to you as a civilian again. Introduced himself and asked your name saying he had always seen you but never found a reason to speak. Finally a name to the face, Miguel O'hara. An overall quiet man, calm in nature and polite. He started to speak to you after that.

There was still the feeling of being watched, it must have not been the woman. You stopped and looked around. When you looked up you thought you saw something on the roof but then pigeons flew off so you brushed it off. But when the same thing happened again you thought maybe someone caught onto your living situation. Then again, maybe not.

The church was set up again and you thanked God. You didn't talk on the pews before him and he'd be the only person you would. It was pleasant, chattering whispers to not disturb like it wasn't just five people in the room spread out farther than any hearing range. The topic of jobs came up and you had an underwhelming answer. (He said he did a lot of computer work, whether it was at a computer or on you didn’t know./He said he was an engineer who worked on his time.) Not a lie.

A month went by and you acted on impulse, you asked if you could confess to him. He asked if he should be the one to hear it but you assured it wasn’t something you would be condemned for. You admitted you lied to him when you said you weren’t hurt after the church incident. You said you thought you were visited by an angel who was going to take you away but it wasn’t, it left you there.

#atsv #gender neutral reader #peter b. parker #steve rogers #miguel o'hara #marvel #wip

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sundaysundaes · 4 years ago

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Thirst

Lee Donghyuck/Haechan X Reader | Smut, Fluff | 3.8k | Vampire AU

Summary: You have walked the earth for more than a hundred years but your eternity finally means something the second you meet a human boy with smiles brighter than the sun.

Warnings: Vampire!Reader X Human!Hyuck, unprotected sex, blood sucking

“Wait, ah…”

You pull back at the sound of his voice, fingers squeezing his upper arm. “Nervous?”

Donghyuck throws his head back and runs a hand over his face. He averts his gaze, slightly hiding behind his lean fingers. “Of course, I’m nervous,” he confesses, the tip of his ears turning scarlet. “I have a cute girl sitting on my lap, about to drink blood from my neck—how could I not be nervous?”

You reach out to him, gently running your fingertips at the side of his throat, and see him swallow hard at your touch. You can hear his heartbeat soaring, which only fuels your thirst for his blood. It has been days since you last drank from him and the flame in your throat is scorching. You know that if you don’t do something about it fast, you’ll lose what’s left of your humanity.

“Hyuck…” You plead, gripping against the collar of his black shirt. “I’m… I really need to drink…”

All the anxiety on his face is replaced instantly with concern. “Shit, you’re right, I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, unfastening two of his top buttons to reveal more of his collarbones. The previous bite marks have begun to fade on his skin, appearing almost as faint as the little mole he has on his Adam’s apple. He’s beautiful, so beautiful, that if your mind wasn’t too clouded with the thoughts of consuming human blood, you would praise and cherish every little detail of his features with your lips.

Donghyuck closes his eyes, eyebrows adjoined in the middle in anticipation of your bite. His hand is fisting his collar, slowly tugging it down to reveal more sun-kissed skin to your glowing eyes. “H-have it your way.”

The way he’s reacting like a child curling up in fear of a syringe being plunged into their skin, makes you feel contrite but there’s no other option but to consume what he offers. Otherwise, your thirst for blood will drive you to the brink of your sanity, forcing you to do something even more terrible to him.

You try your best to divert your attention and focus more on trying to comfort him, even when your entire body nearly blazes in flame. Softly, you brush your lips against the column of his throat.

Donghyuck shivers, his breathing tatters. “Don’t—“ He curls his fingers, nails sinking into his palms when he feels your mouth move to lay wet kisses down his chest. “Don’t do that, please.”

“I’m trying to calm you down.”

“Well, you’re doing the opposite 'cause then I’ll be nervous for an entirely different reason.” Donghyuck brings the back of his hand to his mouth, murmuring the words against his skin. But despite the heat that warms his cheeks, he does seem a bit more relaxed, slightly smiling sheepishly at you over his flirtatious words. “I’m fine, just do it.”

You nod, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. Caught off guard, the blush blooms a little wider on his face but he tenderly strokes your cheek. “We’ll do that again after you’re finished,” he promises, “A lot of that.” His hooded eyes are captivated with the way your lips glisten under the slide of his thumb. “Right here.”

You smile in return. Landing yet another soft kiss to his jaw this time, you extend your fangs and make your mark.

Donghyuck winces away from the pain of your cuspids puncturing the skin under his jaw, right between the earlobe and the collarbone. His hand immediately finds your shoulder, fingers twisting against the fabric of your dress. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes shut close as he endures the pain, but in the next few seconds, his breathing gradually becomes slower.

His head swirls as the rush of endorphin fills his system, elevating him with bliss. He slides his hand down from your shoulder to your arm, resting it on the dip of your waist. You can hear him curse under his breath but he slowly relaxes, his body reclining with you pressed tightly against his chest.

“You’re not so gentle today, are you?” He chuckles softly, slurring a little bit as his thoughts become hazy with ecstasy. “You don’t usually bite me like that.”

You can’t respond, too busy drowning in the pleasantness of his blood.

“So serious.” He quietly laughs. “Well, I guess, it has been a while since we did this so you must be very thirsty.” His free hand slips around your neck, tangling your locks around his fingers. He lets his lips brush against your strands as he murmurs, “I’m sorry… It must have been painful.”

It was painful. So painful that you were about to lose your mind, but with Donghyuck’s arms wrapped around your body protectively, his warm skin under your fingertips, and his sweet, sweet blood on your tongue, every pain, every suffering, every torture you’ve experienced vanishes into a blur.

“Calm down,” he whispers, his honeyed voice soothes you more than anything else in the world. “You don’t have to rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

And as he relishes the feeling of your tongue on his skin, your teeth sinking to draw even more blood, he closes his eyes again, and witnesses a flashback behind his eyelids.

Eight years-old Lee Donghyuck stood on the frozen ground with his tiny gloves covering his trembling fingers. Smokes of warm breaths were clouding over his mouth. His teeth chattered from the cold; a weird, repetitive melody to his ears. And although his tears were no longer falling, his reddened cheeks were still lined with them.

“Jaeminnie…” He sniffed, one arm hugging himself by the waist while the other one moved to rub his puffy eyes. “Jaeminnie, where are you…?”

His warm chocolate brown beanie was no longer covering his head—a small reminder of how he had previously tripped himself and scraped his knee on the way down. It hurt. His trousers were ripped open from the fall, enough to show the small bleeding wound on his right knee. Kissed by the cold, his ears were red to the tips, freezing.

He was alone. And lost. And no matter how much he called out for Jaemin’s name over and over again, no one ever came to reply.

Losing strength, Donghyuck fell to his knees. His gloved covered fingers sank into the five centimeters deep white snow and he began to cry, as loudly as he could, just like how he usually did at nights when he was too scared of the monster lurking under his bed.

He cried, and he cried, and he cried, and then he stopped.

He was not alone.

Donghyuck had his gaze on you; his big, watery, round eyes blinking in surprise. Your dress was tainted with splotches of red, fresh liquid that dripped from your chin as you just feasted upon a human. Turning around to look at him, Donghyuck noticed something peculiar.

Your eyes were glowing, strikingly so. Even in the darkness, even when the moon didn’t set afoot to shine that night in the silenced forest, Donghyuck saw them shining like the stars. And they were brighter, much brighter than anything he had ever witnessed.

The little boy stopped crying and gazed back at you. But no matter how cold your eyes were as they raked in his features, Donghyuck was not as much afraid as he was curious of why you could stand in the middle of December, wearing nothing but a sleeveless knee-high summer dress. And he was still starstruck with your glowing topaz eyes.

When he reached out a hand, you took a step back by instinct. Humans made you nervous, especially after your last encounter with the hunters. The memory of one of them nearly driving a stake into your heart made you more cautious than ever, even when your opponent was only a child.

Donghyuck stood up and dared himself to take another step and this time you bared your teeth in response. Your natural human face suddenly dispersed into a form of fear the second Donghyuck saw your teeth.

They were fangs, small but sharp enough to tear skin apart. You snarled, like a beast in a corner, ready to pounce when threatened.

But Donghyuck’s fear only lasted for a minute, while his curiosity and admiration lasted forever.

“You…” Donghyuck spoke, his voice quivered from the cold and perhaps, excitement. Blood was still dripping from the corner of your mouth and he saw a long cut, spreading from your right palm to her wrist. “Are you hurt? You’re bleeding…”

Your eyes widened in surprise at his words, blinking twice before your shoulders began to loosen.

“If you’re hurt, I have band-aids,” Donghyuck said, immediately shoving his small hand inside his pocket to grab two blue band-aids with soccer balls printed on them. He showed them to you, his teeth still chattering from the cold. “See?”

You examined him more, looking for any kind of sign that he might be a threat to your existence but it was no use. Donghyuck was as harmless as he was adorable. He didn’t even have the strength to keep his little, stubby fingers steady from the cold.

“Why are you crying?” You asked instead, standing a little better in a less offensive stance.

Donghyuck finally remembered. “Nana… Jaeminnie’s gone… He fought with his brother so we went out here to have some time for ourselves but… But we got separated and now he’s gone...”

“In the woods like this?” You wiped the blood off your mouth with the back of your hand. “What, do you want to die? It’s not safe.”

“N-no—I don’t want to die… I didn’t mean it to be like this.” The little boy shook his head. “I was just trying to help… Jaeminnie looked sad and I wanted to help…”

You fell quiet for a moment, noticing how Donghyuck’s eyes had turned watery once again. You retracted your hands, no longer had your claws out to defend yourself. “Maybe your friend’s already gone home first.”

“Y-you think?” Donghyuck’s eyes grew hopeful and that was when you realized that the boy was not crying because he was lost in the woods late at night, nor was he crying because he thought his friend abandoned him. Donghyuck was crying because he was worried sick about him. “W-well, if he’s home then that’s great… I really hope he’s with his family again… Fighting is bad…”

So frail, you thought, humans are so frail. Leave them and they cry. Break them and they die.

You sighed. You couldn’t find the heart to leave him alone.“Come with me,” you said, “I’ll help you find your way out of the woods. You can check whether he’s home or not after that.”

And Donghyuck was not one to think twice when people offered him help. With a bright smile, he let his little feet carry him closer to your spot. “I’m Donghyuck,” he said, smiling brightly as he stood beside you. “And you are?”

You glanced at him, noticing how his bangs were fluttering from the winter breeze. His nose was red and his skin, although it was slightly tanned, was thin and easy for you to sink your teeth into if you wanted to.

You told him your name and you had to repeat it twice until he could pronounce it correctly. He smiled even warmer. “Your name is pretty. Just like you, Noona!”

Noona? You almost snorted. When was the last time someone ever called you that?

But you kept yourself in silence and although you appeared cold, Donghyuck managed to find your charm in his own way.

“Can I hold your hand on the way out, Noona?”

“Don’t get too full of yourself, brat.”

Twenty years-old Lee Donghyuck smiles at the memory, even when he’s somewhat dazed from the chemical of your saliva. He embraces you tighter, sighing close to your ear, “It took a while before you warmed up to me. I’m just so glad you accept me the way I am.”

That’s my line. You close your eyes, fingers curling against the back of his shirt. You can faintly hear his heartbeat growing slower and during the time you begin to worry, Donghyuck caresses your cheek.

“Can we…” He breathes heavily. “Stop for a moment?” His head swirls, always an aftereffect from having his blood sucked more than he can contain. But even then, he still smiles like always.

“Oh…” Embarrassed and startled, you pull away, immediately wiping the trace of blood on the corner of your lips with the back of your hand. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Umm…” Donghyuck witnesses your fangs before they’re fully retracted, as you turn away, shy and ashamed, hiding the only thing that distinguishes you from a normal human.

Donghyuck smiles wider, and wider, until he produces this little chuckle that always sends a trickle of warmth and desire through your soundless heart. “You’re adorable, come here,” he says, hugging you from behind and tugging you closer to his chest, your intertwined hands lying idly on your lap.

After years have passed by since your first encounter, Donghyuck has become stronger and taller, with broader shoulders and veiny muscles appearing along his wrists. You, in return, stay as young as always, never changing. But like this, sitting above his thighs and curling up to his chest, you look like a normal girl, perhaps even a few months younger than he is.

“Hyuck...”

“Hmm?”

“Did it... hurt?”

“When I fell from heaven?”

You don’t indulge him with his jokes. “When I bit you, did it hurt?”

“Yeah, but I like it.” He grins, placing his chin on your shoulder. "Seems like I’ve developed a kink for it.” When you don’t mirror his laugh, he embraces you tighter. “I’m fine,” he whispers to your ear, tickling you with his warm breath. “Just a little low on blood, but come on, it’s nothing new.”

You don’t say anything but Donghyuck understands how guilt is gnawing at you from the inside. “Hey,” he gently turns your body around until he has his eyes peering into yours. You’re reluctant, not sure how to face him with the look of guilt on your face. “I said I’m fine. Can’t you see?” he coos, smiling with his chocolate brown eyes turning crescents. “Don’t look like that. You know I don’t like it when you’re blaming yourself for drinking my blood.”

“But it’s…” You nibble on your lower lip. “It’s not right.”

“You’re just filling your needs,” Donghyuck corrects you. “What’s wrong with it? I do it all the time. Think about this as your late-night snack.”

“Hyuck, I’m snacking on your blood.”

“And yet you’re the one who complains about it. You see how weird that is?” You shoot him a glare but Donghyuck counters back with a pout—a habit from his childhood days that somehow only occurs more often now that he’s an adult. “Look, I volunteered to do this. I want you to drink my blood.” He swats the bangs out of your eyes, leaning close. “I’ll be pissed-off if you drink from someone else, actually. You’re supposed to be mine, just as much as I am yours.”

It’s funny how you’re superior than him in terms of experience, strength, and possibly anything else, but he shamelessly talks like he owns you. And you don’t mind, not at all, because after living behind the shadows for so long, it’s nice to have someone as bright as the sun holding you captive under his light.

You trail your fingers through the blood on his neck, painting his skin with crimson. “I’ve made a mess,” you mumble to yourself and Donghyuck stiffens, even stops breathing for a second. You dip your head into the crook of his neck, darting out your tongue to wipe the rest of his blood away, slowly and gently so you won’t scrape his skin with your fangs.

“Don’t hold back.” He holds you closer until your teeth are grazing against the supple skin. “It’s okay if you want to do it again.”

The temptation is too much, too strong, and you can’t find the will or strength to decline. “T-then... Just a little more.”

Donghyuck’s ragged breathing devolves into soft moans that ring in your ears, and you want him so desperately in every sense of the word. “Fuck, it’s so weird that it feels this good,” he sighs, the back of his head pressed against the wall behind him. “Do I taste this good to you too?”

You hum, squeezing his shoulder.

He smiles between deep sighs. “Then, I guess, we’re both each other’s drugs.”

You only take a sip of his blood and lick the rest until nothing seeps out from his wound. Donghyuck is in a haze, eyes nearly closed when he smiles softly. “Are you done?”

You nod, wiping your mouth clean. “Thank you.”

“You’re being too formal.” He titters. “But you’re welcome. Anytime you want.”

You don’t really blush, not when you’ve lived for more than a century, but Donghyuck has his way to break into your facade and knows when he’s succeeding. He says there’s just something in the way you avert your gaze, the way you lick your lips nervously, or the way you put a hand on his chest as if you were about to push him away, but at the same time, making sure that he stayed near.

Donghyuck understands all that. He knows you like the back of his hand.

“Listen to me,” Donghyuck says, cupping your face with both hands so he can stare directly into your glowing eyes. “If you ever crave for blood, you come to me, okay? I won’t let you starve. I won’t let you die. You can drink from me, as much as you want. I want you to.”

You’re surprised at the sudden pressure on his words and Donghyuck’s hands are hot, nearly scorching compared to your icy cold skin but they’re comfortable. He reminds you of the sun, of its heat on your skin during the day, reminding you how good your life was as a human.

“But I’m not even alive, Hyuck,” you say, smiling weakly as you lean more into his touch.

“Scientifically, no.” He shifts closer to press his forehead against yours, his heat seeping through your skin. “But to me, you’re much more alive—and you make me feel more alive than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You want to meet his eyes, but his stare is directed to your lips. “Is that a compliment or a white lie?” You whisper, and his eyes grow half-lidded when he sees you moving your lips to form a sentence.

“It’s the truth.” Donghyuck swallows the soft noise you make directly with his mouth, lips slanting against yours perfectly like pieces of a puzzle. He groans from the back of his throat when he tastes a hint of his blood on your tongue, kissing you deeper with more passion.

Being with Donghyuck is suffocating and it’s funny because you don’t even need to breathe to live. It’s suffocating in the sense of how desperate his kisses are, how there is only one innocent kiss at the beginning that only lasts for a few seconds and then vanishes entirely, changing into hard, bruising, deep ones that feel possessive and dominating.

But being with him is also comforting. He gives you solace you don’t know you need. His touch, a stark contrast to his kisses, is gentle, almost silky smooth whenever his hands glide on your skin. He’s the only one who knows how to make you laugh, even when you can hardly remember how or the sound that you make when you do. His laughter is contagious, his protested whines are both annoying and endearing. He’s the fire that keeps you alive.

“Hyuck—” You circle your fingers around his wrist, feeling the heartbeat that faintly beats under the skin. “Wait, you’re losing a lot of blood—”

“I don’t care,” he gasps against your mouth, yanking his hand from your hold so he can cup your cheek. “I’m fine, so let’s just—“ You let him overpower you for once to do as he pleases and he pushes you down to the carpeted floor, crawling on top of your body. “I want you—for two weeks, I’ve been—I’ve missed you—”

Donghyuck is adorable when he wants something so desperately, like the way he furrows his eyebrows as he runs his fingers on his keyboards. The way he’s shouting a train of expletives at his computer screen before he leaps out of his chair, punching the air when he finally completes the mission.

Donghyuck is captivating when he desires to achieve something in his life, like the way he practices dancing over and over again to earn a scholarship to college. Or the way he told you he loved you a few months ago, and no matter how many times you said no, telling how ridiculous of him to even think about being with a vampire, he never relented.

And Donghyuck is beautiful—so out worldly beautiful—when he wants you.

It’s beautiful, the little moan that escapes his lips when you touch him back. Even the slightest touch at the right spot can make him shiver and he blushes when you notice him react that way, immediately saying, “It’s just cold here, okay? And your ice-cold skin isn’t helping.”

It’s beautiful, the way a bead of sweat rolls down his temple as he’s sheathed deep inside you, not quite moving yet as he tries to catch his breath, his cheeks flushed. “You’re driving me insane,” he confesses, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, grazing his lips against your skin as he sighs. “Can we stay like this forever?”

It’s beautiful, the way he laughs when you answer him with, “Actually yes, we can, if you’re willing to be turned into a vampire.” The appalled look on his face only stays for a split second before he beams at you, his smile bright enough to replace the sun. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he giggles, taking your earlobe between his teeth as he whispers, “Any man would be happy to sacrifice their souls to be able to make love to you for eternity. Including me.” And as he moves back to your lips, he adds, “Especially me.”

It’s beautiful, the way he throws his head back in pleasure at the feeling of you clenching around him. The way he murmurs expletives while biting his lip as he brings his eyes down to you. His expression is erotic, his voice obscene, his lips are parted and bruised. His hands are on your knees as he spreads your legs apart, pushing himself deeper inside. “I can never get enough of you. I—“ He flinches when his thrust hits your sweet spot and you squeeze harder around him in response.

It’s beautiful, the way he rambles when the sensation becomes too much. “The way you feel around me—” He places open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his hips moving frantically at a faster pace. “Y-your entire existence—” His hand heads over to your breast, his thumb sliding over your nub. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And it’s fucking beautiful, the way he says your name in a soft gasp as he comes inside you, his arms trembling when he places them on the floor on each side of your head to keep him from collapsing on top of you. His temple is pressed against your collarbone and he quivers when you kiss his hair. His lips immediately chase after yours when his name escapes your mouth, and he kisses you again, and again, as if he hasn’t been kissing you a thousand times already.

“Stay with me,” he begs, his hooded eyes nearly hidden behind the bangs that are damp from his sweat. “I’ll keep you alive—as alive as you make me feel so please just…”

Don’t leave me.

***

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kuroopaisen · 5 years ago

Text

dawn. (sakusa kiyoomi)

➵ even monsters should have someone to bring them flowers.

wc: 3k

warnings: gn!reader, vampire!sakusa, visceral depiction of raw meat?

a/n: the biggest of thank yous to ren, as usual :( she doesn’t even like fantasy aus and yet she’s beta’d a fair chunk of them. as always, her advice is invaluable, and she helped polish this into something worthwhile.

A note on the table.

The only sign you’d been here. That, and your lingering scent – warm, golden, comforting.

He was almost sad that he’d missed you.

But the words in your letter would have to tide him over until your next conversation.

“Good morning! I hope you are well-rested this evening. I have left this meat here as requested. I couldn’t help but wonder what dishes you make with it. Are you much of a cook? If not, I am happy to try and prepare something for you. I cannot guarantee that it will be to your taste, but I will try my best!”

He let his eyes linger on it for a moment. He wondered how his chest might feel, if he was fully alive. Tight, maybe. Fuzzy.

Now, the thrum of emotions just made his senses sharper.

And that made him uncomfortable.

He turned his eyes to the parcel sitting to the side of your note.

He unwrapped the paper packaging with a trembling gloved hand.

The ripest cut of the belly. It sat in a pool of its own liquids, a crimson slab marbled with white. He knew that there wasn’t a sufficient amount of blood in it – but it’s all he could handle. All he could stomach.

He took a deep breath. The air in his lungs did nothing for him, but some habits were harder to break than others, even if it had been a couple hundred years.

He picked up the meat with both hands, holding it just shy of his mouth. His face crinkled as the scent filled his nose, putrid, offensive, intoxicating.

It’s disgusting. But it’s what he had to do.

He sunk his fangs into the meat, the damp flesh pressing against his chin. He could feel the juices running down his chin, and he shivered. His eyes fluttered shut, perhaps in some attempt to steel himself.

It’s not blood. It wouldn’t sustain him.

Instead, it would just make him sick.

This meat, this scant amount of blood threaded throughout it, wasn’t enough to sustain him. But he’d rather go hungry than go out for a hunt, either for animal or human.

The thought was absolutely abhorrent, both in its ethicality and hygiene.

This meat was not enough to sustain him. But it would stave off the hunger, at least for a few days. At least until the next slab of meat, when he would feel this all again.

He’s trembling as he drank, hoping, wishing that it would be over soon.

A loud gasp sliced through the kitchen.

Sakusa tore his fangs out of the meat, his head whipping around.

You were stood in the doorway, eyes wide and hands clamped over your mouth.

At your feet laid a bunch of sunflowers.

You stared at each other for a long moment.

What was he supposed to do? To say?

He knew what he looked like. Sharp fangs poking through his lips, red staining his chin, the veins running along his jaw dark beneath his skin as he fed.

“Sakusa, sir…” There was a tremble in your voice. He despised the sound.

“Get out.”

“Sir—”

“Get out.”

You knew now. You knew that he was a monster. That he was disgusting. You’d seen it with your own eyes – eyes full of terror. Eyes he’d never wanted to look at him like that.

You waited for just a moment. And then you were gone.

Sakusa let the meat fall out of his hands and plop onto the wrapping. His appetite had entirely disappeared despite the fact he wasn’t nourished. He closed his eyes, trying to round up his whirling thoughts.

You’d seen him. You’d seen him in all his disgrace. You’d seen him as the monster he was.

He swallowed roughly, turning his gaze to the doorway.

The sunflowers were where you’d dropped them, scattered across the floor.

Were they why you’d come back? You shouldn’t have been here. You should’ve left after finishing your jobs.

But it was just like you to bring him flowers on a whim.

He sighed, stalking over to them and picking them up with a grimace. The least he could do was to give them some water.

✧ ✧

Vampires didn’t need sleep, but Sakusa liked to pretend he did anyway.

He always had. He just did his best to quiet his mind, lying under his covers as he waited for the hours to ebb by. He couldn’t leave the house during the day; if he tried, he would simply shrivel up and crumble in the sun.

He’d tried facing the sun, once. The burn had been unlike any pain he’d felt before.

And yet sometimes he'd leave the curtains open, just a crack. And he'd lie on the couch, watching the light filter in. Sometimes, he'd even let himself remember what the sun felt like.

But every evening, he had to ‘wake’ as the sun set, watching the light shrink away from him.

That evening though, something was different. Something shook him from his self-induced slumber with an abrupt shock.

That scent. Blood.

He shot to his feet, head whipping around in the direction of the smell. It was heavy, oppressive, so thick that he couldn’t think of anything else.

He stumbled into the kitchen, hoping, begging that he might find some relief.

In the middle of the kitchen table sat a bucket. Sakusa took a series of slow, laboured steps towards it, gripped by some half-conscious fear.

A letter laid next to it, written in a familiar scrawl.

“Sir, I admit that I am confused as to how to comprehend what I saw yesterday, but if my suspicions are correct, then I believe this will do you more good than a simple cut of meat. If my imagination has gotten away from me, then simply ignore this – my father told me that mixing this into the dirt makes for a fantastic fertiliser.”

Had you really brought him a whole bucket of blood? There was more than enough here to sustain him for a week – maybe even two. How had you gotten your hands on it? How had you snuck it into his house? How had you felt, lugging this foul liquid all the way to his estate?

He closed his eyes, trying to quell the thoughts tearing through his mind.

He looked into the bucket. A dark shadow stared back.

He’d forgotten what he looked like. He’d forgotten how his dark, curly hair framed his face, how two dark moles crowned his forehead, how dark and deep his eyes were.

This was the monster you’d seen savaging a slab of meat in the kitchen. This was the monster that you’d somehow gotten your hands on a bucket of blood for. This was the monster you’d given a reprieve.

On the other side of the bucket sat a vase of sunflowers; the ones he had arranged the other day. He could swear they looked fresher than yesterday.

✧ ✧

That awful, intoxicating scent.

He had awoken to that small three times this week. But on that Monday morning, he wanted to see you. To ask you the questions that had been hounding him through his days.

He stood at the far end of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest as he slouched against the wall.

You were humming to yourself as you walked in, your knuckles blanching as they gripped onto the handle of a deep bucket.

You flinched as you caught sight of him, your eyes wide and owlish. The jolt caused the blood to slosh around in the bucket. Sakusa feared, for a moment, that it would splash on the floor.

You placed the bucket on the floor and bowed sharply.

“Where did you get that?” Sakusa asked, his voice low and sharp. He suspected that you would interpret his tone as an angry one. In truth, he was frightened more than anything. Frightened of how this conversation could go.

You straightened up, fixing your eyes on him. They were still wide, still afraid. It almost looked like they’d pop out of your skull. “The butcher… they drain the caracsses before, you know…”

Ah. Your body language, your scent. It all screamed of discomfort. Distress, even. Of course you would feel that way, talking of such things. You were much too sweet for such talk.

This was his fault.

But you continued.

“So, when I saw you in the kitchen that day, I thought that…” You finally dropped your gaze. He was grateful.

“I know,” he murmured. “I read your note.”

You looked up at him again, a new expression on your face. He realised, not without some surprise, that it wasn’t fear. Perhaps something closer to hesitation.

“You were quick to make such an assumption,” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. Sakusa wouldn’t lie to you; not when you’d gone through all this effort for him. Though, perhaps he should tell you that it was safe for you to leave his employ, if you wished.

“Well, it didn’t come out of nowhere, did it?” You smiled gently, tilting your head at him.

His head snapped around as he raised an eyebrow at you.

You giggled. It didn’t sound intentional, and you cut it off quickly. But he was glad to have heard it.

“You’re most active at night, you seem to actively avoid the sunlight, you’ve always kept a distance between us…” There was a hum in your voice. A pleasant sound, but an out-of-place one.

He frowned. Your last piece of evidence had little to do with his affliction, but he wasn’t about to point that out. He would’ve kept that distance regardless; perhaps he would be even more stringent with it, if he was still human. But it was of no matter.

“So, you’ve suspected I was a monster for a while,” Sakusa sighed. “And yet you kept coming back?”

You bit your lip, folding your hands in front of you.

He scoffed. “That was foolish of you.”

“Well, I…” You swallowed, scratching the back of your neck. “I… I thought you seemed lonely.”

Something about those words set his heart aflame. Him? Lonely? What right did you have to say something like that?

“And… and you’ve never tried to hurt me,” you mumbled, interrupting the rage swelling in his chest. “If you wanted to… to drink my blood, or, or…” You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. “Well, you would have done that by now, wouldn’t you?”

You’d been tending to his house for the better part of a year. The longest anyone had.

He just frowned, looking away from you.

But you weren’t done.

“And… well, you wanted me to bring you meat, right? Which means… you probably weren’t hurting anyone else,” you bit your lip, tilting your head at him. “It may be foolish of me, but… I didn’t want to judge you for what you are.”

“For being a monster, you mean?” Sakusa snarled.

He couldn’t stop himself. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he knew he sounded repulsive. He wanted to push you, to stop you from looking any closer. From seeing how horrible he truly was.

You looked at him for a painfully long moment. A moment he wished would shatter.

“You’re not a monster.”

“I’m disgusting.” A hiss. A baring of fangs. Responses made on instinct.

“And yet you won’t feed on humans,” you murmured, eyes scanning his face.

He faltered. Were the fangs not enough to make you turn and run? Was the bucket of blood at your feet not enough to make your stomach churn?

“Would a monster hold back like that?”

Would they? He couldn’t say.

“And besides,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him. When he didn’t move, you picked up the bucket and made your way for the kitchen table. You heaved the bucket onto it with a little grunt.

“Even monsters should have someone to bring them flowers,” you smiled, nodding at the centre of the table. A vase, playing host to a small bunch of sunflowers.

“I see you haven’t brought any today,” he murmured, his eyebrows knitting together.

“I knew I wouldn’t need to,” you replied easily, leaning over to feel one of the petals. “You always look after them so well.”

He finally looked at you. You had the softest of smiles on your face. You didn’t look scared, or appalled, or upset. You were the perfect picture of contentment – just someone admiring the simple beauty of a flower.

A flower he had been responsible for nurturing.

Perhaps, there was still some humanity in him.

The thought was almost as soothing as your smile.

✧ ✧

You were terrified.

There were many whispers about Sakusa, and you’d heard them all. Even before you’d taken over the job of tending to his household, you were well-acquainted with the stories of this strange, pale man who lived alone in an excessively large mansion. A mansion that, except for a handful of peculiarities, was empty.

Previous housekeepers had nothing bad to say about him, but it was obvious they were unsettled by how strange he was. Apparently, he was a stickler for cleanliness. And yet, that wasn’t even the strangest thing about him.

You had almost decided not to take up the job, back when you’d first started. The thought of being in this big house alone with such a strange man had genuinely frightened you – but, as the story always goes, you needed the money.

After meeting Sakusa for the first time, you came to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t dangerous. Shy. Awkward. Intense. But not dangerous.

And maybe that really was foolish of you. That word had snuck back into your mind over and over, always in that harsh tone of his.

But you knew loneliness. It had carved a home inside you, a well so deep it could never overflow.

And in that strange, reticent man, you saw it. The face of a man who sheltered a deep, relentless loneliness; perhaps harsher and heavier than the one you knew. It was like he wanted to reach out, to find that sense of connection and understanding, and yet was too afraid to.

Sakusa had never hurt you. He’d never made any move to seduce you, or trap you, or manipulate you. There were no stories of him having done that to anyone else either.

So, maybe you were being foolish. Maybe this was dangerous.

But you wanted to give him a chance. To extend a hand.

And that was why you had stayed later, with the intent of catching him.

You sat on the couch next to him in a tepid silence. You weren’t quite touching, but it was the closest he’d been to a human in a long, long time. He flinched, but he didn’t move away.

“May I?” You murmured, eyes flicking to the hands clenched in his lap.

Every instinct was screaming, a muddled cacophony of wants and fears.

Sakusa nodded, driven by something he didn’t quite understand. Something, perhaps, that he’d forgotten about long ago.

You gently took his hand in yours, easing the tension in his grip by running your thumb over the back of it.

“How long have you been like this?” You asked, looking right at him. You wanted him to know that you saw him, that you acknowledged him.

“Two hundred and forty-seven years.”

“Have you avoided people all that time?”

He looked away from you. In truth, he had avoided people long before he turned.

You pressed your lips together, running your thumb over his knuckles. “Are there not… others like you?”

“There are,” he murmured. “And I want nothing to do with them.”

You bit back a smile, thoroughly amused by the dismissiveness in his tone. “Why?”

Sakusa frowned. The life of a vampire was invariably a life spent in solitude. As a rule, they weren’t the most social of creatures; and quite frankly, Sakusa was proud to be an outcast. But he wouldn’t bore you with the details.

“They’re all insufferable,” he mumbled.

You giggled. “How so?”

Sakusa pressed his lips together. There were many reasons to avoid covens; anxiety, petty politics, filth. Being around those who were just as disgusting as him – and who didn’t care about that. Who lived openly and freely as the monsters they were. Feeding on humans. Fighting amongst themselves.

Yes, covens sounded hellish.

But some part of him feared that maybe it was because he was afraid of connecting. Of reaching out. Of being seen – seen as the abhorrent creature that he was. To be around other vampires, to partake in their way of life, meant finally, truly facing the fact that he was a monster. That he was so, so far away from the human world.

From your world. You, who was sitting here with your hand wrapped around his.

“Why are you doing this?” He murmured, staring into the fire. The fireplace had been merely decorative until today. But he hoped that it was bringing you some warmth. He couldn’t tell how cold these early hours of the morning were. Everything was cold, to him.

“Doing what?” You asked, tilting your head at him.

He frowned. “Being so… so…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t shape them.

But you understood. He could tell, from the gentle look in your eyes.

“I want to get to know you,” you hummed, smiling at him.

He wanted to tell you that was foolish. That you were wasting your time. That he didn’t deserve you. But he had a feeling you would refute all of those points. That you’d smile and tell him that none of those things mattered. You were such a strange human.

“And,” you murmured, looking down at your entwined hands with a touch of red on your cheeks, “this might be selfish of me, but… I want to see you smile.”

And you got stranger. Every time you open your mouth, you would say something so odd. But it’s not unwelcomed.

He thought that you were something like the sun.

You gave off a certain warmth; the type that begot growth. It was a warmth that others could flourish in, that would give them the love and care that they needed. Perhaps this was the closest he would ever come to sunlight again.

Maybe he was ready to welcome the sun.

#sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa x you #sakusa imagines #sakusa kiyoomi imagines #haikyuu x reader #haikyuucreations #my first sakusa piece fdslfdlkfj #i hope i did alright

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platypanthewriter · 4 years ago

Text

The Tanning Rock

Harringrove April prompt 28, Tanning--Creatures!AU (This one grew to nearly 6k and I’m so sorry) @wasting-time-again HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, HAVE A MERMAN! XD

The lawyer who summoned Billy—about an inheritance, he said—was...weird. Straight out of a movie, with long incisors and a cravat, and he steepled his fingers as he talked.

Max said he was probably actually a vampire, and Billy agreed—which was weird, because as far as Billy knew, his mom’s family wasn’t exactly old money, and it was hard to imagine a vampire getting on a plane to fly clear to California and summoning him to a crypt full of file cabinets, all just to read a will about his mom’s collection of surfing stickers and pile of old National Geographics.

Billy knew his father had disowned him, so he bit his lips together, waiting to hear that his mother had died.

“I am here about the estate of your grandmother,” said the vampire lawyer, and Billy drew a shaky breath of relief. “Your mother was disowned—” he said, and Billy almost snorted a laugh—like mother, like son, he thought, “—and so her domicile has passed to you.”

“Wait, what,” Billy breathed, wide-eyed.

“It is an unusual case,” said the lawyer—Fangun and Stayk, est. 986, read his card, but Billy wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to Fangun or Stayk, or whether the whole thing was a joke yet, so he kept his mouth shut. “You will take ownership of the house and land, however, you may not live there—that is, not year-round, not unless you are given an invitation by a resident. It is a closed community.”

“...can I sell it?” Billy asked, and the deepset eyes of the lawyer stared back at him, bloodshot and dry.

“At well below market value,” he said, steepling his fingers again. They made a dryish noise. “As I said, they dislike outsiders. And a stranger will be even more of an outsider than you, in whom runs...the blood of the place.”

Billy wondered, dully, whether he’d inherited a haunted graveyard, or a den of werewolves, and groaned into his hands. Maybe he was part zombie somehow. Just his luck. “Where is it,” he sighed.

“It is not on commonly available maps,” said the vampire, and Billy nodded. It figured, he thought, though his ears perked up considerably when his grandmother’s lawyer laid out a map of Hawaii.

They got a ride from the shore on a fishing boat at four o’clock in the morning. “It’s barely tourist season yet,” said the fisherwoman, showing Max how to steer. “There will be a ferry, in a week or two, but I can give you two a ride out the day your visa’s up if the ferry quits sooner.”

“We want enough time to look around,” Max said, glancing at Billy. They’d let their lease run out, and sold most of their things, because a few orange crates of records were a small price to pay for never running into Neil Hargrove around town. “You could get a job on one of the normal islands,” Max had suggested, quietly, over and over. “If they don’t like us enough.”

Billy’d never suggested moving Max so far away, but she’d assumed they were going, and after a while he went along with it. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, getting a job in a hotel somewhere after the islanders threw him out. Max would probably love it, in Hawaii.

A fresh start, she had said, and it sounded good.

He and Max were greeted by a woman in a wheelchair, who stamped their passports. “Technically, we’re a different country,” she said, smiling. She had very brown skin, and looked contentedly half-asleep in the sun. “You’re the only visitors on the island, for a week or two,” she said, cocking her head. “We’re not always in a big hurry to scrub up the ferry for the summer. We love the money, but the tourists...” she laughed, shaking her head. “Three-month pleasure trip visa. Have a nice summer,” she said, waving them away.

Her benign lack of interest lessened Billy’s initial fears that he’d inherited membership in some rich, yoga-pants-wearing, white Human Superiority cult.

The house was traditional-ish, with a grass roof and walls, big open windows with no glass, only shutters, and a wide shaded veranda all the way around. It looked over a beach with rolling waves, and Billy couldn’t wait to get his board out there.

“I’m gonna look around the house,” Max said. “See if I can find any neighbors. Maybe I can bring them cookies.” She set her jaw, frowning around at their luggage, and the scattered pillows. “Maybe we can buy some furniture somewhere.”

“...we can always just come here for summers,” Billy told her, breathing it in.

“Yeah, you’re gonna have a great time getting a tourism job where you don’t work summers,” Max said, raising a sarcastic eyebrow, and Billy realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that she expected him to figure it out. Find someone who wanted him to stay, here, on the island, at his grandmother’s house.

“I’m no good at making friends, Max,” he reminded her, and she snorted.

“Better get out of my hair, then.” She folded her arms, taking another deep breath of the smell of grass in the sun. After a long moment, she looked back at him again. “...we’ve got a little over three months, Billy.”

He suspected it sounded longer to her.

When he wandered down to the beach, Billy could see someone’s tanned shoulders lying across a jutting rock about fifty feet out, and he paddled a ways towards it on his surfboard, getting the lay of the ocean. There was a rip tide, dark and eerily quiet, to his right, but the rest of the beach had shallow, warm, clear waves over white sand and coral until a dark dropoff about fifty feet out where the rolling waves began.

As he paddled closer to the rock, he could see the man on it—asleep, Billy thought, just lying in the sun as the waves lapped at his skin. As Billy drifted closer, paddling with his hands, he could see a long-fingered hand hanging in the water, and he paddled faster, suddenly wondering whether the man wanted to be out on a rock, or whether he was a Dude In Distress, his leg cramped, needing a ride to the beach on Billy’s surfboard and a trip around the boardwalk, and maybe some shaved ice.

As Billy approached, the guy opened his eyes, frowning over at Billy with wide, half-awake brown eyes. He pushed himself up on the rock with his arms like the goddamn Little Mermaid, Billy thought, amused. His throat went dry watching the flex of muscle, and the water droplets where the dude had lifted himself out of the bay.

Billy paddled at random, a little, unable to tear his eyes away. He cleared his throat. “Just, uh, making sure you didn’t need any help,” he said, staring at the tanned arms and swimmer’s chest in front of him, nearly triangular, like a superhero. “I, um. Guess you’re fine.”

The guy raised his eyebrows, starting to smirk, and then his eyes widened, and Billy realized in a flash of blue and foam that he’d drifted right into the fucking rip tide. Right in front of the gorgeous dude on the rock, Billy thought in the back of his mind, trying to hold onto his surfboard and let the rip tide take him wherever it would. Just his luck, he thought, dying because he was so damn gay he saw nice shoulders and his brain switched off. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to breathe before he got sucked down, and his lungs and sinuses were starting to ache worse than the rest of him, even as he was buffeted around against his board, when an arm slid around his waist.

He wanted to yell at the guy—and he did, in an explosion of bubbles—because what the hell good was it gonna do, swimming into a rip tide, but the muscles against his back and butt flexed, and they were moving sideways out of the rip tide, and then Billy’s head was above water. He gasped and choked, coughing up half the sea. The ocean moved soothingly around them, as this dude had no trouble holding Billy up, and Billy tried to clear his throat and eyes.

“Have you seriously never seen a tail before,” the guy groaned, hauling Billy along like he was no more effort to lift than a little kid at the pool. Billy felt rock against his thigh, suddenly, and scrambled onto it, coughing and wiping his eyes to see he was on the jutting rock the dude must have jumped off of, to save him.

“How-how fucking humiliating,” he gasped out loud. “Can’t believe. C-can’t believe I fucking p-paddled into a rip tide.”

“You drifted back into the...yeah,” his hot rescuer said, still in the water, with one hand on the rock to hold him steady as he frowned at Billy. His voice sounded a little odd—Billy was reminded of the Chinese grocery by his house, where their English was perfect, but they had a lilt as they tried to speak an atonal language with a tonal ear. Up close, he was even prettier, with moles Billy wanted to track down his neck and shoulders, and a doubtful, scrunched-up mouth Billy wanted to kiss.

“Sorry,” Billy wheezed, still coughing. “Sorry, I’m such a moron, sorry.” He tried to keep his eyes above the water level, but some part of his brain kept looking for tanned legs kicking under the surface, and he suddenly registered that the moving colors weren’t just fish and anemones. “Holy shit,” he coughed out. “You have a tail.”

His rescuer frowned harder, probably worried Billy had brain damage. “I figured that’s why you swam into the rip tide,” he said slowly, and Billy shook his head, groaning.

“No—fuck, I’m sorry, you—you’re just hot as fuck, I’m just a moron, I’m—damn it,” he sighed. “Sorry, jesus, I’m so fucking rude, sorry, I just didn’t notice, I was like ‘How the hell did he get me out of there? OH!’, sorry,” he muttered, sighing. “...drown me.”

“I am though, right,” the merman said, grinning, “—hotter than you,” and Billy realized he’d found the only person on the island more annoying than he was.

“Yeah, yeah, just laugh at the poor gay moron who nearly drowned staring at you, that’s nice,” he huffed, lying back against the warm rock to catch his breath.

“Was it love at first sight?” asked his rescuer, and Billy opened his eyes to glare.

“Shut up, asshole,” he grunted.

“Just asking,” his tormenter asked. “Are you gonna pine away, sighing over me? Hey, d’you think you’ll always do that? If I swim over in town, you think you’ll fall off the boardwalk?”

“Fuck you,” Billy told him, leaning his face in his arms and laughing. “Yeah, probably, you shithead. Are you gonna...follow me around? So I can look like more of an idiot?”

“Mmm, can you though…” the gorgeous merman asked thoughtfully, and Billy growled into his arms, feeling his whole body warm. He blamed it on the sun. “Why,” his rescuer asked, pulling himself up to laugh against Billy’s ear. “—you want me to follow you someplace?”

“Oh my god,” Billy groaned, laughing harder. “Are you afraid to leave me alone now? What if I try and eat my surfboard?”

“...are you gonna?”

“Maybe?!” Billy told him, then pushed himself up, frowning around to look for it.

“I’ve got it, it’s right here,” the smug asshole told him, waggling the surfboard in the water. “Want me to take you back to shore?”

“No!” Billy laughed, sighing. “I’m going surfing, just because I nearly died making an ass of myself doesn’t mean—”

“Hrm, maybe I should keep an eye on you.”

“Why,” Billy asked, then pitched his voice just a little lower. “You like what you see?”

“I could get used to it,” the merman said, and Billy started to preen, but the dickhead finished with “—kind of a comedy special, kind of thing,” and Billy reached over and smacked a big splash of water at him.

He laughed, his throat arching back, the gills along it thin dark lines that Billy fantasized kissing around.

Just as Billy was considering grabbing the surfboard and using it as a weapon of blunt force trauma, the merman leaned in close, his smirk widening around pointed teeth, and his cool, salty lips pressed firmly against Billy’s. Billy made a weird gulping noise in his throat, and the asshole started to pull away, but Billy leaned in, and fell clean off the rock. His weight dunked them both, and they rose sputtering and laughing, Billy held securely in his merman’s arms as his surfboard floated away. He couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“...my name’s Billy,” he panted.

“...Steve,” the mer-dickhead said, raising his eyebrows, like it was weird to want to know his name.

“...I inherited a house here,” Billy told him in a rush, drunk on kisses. “I’m from California. My mom used to talk about this place when I was a kid. Surfing here. With her mom.”

“...is she here?” Steve asked, steadying them with one hand on the rock, and glancing back at the beach.

Billy laughed, shaking his head. “Fuck, sorry, you don’t need to know my shit. We can make out. You’re short-circuiting my brain.”

“...I should probably get your surfboard,” Steve told him, grinning, but he leaned his head in again, gentle with his sharp teeth, and Billy inhaled shakily as the points grazed his lips and tongue.

“Jesus,” he whispered, once he could talk, and then he licked his lips and wrenched himself away to swim after his surfboard, just so his smug rescuer wouldn’t have to fetch it for him. The waves got bigger as he got out to where the trees weren’t acting as a windbreak, and he clambered up on his board, glaring back as Steve wolf-whistled.

When he let the tides pull him back towards the gorgeous merman on the rock, he lost his mind again, telling him his tail looked like a peacock butt, and Steve cracked up, grinning at him.

“...so, neighbor, you have to win someone over enough to invite you to stay,” he said, cocking his head.

“Yup,” Billy told him, pointing up at the house he’d inherited, built into the hill, the old grass vacation cottage blending in with the trees.

“And your method is to tell me I look like bird ass,” Steve continued, and Billy grimaced, waving his hands.

“No! No, I don’t—I know people have to get to know you. Here. I’ll…” he sighed. “I’ll try for a few months and see what happens. If nothing...clicks, maybe I’ll try again next summer,” he said, grimacing, and wondering what Max would do, if they weren’t allowed to stay. Leave, maybe, he thought—she was seventeen, and she could get a job herself.

He ended up teaching Steve to surf, after showing off his best efforts. When he swam back, panting, Steve looked properly impressed, and even more tanned. “Teach me,” he said, and Billy leaned in to kiss him again, nodding.

“That gonna get you to like me enough to let me stay?” Billy asked, and Steve frowned at him, but Billy laughed, and leaned in for another kiss.

“Tomorrow?” Steve had whispered against his lips, and Billy got no sleep at all that night, he just rolled over every couple hours to check the clock, and see that another two minutes had passed.

Steve was fascinating to watch on the board, his tail trailing as he controlled it with his hands around either side, his abs flexing as he held himself in a kind of plank pose with the support of his tail. Billy watched, and realized he was drooling.

“You like me enough to keep me?” he asked that night, teasing, and Steve laughed.

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Merpeople—or at least, Steve, Billy corrected mentally, realizing he was dealing with a sample size of one—loved bread. Like a cat, Billy thought, watching Steve eye his croissant, or bagel. He started just bringing one every morning for Steve, and some coffee, and it was hilarious watching the fluffy flesh of a croissant dangling between Steve’s shark-like teeth. He waited every morning, and even though Billy wasn’t sure whether Steve was waiting for Billy or the bread he was carrying, he got heart palpitations every time he came down the ramp to the dock, and he could see the little lump of Steve’s head on his folded arms, the rest of him hanging off into the water.

“A few bagels aren’t enough to win me over,” Steve told him, and Billy’s stomach twisted, a little. He wished he hadn’t brought it up, kind of—the knowledge that he might have to leave hurt, like a sore tooth he couldn’t stop worrying at in his mouth. “Maybe more croissants,” Steve said, smiling, and Billy brought him more croissants.

When they’d arrived, they’d discovered the town was filled with mermaid stuff, and at first, Max and Billy had snickered at it, because surely even if there’d been a merperson or two living near a human town once, they’d died decades ago, or they just traded with fishing boats, far out at sea. They hadn’t considered the amount of people in wheelchairs, or the spray bottles close to hand.

When Billy suggested he bring lunch down from town, Steve swam over to haul himself up—his tail flashing in the light—through the bottom of one of the little sheds on the dock. Moments later, he banged the door open, wheeling out in an old rusty wheelchair. He spun it in a circle, waiting for Billy to climb out of the water, and then zipped ahead up the ramp to the path.

“Wait up, jesus,” Billy yelled after him, and Steve laughed, the muscles in his arms mesmerizing as they spun the wheels. He slowed down eventually, panting, enough for Billy to jog and catch up. “...lemme know if you want me to push,” Billy told him, and Steve snorted.

“Touch my chair and die,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Billy said, holding his hands up, and Steve laughed.

“It makes me…” he squinted, thinking. “...seasick…?” he offered, and Billy nodded, trotting along next to him.

“Motion-sick, probably,” he suggested, and Steve mouthed it as he rolled along.

The lady at the shaved ice stand leaned out and folded her arms on the edge of the little window, laughing at Steve. “You know they make those that work!” she called, and he flipped her off. “They don’t have to be electric! They make ‘em that just move smoothly.”

“It’ll just rust in my shed,” Steve told her, shrugging. “It’s fine.” As they waited for their tacos, Steve pulled up to a table, and his rusty, janky wheels kept rolling backwards, until Steve sighed and bent down to stuff some rocks under there.

“My friend Robin and I went in together on a nicer one,” he said, “—but I can’t park it in the shed. This one’s not so bad,” and Billy’s perception of it shifted a bit—maybe it was more like getting stuck with an old beater car occasionally, instead of something Steve needed help with. “...want to wander around, after?” Billy asked. “I haven’t got any souvenirs yet.”

Steve paused, then licked his lips. “Planning your trip home already?”

“...dunno yet,” Billy said, the invitation unspoken between them. It seemed ridiculous to want to stay so badly just because he’d met a pair of gorgeously tanned shoulders and a teasing smile, but it also wasn’t...hard to imagine, lingering on the island to go snorkeling with Steve, and learning about the reefs—he’d absorbed enough for a few semesters of marine biology, he was fairly sure, but told as stories, just off-handed things Steve had seen—and Billy was already wanting a drysuit, so he could go in the fall. Maybe Billy could get a job on a fishing boat, he thought vaguely, or help out in one of the shops.

If Steve would invite him.

Steve had slid his hands under Billy’s swimsuit a few times, pressing him back on their rock, or on the docks, rocking into him as Billy panted and gasped and fell apart under his hands—but he never said anything, after, and Billy hesitated to ask whether it was...anything, to Steve. Maybe he picks an idiot every summer, he thought, watching Steve smile at the depictions of mermaids on every surface of every shop on the main street.

“You all spend so much time keeping everything dry and dead,” he said, grinning over at Billy, who’d been anticipating a comment on the mermaid’s hourglass-like proportions, not her lack of water damage.

“...oh,” he said.

“I have a figurehead like that, but covered in anemones,” Steve said, cocking his head. “It’s beautiful.”

“I mean...you could...plant a vine on it, maybe?”

Steve nodded. “Put it outside in the rain, let it grow.” The lady behind the counter sighed, rolling her eyes, and Steve laughed.

“There’s a whole movement to ‘preserve’ our art,” he whispered to Billy. “Which mostly means they don’t let it become our art.”

“Huh,” Billy said, wondering whether human houses looked like museums, or mausoleums, to merpeople.

“Not to say that I’d pour water on your television set, or drop your mattress in the bay,” Steve said, grimacing a little, and watching Billy’s face. “I get that much.” He looked kind of uncomfortable with the lady behind the counter glaring at him, ducking his head.

Billy leaned to kiss him. He nearly steadied himself on the chair, and then remembering it would roll, and just held his hands away. Steve grinned up at him, particularly at his outstretched hands, and yanked Billy down on his not very much of a lap, hurriedly curling his tail up and around Billy’s waist as Billy threatened to slide down the smooth scales to the ground. Billy threw his arms around Steve’s neck, wide-eyed, as Steve held the wheels firmly, keeping the chair from rolling backwards under the weight of two grown men.

“Let’s go,” Steve whispered, and Billy nodded, breathing Steve’s sun-and-salt smell, and wondering whether it was okay to ask whether Steve would consider inviting him to stay—just until the next season, Billy thought, as the chair and Steve’s tail moved under him. Until the next summer, when he could ask whether Steve wanted him to stay again, or whether he wanted Billy gone.

After staying a whole year, Billy thought he might not have it in him to ask whether Steve was tired of him yet, but the thought of waking every morning to run down to the docks with coffee and banana bread was addictive, and he tried not to think about the end.

Billy ran into the lady who’d stamped his passport, and caught himself staring at her tanned legs propped up on the railing. “Oh, I’m human,” she said, laughing. “But I love it here. I can even shop in the little bookstore, imagine,” she said, and now that Billy thought about it, he realized it had an elevator in the back, and little lifts for the walkways along the higher shelves. “I’ve never had someone offer to lift me into their cafe, here,” she said, her nose wrinkled, and Billy nodded slowly.

“Shoot that thing!” she yelled, when she saw Steve’s awful old wheelchair, and he flipped her off.

“We can only invite a few people,” Steve told him, as they ate noodle bowls. “It’s for somebody you marry, you know, their family, maybe. Or if you leave the island, and have a kid.”

“Yeah,” Billy said softly, hearing the message clearly—invitations were not to be wasted, and Billy wasn’t special enough to keep. He finished his lunch, trying not to feel all butthurt about it. Max would probably understand.

Steve kissed him again, on the docks, and Billy leaned into it, feeling the familiar pressure of tears in his sinuses, and behind his eyes. He had three weeks left, he told himself. Three more weeks. Steve slid a hand up the back of Billy’s head, humming against his mouth, and Billy let himself go soft in his arms.

When they returned to the docks, Steve dug a big beach blanket out, and they spread it out on the sand, and Billy stayed out that night, losing himself in Steve’s warm hands and mouth, under stars like he’d never seen before.

Steve was watching his face the next morning, with a little frown, and Billy pulled away, sitting up.

“Better than croissants?” Billy asked, smirking a little, and Steve sighed.

“Was that what this was? Fucking me won’t make me give you an invitation,” he said. He didn’t look amused, the way he had over the bagels, and Billy wondered whether it had worked, a little. Billy’d always had a talented mouth.

“I won’t know if I don’t try, will I,” he said, laughing. “Maybe another round will help?”

“...I have to go,” Steve said, and he didn’t even fold up the blanket, just pushed himself off the edge and slid over the wet sand into the water, gone in a flip of tail. Billy watched for long minutes to see whether he’d come back—they’d been spending every day together, but probably Steve had stuff he needed to do, all the things he’d done before Billy had shown up at the island, easy with his body and his affections.

Billy folded up the blanket, and sat it in the shed, looking around. There really wasn’t much in there—it was the size of a small bathroom, with some knives for fishing, and a frayed net, and the beat-up wheelchair.

It smelled like Steve, and Billy stood and breathed, his eyes blurring with tears.

Steve didn’t come back, and after an hour or so Billy walked home, and ran into Max returning. “Billy!” she said, with a wide grin. “Nice night? I was out getting breakfast.” She told him about somebody named El, and somebody else named Lucas, and a Dustin.

Max was making friends too, he realized, which kind of made everything worse—she was doing her best, and Billy was just mooning over some guy who thought he was barely good enough for a fuck on the beach. She’d even met their families, he realized, listening, and registered that he hadn’t met any of Steve’s friends. He groaned into the pillows tossed around on the mat floor, and sighed.

“Should I stop seeing him?” he asked, mostly at the ceiling.

“I dunno why now,” Max said. “You’re not gonna find somebody else in a couple weeks.”

“Shit,” Billy groaned again.

“We can try again next summer,” Max said. “I like it here.”

The idea of returning the next summer, once Steve was bored, was enough to make Billy clench his jaw tight against the pillow he was hugging, squeezing his eyes shut against tears. “...yeah,” he said softly.

“God, you sound tragic,” she sighed, wandering over and dropping to sit on his butt. He grunted. “It’s fine, jesus. Worst case scenario we have a, like, vacation home. The vampire dude said we didn’t have to pay taxes on it.”

“Yeah, just pay for plane fare,” Billy sighed.

“He’s out there, y’know,” she said, “—tanning,” and Billy scrambled up so fast he dumped her with a drum noise on the taut mats.

When he swam out, Steve just stared out to sea, and Billy clung to the edge of the rock, biting his lips.

“I’m not giving you one of my invitations,” Steve said. “So stop trying to manipulate me into it.”

“Yeah,” Billy said, kind of wishing they’d never met. “Yeah, okay. Do—is that all, or are you sticking around?”

“I’ll stay,” Steve said, frowning at him, “—if you still wanna waste your time on somebody who’s not—how do you say it? Putting out?”

“...it’s not a waste of time,” Billy told him, swallowing hard. “I just wanted it to last longer, is all—” and Steve’s eyes narrowed intently. He grabbed Billy around the back of the neck, and yanked him into a kiss.

The remaining weeks, he took Billy snorkeling, and they had sex every night under the stars, Billy panting Steve’s name, and Steve holding him so tightly it almost hurt. Billy took him to meet Max, and she eyed him warily, but Billy fought and succeeded at securing Steve a plate of brownies, and he was vocally appreciative. She softened a little, at that.

Two days before they had to leave, Steve was lying next to Billy on the wet sand, the waves lapping up nearly to their waists. His shoulder was warm under Billy’s head, and smelled like the high ocean waves.

“...d’you think you’ll come back next summer,” Steve asked, and Billy snorted.

“Depends on whether I can afford airfare,” he said, sighing. “Depends on whether I can get a job somewhere that doesn’t need me in the summer.”

“...so I might just never see you again?” Steve asked flatly, and Billy laughed, shrugging.

“I don’t know,” he said, “—do you want to?”

“...fuck you,” Steve sighed, and Billy pushed himself up to frown at Steve’s face.

“I don’t know what you want,” he said, glaring back at Steve’s narrowed brown eyes. “You wanted me to shut up about staying. What am I supposed to say?”

Steve bit his lips together, and looked away. “...you know I’m gonna give you an invitation. You can just tell me.”

“What,” Billy whispered, scrambling to sit up, his heart pounding as Steve flopped over to scrabble around under his wheelchair, his tail flapping around a little in concentration, like a cat’s. He held an envelope out to Billy without even looking over.

“There,” he said. “All yours.”

“What,” Billy breathed, and then he half-crumpled it, opening it clumsily. “You—you’re giving me one?”

“Two,” Steve said, flatly, frowning down at the sand under his hands. “You and Max, right?”

“Holy shit,” Billy whispered, scrambling over to kiss him, once, then twice, relishing the little noise Steve made in the back of his throat when his lip slid between Billy’s teeth. “I have to go tell her,” he said, half laughing, his vision blurring with tears.

“Okay,” Steve said, quietly, and Billy hugged him before scrambling up and running back to the house.

Max stared at the two calligraphed invitations on the odd plasticky “paper” the merfolk used, written in Sharpie, and shook her head slowly. “You did it,” she said, and Billy laughed, nodding.

“He wanted me to stay enough,” he said, wiping his eyes, and desperately wanting Max to offer to handle the paperwork, so he could run back and kiss Steve.

There was a knock on the door. Max ran and opened it, and a short-haired woman wheeled in in a rainbow overall dress, and a small, fancy electric wheelchair, her tail the reds and oranges of a sunset. Billy never quite stopped being envious of how pretty the merpeople were.

“Steve gave you his invites, didn’t he,” she said, and Max slid them around her back, her eyes narrowing.

“...yeah,” Billy said, warily.

“Give them back to him,” she ordered, glaring between them. “He’s been saving those a long-ass time. He’s got plans for those, and he doesn’t need guilt-tripping by a pair of manipulative orphans, jesus.”

“I didn’t guilt-trip him,” Billy said, feeling guilty, suddenly, and remembering Steve’s stiffness as he handed them over. ��I didn’t,” he said, less certainly. “...he...he just likes me, he wants me to stay—”

“He’s known you three months, and you told him you fucked him to get someplace nice for your sister to live,” she said crisply. “Give them back.”

“He’s not giving them back,” Max hissed, but she was staring at Billy in horror.

“I didn’t say that,” Billy said, waving his hands. “I didn’t! Not...exactly.”

“Fuck you,” the woman said, glaring. “You pressured him.”

“Fuck,” Billy agreed, his eyes tearing up again. “Lemme—lemme go talk to him. Max, give—give ‘em here.”

“No,” she said, sounding choked, but he walked over and grabbed them, and hugged her.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said under his breath, for her ears only, and ran back out.

Steve was perched up on his rock again, and Billy grabbed his surfboard and sat on it to glide out, paddling with his hands. The water was clear under him, his shadow passing over the anemones on the reef, and he watched the fish darting around, swallowing repeatedly.

“Hey,” he said, when he got close enough, and Steve’s head jerked around, glowering warily.

“...you came back,” he said.

“...you want me to stay, right,” Billy said, cutting straight to the chase. “You gave me these because you want me to stay.” Steve frowned back at him, and Billy’s heart sank. “Answer,” he said, his throat closing around the word.

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it,” Steve said, reaching out, but he just grabbed Billy’s board before he could drift into the rip tide again. “You wanted to stay.” He was tense, and he wouldn’t meet Billy’s eyes.

“What do you want,” Billy asked again. “...because I think your friend Robin’s in my house, and she says I guilted you into it, talking about Max. Do you...if I didn’t need an invite. Would you want me to stay?”

“...I guess,” Steve sighed, and Billy swung his leg over the board, dumping himself straight down in the water, because he was definitely about to make some kind of awful noise, and the sea felt good on his hot, wet cheeks. Steve couldn’t see him crying underwater, he thought, grabbing a jut of rock to keep himself from floating back up.

He wished he could take a few slow breaths, he thought, closing his eyes, and then something brushed his arm. He opened his eyes on Steve’s wide-eyed face, his hair swirling in the water. Billy bit his lips together harder, his hands clenching on the rock, and Steve shook his head, pointing up.

“Up,” he mouthed. “Come on.”

Billy let himself be hauled upwards, and pushed up on the rock again, like when they’d first met.

“What are you doing,” Steve asked, hanging on to Billy’s surfboard.

“Nothing,” Billy said, keeping his voice level. “I thought you wanted me to stay. For me. You can have your invites back. I didn’t—” he took a deep breath, hearing Steve’s voice say stop trying to manipulate me, and Robin’s guilt-tripping. “I fucking know I’m pathetic, okay, you don’t have to pity me. Sorry I—sorry I fucking tried, jesus, I just—” he shut his eyes tightly again, laughing as he imagined Robin’s disgusted look knowing Billy’d gone out and cried.

“Wait, fuck,” Steve whispered, clambering up next to him, where Billy barely fit by himself, since it was high tide. He was warm from the sun, his tanned skin gleaming with water droplets, and Billy salivated, because his dick obviously hadn’t gotten the message it wasn’t wanted. “Wait,” Steve said, half on top of him, his weight grating Billy’s shoulder blades against the rock. Billy didn’t really mind. “You only want to stay if—if I want you, what—what does that mean—” His brown eyes were huge.

“...don’t really know how to be clearer,” Billy told him, unable to pull his eyes from Steve’s mouth.

“You don’t want to stay unless I’m happy about it,” Steve said, grabbing Billy’s hands.

“Yeah, that’s kinda how it gets, when you fall for somebody,” Billy told him, raising his eyebrows, and Steve took a shuddery breath and kissed him again. He didn’t stop, though, he just kissed Billy and kissed him, laughing shakily, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, as Billy clung to him and the rock, trying to keep them from tumbling off. “I want you here, I want you. Stay with me.”

“I’m what you want?” Billy asked, startled, his brain hazy from warm kisses, and the scrape of pointed teeth. “‘M yours then,” he whispered. “All—all of me. S’yours.”

They laid there so long, whispering and giggling, that Billy had tan lines of Steve’s fingers on his shoulder for months.

Here are the other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done!

#Harringrove April #Mermay #Almost #Harringrove #Steve's got a tail #Billy's got a surfboard

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fell-in-love-didnt-you · 5 years ago

Text

Carry Me Away With You: SnowBaz Fanfic

Simon Snow doesn't expect much from life. His father has drilled into him from the beginning two things: work alone and never trust vampires. Simon breaks both rules in a matter of days. After he collapses at the doorstop of an unknown house, he's pulled into a world he has no idea how to escape from. The question is: does he want to?

...

AH! This is my Carry On Big Bang 2020 fic. I'm so excited to have finally posted it. It also comes with AMAZING artwork by the extremely talented @thehoneyedhufflepuff on tumblr (who's also a fantastic writer on Ao3 with the @ The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff - I'd definitely recommend the Fire-verse fics). Please, please, PLEASE show them some love both on here and tumblr. The artwork is magnificent and exactly as I envisioned Simon and Baz in this time period. (scene from fic) (title scene-isn't is beautiful?!)

Here’s the link to the tumblr post!

Thank you @carry-on-big-bang for giving me the opportunity to work with such an amazing artist and fellow fic writer and for putting on such a wonderful collaboration project. I have truly enjoyed every interaction I had with @thehoneyedhufflepuff and encourage everyone reading this to go give them a follow and read their amazing work on Ao3.

As always, here’s the link to the Ao3 version in case you prefer to read that way: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150491/chapters/63625177

On to the fic!

Lover.

The word felt foreign on Simon’s tongue, like a heavy alcohol or a long-rusted coin that played on the tip of the tongue. There was nothing else, though. ‘Fling’ felt like a small blanket: it covered the important parts (the lovemaking, the flirtatious smiles, the sharing of a bed), but it also left out the parts that made Simon’s legs turn to jelly (the deep conversations, the sweet cheek kisses, the touches that lingered for hours afterwards).

Partner, however, did not fit either. Partner implied official courting, and this…was not that. Official courting entailed walks in the park with a supervisor, love letters sent in perfumed envelopes, and an eventual proposal of marriage.

It did not entail laying bed together with only centimeters of space between, breaths mingled in the shared space. It certainly did not entail what had occurred a mere half-hour before now. ‘Partners’ did not entail premarital relations, and those relations certainly did not occur between a supernatural creature of nightmares and a boy raised to kill such creatures.

Simon placed his hand tentatively on the side of Baz’s face. His eyes were closed, but Simon knew better; sharing a bed for the past month had taught him when Baz was truly gone to the world. The pounding pulse point and flickering of eyes gave the vampire away. He was resting, but not out.

“Darling,” Baz drawled, and it made Simon flush (not that he wasn’t already red from head-to-toe; Baz had that effect on him). Baz’s eyes cracked open, and he flashed a smile that forced Simon to see what made vampires so alluring to the regular eye. “Darling, do you have any idea what time it is?”

A laugh bubbled out of Simon’s chest, and he looked past Baz’s head to stare at the grandfather clock that stood ominously in the corner of the room. It was one of Simon’s favorite objects: dark blue, a sun and moon facing opposite each other, stars sliding past as did the hours of the day. Baz had bought it for him a mere three months ago, placing it in their shared chambers so Simon knew the time.

Baz was weird like in the sense that there were no clocks beside this in the manor. Time is cyclical, he had explained to Simon once. He hated it because it reminded him that of what he was: stuck moving forward in his mind while his body remained in the past. Simon progressed forward, though, and he had been adamant about having at least one way of telling time. He’d even withheld himself from Baz until the vampire had conceded, a glare on his face the entire time.

Simon often stared at that clock as they made love.

The clock read slightly past two in the morning, and Simon told Baz as such. Baz hummed in response and placed his hand on Simon’s neck, thumbing a mole that rested above his pulse point. Often, that mole would have a ring of purpled bruises around it after nights like this, and the very thought had Simon suppressing a smile. Baz, however, did not conceal his affection, and he placed a long, slow kiss to Simon’s lips.

Simon had long ago (give or take three months) begun to categorize the kisses they shared. The most common were the ones shared in private that would have the public outraged: brushes of lips against cheeks and foreheads even though they were not married. What a scandal, Simon thought distantly. Those kisses occurred in passing when one of them would be running to the study or just about to leave the house for some reason or another. Simon adored these brushes of affection that had no real bite; it meant whatever this thing that was happening was more than sex.

Simon ached for the bruising crush of lips that occurred when they fell into bed. He yearned for the swelling of lips and clashing of teeth and maybe the accidental cut of a fang-on-lip. Even the tiniest bit of venom would set his body aflame, and Simon likened it to the fever, only where Death had touched him before, Baz now did.

The ones Simon treasured above all others were these kisses: no heat, no bite, but also not something entirely platonic. A feather-light kiss on the cheek could be taken romantically if it were between a man and a woman, but Simon knew that, if ever caught, Baz would claim brotherly affection for Simon, explain that that’s how his Parisian family acted, that physical affection was common between two friends. These kisses, on the other hand, would have them thrown in jail. Simon would be forced to flee over the crime of homosexuality, and Baz would pay his way out of a scandal.

There was no denying that these kisses that occurred in this bed were of the utmost romantic quality and kind and would put many husbands and wives to shame.

Baz drew back and smiled, his eyes still pleasantly closed. He sighed through his nose, and Simon allowed himself to steal a glance. This was so new, and he was afraid that one wrong look would shatter the beautiful bubble he’d surrounded himself in. Baz had probably done this with many people before. He was…older. That’s all Simon knew. There was no discernable year or century to pin him down in, but Simon realized months ago that Baz had seen the sun rise on this Earth possibly over one-hundred-thousand times.

Baz had probably been in love before. The thought made Simon blue. Baz was his first everything; Simon was Baz’s first nothing.

It is probably love, Simon thought as Baz slowly peeled his eyes opened. There was no explanation other than a spell of sorts (not like a witch’s spell, but like a spell of sickness) that Baz’s vampiric charm had placed Simon under. His father used to warn him that vampires were excellent charmers and that the only way to save oneself from their grasp was to remain alert at all times.

Simon’s father would be rolling in his premature grave right about now.

The sheets shifted between Simon’s legs as he pressed closer to the lukewarm body across from him. Baz never ran hot; his skin was usually cold to the touch. Nights like these, however, coerced the little blood in Baz’s body to rise to the surface, turn him a color like the living, and make him vampirically burn up (though vampirically burning up meant room temperature for humans).

Baz pressed his lips into the mop of curls atop Simon’s head and breathed in deeply. His arms came to wrap around Simon’s back, and his hands splayed across Simon’s shoulder blades. He said something, though it was muffled by Simon’s hair.

“Hm?” Simon asked, turning his face upward to look directly at Baz. He pushed the raven hair out of Baz’s eyes. “What did you say?”

Baz subconsciously turned his cheek into Simon’s touch, and Simon bit at his lip to keep in a smile. “I said,” Baz murmured, turning back to Simon, “that we are spending Christmas in the Surrey House this year. I forgot to tell you this morning.”

Simon giggled at that, and Baz lightly slapped his side. Of course Baz had forgotten to say that this morning; other…happenings had occurred. Simon had also giggled because calling it the Surrey House put the building to shame. In Dorking, the manor (as it should be called) sat on acres of sprawling land that included part of a natural river, a small section of local woods, and a large field. Baz’s family’s business was still a mystery to Simon, but he at least knew how Baz made his money. Wine was apparently very expensive in large quantities, and the cellar of the manor could hold the worth of an entire village.

The manor itself was no laughing matter. Crafted with the finest cobblestone, it had stayed in Baz’s family for centuries, and even with what little Simon actually knew of Baz’s family, the amount of rooms in all the property Baz inherited gave away enough to know that many children had been born. Because Baz was the eldest (cue laughter) and had lived the longest (cue even more laughter), all the property had been passed to him.

And now Simon reveled in it. The large London townhouse they occupied for the majority of the year was Simon’s favorite. The memories here were richer than any fine chocolate or wine that Baz could procure.

“Why can’t we spend Christmas here?” Simon asked quietly, his fingers idly playing with the long strands of Baz’s hair. “We’ve never just stayed-“ Simon stopped himself prematurely. He wanted to say ‘home’ but couldn’t let that word slip from his mouth. He’d stayed with Baz in this house for almost three years, and he’d never left to live elsewhere, but the word ‘home’ insinuated something Simon would not admit to himself. He started again: “We’ve never had Christmas here.”

Goosepimples raised on his arms as Baz’s hands drew nonsensical lines across his back. Baz lowered his head down, and his lips were pressed against Simon’s forehead as he explained, “We’ve never done a lot of things, darling.” The pet name caused Simon to blush and stutter, and he could feel Baz’s smile against forehead. “We always spent Christmases in our other properties when I was little.”

Simon thought about that for a moment. He did not have very memorable Christmases growing up. His greatest gift as a child had been a stocking with three ripe oranges in it. Simon had known the money his father had sacrificed to buy such fruit. With Baz, however…he’d never had such wonderful gifts in his entire life, and they hadn’t even been given to him for celebrations.

Simon recalled one morning where he’d complained of his weathering shoes, and not even four hours later, Baz had presented him with the nicest pair of leather boots he’d ever seen. Sure, they were not to be worn in public (Simon had received an entire outfit from Baz’s…sister? ...for going out in), but they were gorgeous and, no doubt, expensive.

Then there was the jewelry - the gorgeous amethyst ring that sat on the bedside table had been a birthday present last year. In truth, Simon had not expected anything from Baz in any capacity when they’d decided he could stay in the house for an indefinite amount of time. He’d not expected that, in the middle of the hottest summer in a long time, Baz would nonchalantly pass him the most expensive thing Simon had ever set eyes on and insist he keep it. He’d not expected Baz to tell him it was an heirloom dating back at least one-hundred years, and he’d not expected to later cradle it to his chest and cry.

As if to add to their conversation about Christmas, Simon looked over towards the window and saw snow falling outside. The snow had been coming down steadily over the last few months, but it had only begun to stick recently. He smiled to himself as he watched the windowsill become more and more covered. Snow had brought him here in the first place; it was only natural he be thankful for it now.

…

He was almost dead; that Simon Snow was sure of.

He could not feel his toes, and the crystalline breath puffing out from his mouth was becoming smaller by the minute. He was dizzy, hungry, and more tired than he’d even been in his short life. A cut on his forehead trickled blood into the snow beneath his feet, and he barely had time to register why or where he was bleeding before he fell onto the pavement beneath him.

Thank Christ he was in an alleyway. Had he been in the street, feet would have stepped over and onto him, and he might crack a rib. Although, Simon thought to himself, this was a fate worse than death. Perhaps he should let the Lord have Their way with him. If this was to be his death, then why not welcome it?

Simon could not go home. His father would never accept a defeat like this. Simon could practically hear the frustration that would be present if he tried to make his way back to their little house on the outskirts of town. How was it that Simon had been out hunting vampires for three months and not caught a single one? How was it that Simon had left a strong, capable, young man with fervor in his eyes and returned a skeleton of his former self?

The truth was simple: Simon was very nearly dead. He knew he’d caught the scarlet fever, and Simon also knew it would kill him like it had killed thousands of other.

Simon dragged himself to his feet and rounded out of the alleyway, turning onto a dimly lit street lined with houses. This is not such a bad place to die, he thought to himself. Maybe no one would pilfer his body for the money that did not exist or the jewelry that was absent. Perhaps he’d retain some dignity in his death.

Simon stumbled barely two meters in front of himself before he fell down against the door of a nice house. He could feel the warmth through the door. It was almost sad to die on such a lovely doorstep. Telling by the clickity-clack of footsteps from behind the door, he’d probably disturbed the lady of the house. Somehow, Simon could not find it in himself to care as he slid into what must be death.

But it was not death. Indeed, Simon had lapsed into a comatose state, but he awoke to the sounds of a plate clattering onto a table. The room was warm, and when Simon tried to move his hands, he found himself between a lovely down comforter and an even lovelier mattress. A fire burned brightly in the corner of the room, and he watched as a silhouette of a man moved in front of the flame.

“Am I dead?” Simon asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

The man laughed, and he sat down beside the bed. His face came into view, and Simon saw the most beautiful person God had ever created. Then the beautiful man brought a cool washcloth down on Simon’s forehead, and Simon then realized how much he was burning up.

“Lord above, no,” the man answered. His touch was gentle across Simon’s aching head, and he placed the towel down a moment later to instead bring a glass of water to Simon’s lips. Simon arched into it, and a pained noise escaped his lips as the water slid down his throat. When was the last time he’d had water? Did brown snow count?

After the glass was drained, Simon began to take in his surroundings. The room looked to be one of a rich man: the walls were lined in beautiful wallpaper, plush rugs were laid down across the wood floor, and the size of the room was larger than the house Simon had grown up in. The man wore a waistcoat with a gold pocket watch, and his hair was swept back neatly from his face, though a piece was falling into his eyes. Could Simon even call him a man? Upon further inspection, he could not be older than his mid-twenties, and even that was a stretch. There were no wrinkles or stress lines, and his eyes held a kind light.

“Are we,” Simon started, his voice cracking on the second word. A second glass of cold water was placed to his lips, and Simon began again. “Are we sure I am not dead?”

The man smiled. “Who are you?” he asked, brushing back matted curls from Simon’s head. Simon internally hoped he did not look too worse for wear. “How did you come to be on the streets?” the man continued.

Simon did not know how to answer that. His name would be a good place to start, though he wouldn’t give his full name. “I am Simon.”

…

The packing for the Surrey manor proved to be more difficult for Simon than he’d originally anticipated. They’d be gone for the second half of December and a little into January, and the capacity of Simon’s suitcase was being tested to the highest degree because of his coats (courtesy of Baz’s…sister?). Baz had not said to pack lightly, but Simon didn’t like the idea of bogging down the carriage with an extra suitcase. Plus, Baz had already sent ahead a few trunks of clothes and other things to the manor earlier in the week.

Speaking of the devil, Simon nearly leapt out of his skin as cool arms surrounded his middle. Of course, there was no need to be frightened. Simon had long since been used to both the temperature of Baz’s skin and Baz’s ability to be deathly silent.

Baz’s chapped lips brushed against the nape of Simon’s neck, and he pressed a chaste kiss there. “Packing?” he asked, as though he did not see the myriad of clothing strewn about the room. The wardrobe was open haphazardly, revealing Simon’s messy side. He never put away his clothes with care like Baz did. They were clothes. Why did they deserve such high care?

Simon placed his arms over Baz’s and leaned into the embrace, closing his eyes and resting his head atop Baz’s shoulder. The fact that Baz was a behemoth had once bothered Simon, but now it made lounging together easier. Simon could always fit his head neatly onto Baz’s shoulder, and Baz’s hands fit perfectly in the dip of Simon’s lower back.

“Unsuccessfully,” Simon replied, sighing through his nose. “If we were not going for so long, I would not require so much clothing.” Baz chuckled behind him, and Simon smiled to the ceiling. He ran his hands idly over Baz’s exposed forearms. Today, Baz had stayed inside the house and, therefore, had not changed into any outerwear or even bothered to keep his long sleeves down to his wrists. Truly, it was a state of undress Simon had never expected of the wine merchant to be capable of. Simon had expected the ‘young’ business tycoon to always be dressed in a matching frock and waistcoat and buttoned up to the nines, but formalities had long since disappeared between them.

“Is there also business to attend to in Surrey?” Simon wondered aloud, pulling himself away from Baz and turning in his embrace. When they were this close, Simon had to tip his head up to look Baz in the eye. Baz nodded, and Simon sighed. Work plagued the both of them.

“Not on Christmas,” Baz reassured, bringing up a hand to tip Simon’s chin up. “Not in the whole week before or after Christmas. I cleared all of it for us.”

Us. The word made Simon swallow thickly. He nodded, walking away from the warmth of Baz’s hold (that he got from Simon’s body heat) and rummaging through the wardrobe. Simon heard Baz sigh, and after a few moments of silence, he assumed Baz had left. However, a whisper only a hair’s width away surprised him.

“Pack what I brought you from France,” Baz whispered, pressing another chaste kiss to that mole on Simon’s neck. Then he was gone.

A furious blush ravaged Simon’s cheeks, and he needed a few moments to steady himself. France. Baz’s purchase in France. That trip alone turned Simon’s internal temperature up a few notches. It seemed like ages ago, but it had really only been two months since France. The French had strange ideas of erotica, and Baz had seemed to be in line with all of them. Pack what I bought you from France. Christ, Simon hadn’t looked at it since France for a reason. It embarrassed him, and the fact that he liked that embarrassment made him even redder.

Simon opened a small (locked) drawer on his side of the wardrobe meant for expensive jewelry and priceless cufflinks and pins, and he pulled out what Baz had bought him in France.

…

The paperwork piled nearly a meter high from the floor. Baz entrusted the various receipts, warehouse reports, and paperwork tracking of the wine to Simon. Officially, Simon was brought into Baz’s household to deal with the paperwork that accumulated at the end of each month. Unofficially, Simon had been brought into the house to die.

Simon admitted to himself that this was a much better outcome. When he’d fallen against the door five months ago, who could have known he’d end up with a well-paying job? So well-paying, in fact, that Simon was able to send lumpsums of money back to his father under the pretense that it was payment for hired slayings. His father was none the wiser as to the actual situation of Simon’s employment.

As Simon crossed some ‘t’s and dotted some ‘i’s, his thoughts ran to Baz. They had been doing that more often as of late, and while Simon had once been able to pin it down on acquainting himself with his employer (friend), he could no longer fall under that umbrella. The thoughts (once just about the upkeep of Baz’s hair and the price of his clothing) now turned to running his hands through that hair and peeling away that expensive clothing until it lay on the floor beneath them.

Simon cleared his throat and refocused on the task ahead. He’d lost track of a sentence concerning a shipment of sherry to a port in Boston. As Simon read about a spilled barrel, a hand on his shoulder jolted him from his thoughts.

Baz’s chuckle reassured Simon, and he looked up from the candlelit paperwork ahead of him. The stack on the floor had to be completed and filed within the week. An entire day of Simon sitting at the desk had already elapsed, and he could guess why Baz had entered this small study that had been given to him.

“Have I missed supper?” Simon asked, looking back at the death certificate of the sherry. Baz’s hand lingered a moment longer before falling away, and Simon missed the cool touch through his thin shirt.

Baz came to lean over him and stare at the document in front of Simon. “No,” he replied, his breath ghosting over the shell of Simon’s ear. Simon’s eyes flicked to the side, and he was met with a Baz deep in thought. “I’ll have to speak to my Boston warehouse manager. Sherry is too expensive to be wasted.” Baz turned to look at Simon, and the close proximity of their lips had Simon’s face heating up. Hopefully the candlelight covered the flush of Simon’s neck and face.

Simon turned away and pulled a separate document out, and responded, “You were compensated with the price of a barrel and a half for the ruined barrel.” He pointed to the line in question where the price was brought up, and Baz hummed noncommittedly in his ear.

Very suddenly Baz was standing behind Simon, and Simon floundered to turn in his chair and face him. Baz was still deep in thought, though Simon couldn’t imagine why. Sherry was not Baz’s largest exports if the receipts were to be believed, and even if it was, why would it give him such a headache? A single barrel in six months was nothing compared to what some other merchants lost in a single day.

“Something on your mind?” Simon asked. Baz’s eyes slowly ghosted over to Simon, and Simon had the distinct feeling of being seen but in a distant sort. Like Baz had recognized a version of Simon that existed before and was instead remembering that Simon.

After a moment of silence, Baz regained composure and smiled. His canines flickered in the light, and Simon fought the urge to cover his neck. Of course, there was no reason for alarm. Growing up with his father, however, left some stones Simon was willing to leave unturned, at least where it concerned Baz.

Who was not a creature of evil.

“We should eat,” Baz suggested, looking towards the door of the study. “It should be about time.” As if on cue, the bell signaling supper rang, and Baz smiled again. “Join me?” he asked, as though Simon could deny.

Simon had picked up on the habits of his employer (friend) in the first few weeks of living together, but they seemed to become stranger as time went on. Baz hardly ate, and when he did, it was only a few bites. Most of his diet (in front of Simon, at least) consisted of wines and cheeses. No substantial food ever made its way into Baz in front of Simon. That was not to say that Baz could not eat sometimes later when Simon was not around, but it made no sense to Simon that Baz would invite him to eat in the dining room only to actually eat later.

Unless…

Simon shook the thought from his head, and it was soon replaced with images of a rather biblical sense.

…

The Surrey manor was alive and bustling when they arrived. The snow had nearly postponed the trip, but it had let up in time for the carriage to safely carry Baz and Simon to the manor. The Surrey manor had more servants than their normal lodgings did, and when Simon had first asked why years ago, Baz had not answered.

Simon partially knew why now. The part he knew was that Baz kept his more expensive wines in the cellars beneath the manor. That answer used to satisfy Simon, but now it caused him to wonder more and more. They had promised honesty once after Baz’s nature had been revealed. The promise had been broken only once, and it had been by Simon, so he didn’t have a right to question Baz’s extra patrolling of this particular property.

The trunks were carried to the room by two men Simon had met briefly last year at the manor, and then Baz was swept away into work. Tonight, a key investor was scheduled to dine with Baz, and while Baz hadn’t directly said it, Simon was to remain scarce throughout the night. At least he’d brought a few packets of paperwork that needed doing.

The room he’d previously occupied here was locked, and a servant instead directed Simon to a room he knew Baz had occupied the last time they were here. The bed, while not as comfortable as the one back in London, welcomed Simon comfortably, and he laid down to rest for a few moments. As it often happened when Simon was left alone with his thoughts, they turned to Baz. The investor coming over tonight both invested in and bought the most wine from Baz. That was the only reason Simon had to be scarce tonight. Usually, Baz showboated him until Simon’s feet grew tired, but with the higherups, a previous street boy who did the paperwork usually set them on edge. How could they trust their money with a boy of no more than twenty-one who only knew basic economics and had not studied traditionally a day in his life?

A soft knock at the door had Simon sitting up, and a servant walked in carrying a tray of supper. Simon then noticed the lighting had changed significantly and realized he had fallen asleep while thinking about wine investors. He thanked the servant and ate in silence, staring around the room. An ornate, golden clock stood in the corner, and Simon laughed quietly. A floor length mirror occupied another corner, and a dark wood wardrobe already filled with their clothing sat against the wall. Overall, it was a plain room in comparison to their normal lodgings, but Simon felt the hints of Baz in the room. The comforter was a deep, wine red, and the bedframe was made of cherry wood. Ornate carvings decorated the tops of the posters of the bed.

The Surrey manor deserved to be a real home, Simon thought. He and Baz used it for maybe a month out of an entire year, and it sat empty for the rest of the time. About every two weeks, Baz would send a few servants to tidy the place, but other than that, these two weeks were the longest anyone lived here. Simon had to wonder if this had once been Baz’s childhood home. It was simply too large and too grand for it to be a getaway or a vacation home. The location was optimal, the plot of land was supreme, and the aura exuded warmth. This had to have been something to Baz. Otherwise, he’d have sold the property long before Simon came into the picture.

A servant came to collect his plates, and Simon was once again left in silence. The bustle of London - people shouting, carts rolling by, factories churning - usually lulled Simon and comforted his always anxious mind. Now, there was only the occasional laugh from downstairs and the chirping of a bird here and there. The silence chilled him to the bone.

Simon set to work on the stack of papers before him, deciding that the scratching of pen on paper would soothe his weary soul. The monotonous chore that was paperwork left Simon feeling purposeful. If Baz trusted him enough with finances, then he would do a damn good job at it. Of course, this was a far cry from what his father would have wanted.

Simon’s mind often turned to his father these days. If Simon remembered the date correctly, his father’s birthday had just passed. They’d never celebrated when Simon lived with him; there was too much training and prepping to be done. At the end of the night, maybe his father would allow Simon to have a sip of port, but that had happened perhaps three times over the years. Celebrations just were not important when there were vampires to hunt and kill. His father had instilled the idea that vampires were virgin defilers into Simon’s mind, and while true for the situation between Baz and himself, Simon had come to realize that most vampires simply wanted to be left alone.

His vampire just so happened to want the opposite of that. A hand at the back of his neck caused Simon to nearly spill his inkpot, and perhaps doing paperwork on the bed was stupid. Baz laughed as Simon carefully closed the inkpot, placed the wet paperwork on the bedside table, did away with the pen, and finally looked up.

Baz’s tense face seemed alight when he looked down at Simon, and Simon smiled as he rose up on his knees. The mattress only added to their already obvious height difference. Simon came to rest at Baz’s shoulders, his knees sinking into the duvet. He did not mind, however, as it was the perfect height for him to place his hands atop Baz’s shoulders and rub. The muscles there seemed knotted with stress, and Simon sighed.

“Are you ever not wound up like a clock?” Simon asked, dragging Baz onto the mattress. As tonight’s outfit included a three-piece suit, the act of stripping Baz took longer than Simon would have liked. Finally, pale skin exposed itself, and Simon kept his shudder at the sight of Baz’s back to himself. They had spoken of it once before: the scars had been from a brutal whipping exactly once in his childhood, but his vampire skin had not healed properly because of what he was whipped with. Now, scars littered the expanse of his broad shoulders, and Simon pressed chaste kisses to each. It was routine now.

“You know how I hate clocks,” Baz replied. Simon laughed and pressed one last kiss to Baz’s back, lingering for only a few extra seconds. Luckily, someone had placed oil in the bedside table, and Simon slowly warmed it between his hands as he sat on Baz’s thighs. At the first press of Simon’s hands into Baz’s lower back, Baz let out a groan loud enough to shake the house.

“How was supper?” Simon asked, working a knot in the lower of Baz’s back until it loosened. This was his absolute favorite (non-sexual) thing to do to Baz. It was another way of being useful, and Simon prided himself on the fact that only he could provide this relief to Baz.

“Long,” Baz replied, groaning again at the pressure of Simon’s palms. “He wanted to withdraw his investment because of that fucking barrel of sherry.” Simon dug the heel of his palm into the middle of Baz’s back, and the crack that sounded through the room caused Baz to let out an orgasmic sound. “Fuck, I love it when you do that.”

Simon’s face flushed, and he coughed as he continued rubbing circles into Baz’s back. The silence did not stretch on uncomfortably, but there was something in the air neither of them were able to address. “So, he wanted to leave because one of my fucking stupid warehouse managers dropped a barrel. I told him about the price for breaking a contract, and he still seemed to want to leave. Thank God for whiskey, because I think that’s what got him to stay.”

As Simon lazily rubbed the excess oil into Baz’s skin, he found himself listening to Baz’s sherry problems and not even being bothered by how boring they were. He logically knew that if someone else was telling him about the trials and tribulations of shipping sherry, he’d fall asleep, and the realization made his stomach lurch. He knew what this was, and Baz knew, too. When would one of them say it, though?

…

They had fought before. Once, Simon had forgotten to do a few pieces of paperwork that nearly cost Baz a key investor, and they had dished it out for a good half-hour before both going out for some time to decompress. Simon apologized, and Baz did, too. Simon had been tired during that round of paperwork; Baz had been stressed all day before finding out about Simon’s mistake.

But this was different. This wasn’t about paperwork or investors or wine. This was about Simon and Baz. This was about feelings, and Simon sucked at feelings. He’d inherited it from his father. Being raised to be a vampire slayer could do that.

This was also, coincidentally, about vampires.

“You lied to me!” Simon shouted, hastily packing his belongings into a trunk. Granted, there were not many things to be gathered. It was more for show than anything else. “I’ve lived with you for nearly two years, and you’ve lied to me the entire time!”

Baz stood in front of the fireplace, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists. He was strangely composed for such an explosive conversation. Simon wanted to throw something at him, punch him, make him respond, make him yell. It wasn’t fair that he was the only person angry. This wasn’t going to be a one-sided argument.

“Do you have anything to say to me?” Simon demanded, finally stopping his movements and just…standing there. His shoulders slumped. There were tears in his eyes.

Baz turned slowly on his heels. Finally, Simon saw his face. It gave away nothing; Baz was always stoic during moments of high tensions. When Simon had nearly died those first few weeks, Baz’s face had remained a blank sheet. When his…sister? ...had died in childbirth and the letter had been delivered, Baz had said nothing and simply locked himself away. Now, though, there was no room to separate the two of them. There was no veil of death that cleaved them apart. There was only three meters of wooden floor and carpet.

Baz closed his eyes, and Simon watched as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. “You lied to me, too, Simon,” Baz finally murmured. The orange light of the fire made him look like a statue on fire. His eyes seemed to be ablaze, though that could be literal given the circumstances of his humanity. “I’ve lived with someone raised to be my murderer for nearly two years. How do you think I feel?”

Honestly, Simon had not thought of it that way. However, the part of his brain that his father had trained screamed at Simon that Baz killed innocents to live and that he was probably more than a few lifetimes older than Simon. It unfortunately cast everything into a clearer light: why Baz did not eat in front of Simon, why he left for days at a time on ‘trips’, why he had so much property and no living family.

“Have you killed people, Baz?” Simon asked. He desperately wanted to leave the house and never turn back. He should have listened to his gut. It had screamed at him for over a year that Baz was not human. Simon should have taken his father’s lessons to heart. He could be dead now. It was only a miracle that Baz had spared him.

“How dare you!” Baz snarled stomping away from the fireplace. Finally, Simon thought. Finally, this anger could be mutual. He stopped just a foot short of Simon, hand pointing directly at Simon’s face. “You don’t know shit, Simon Snow! How dare you say that! How dare you!” Up close, Simon saw more tears gather in Baz’s eyes. “Are you asking yourself why I haven’t killed you yet?”

“Fuck you!” Simon retorted, pushing Baz’s hand out of his face. “You’re a fucking liar, Baz Pitch!” Simon didn’t know why he was crying so suddenly. Well, he did know why. He’d just thought that Baz would be honest with him concerning everything, and this felt like a betrayal of the deepest kind. “You…you lied to me!”

Simon covered his face with his hands, feeling the dampness soak the sleeves of his shirt. Damnit, he thought. Why couldn’t he keep it together for ten minutes?

His hands were pulled away from his face, and before Simon could curse Baz for it, cold lips were pressed against his own. He vaguely understood that this was a kiss. Simon had never kissed anyone before. Training to kill vampires ruined any chance of his social life. Baz’s hands, still holding his wrists, slowly travelled down to Simon’s waist, holding him steady as he pulled back.

Simon was still crying, though no choked noises were escaping his lips anymore. “I don’t understand,” he whispered, because he really didn’t. Simon was not a product of fine breeding. He did not have status or wealth. He was human. He was male. But Baz’s lips on his own had felt realer than anything else in his life prior had ever felt. Simon rested his hands on Baz’s biceps, feeling the warmth leave his fingertips. “I don’t understand,” he repeated, looking up at Baz through clumped lashes and tears.

In response, Baz smiled down at him softly. There was no malice, and while Simon did see canines, he was not afraid. “Do you really believe I would have kept you here if I did not care for you?” Baz asked, running a soothing hand through Simon’s hair. “Even just a little bit?”

Simon burrowed into the space where Baz’s shoulder met his neck and hiccupped, feeling fresh tears spill down his cheek. Baz’s hand stalled in Simon’s hair, and he hastily began to apologize, which made Simon cry heavier.

Hours later, with the candles extinguished and the anger from the day gone, Simon realized Baz had never truly answered any of his questions.

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #rainbow rowell #carry on #carry on big bang 2020 #regency era #fanfic #love confessions #vampire!baz #vampire hunter!simon #mordelia grimm #simon works for baz #wine merchant!baz #enjoy!

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annathesillyfriend · 4 years ago

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Hello Anna 💜💜 can to ask you space questions: Star, bootes, Leo, and protostar!

Hope your night or day is going well! (No idea what time zone you’re in lol)

Kena, love, hello! Thank you for the asks! Hope you’re doing amazing!

Star- What song(s) do you feel describes you?

I am gonna be very cheesy and say 22 by Taylor Swift bc I holdling onto last months of being 22 😂

Bootes- If you could have any animal, wild or not, fake or not, which would you want?

I am a simple gal, I’d love to have another cat. Or maybe a dog, but like a big dog, golden retriever or german shepard

Leo- If you could change the way any movie was made, which movie would you change?

I’d change 365 days and I would just make it disappear :) I am sory if any of you like it but I said what I said 🤷‍♀️. I can’t believe that out of all polish films, this is the one that’s most known worldwide smh

Protostar- Give a random fact about yourself.

My brother and I have two moles on our necks that look like vampire bites and we both have them in almost the exact same spot.

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fight-surrender · 5 years ago

Text

Thanks to @penpanoply for the beautiful cover art and to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for the beta read. I haven’t posted this fic to Tumblr in awhile because. Mental Health. But I’m in a better place now, so. Read if you want & don’t if you don’t want. That’s fine too.

Read on AO3

Chapter 9: A Proper Date?

Word Count: 1453

Summary: Simon and Baz have been dating for close to a month now. They're a couple of horny, in love seventeen-year-olds? What do you think they'd get up to? (I don't write actual smut, though, it's just implied. I’ll leave the smut to the experts. Sorry. )The boys enjoy their new relationship. Simon suggests a romantic adventure.

*****

Baz:

Dating Simon Snow is exactly the erotic grope fest I’d always imagined.

He’s currently on top of me, in his bed this time and working his way down my neck with lips and tongue and sometimes teeth. I’m hoping there isn’t some kind of world happiness quota because at this point, I’ve far exceeded it and should be getting struck by lightning or otherwise smote by the universe at any moment. In bed with Snow has become my favorite place to be. So far, we’ve kept our relationship for the most part secret. I mean, we’ve always been obsessed with one another, so that hasn’t changed. The fact that our physical altercations have become more amorous than violent is something we’re holding for ourselves. For now, at least. This is for us.

Because I can’t leave well enough alone, “We should at least tell Bunce,” I say as Snow is exploring the intricacies of my collar bone.

“Please don’t talk about Penny right now,” Snow murmurs, kissing the hollow at the base of my throat. Then he licks a trail of fire around my nipple and I decide I definitely don’t need to talk about Bunce right now.

***

Snow has fallen asleep again, his head resting on my chest. I’m idly playing with his hair while thinking about all the things that can go wrong now that we’re boyfriends. It’s too good to be true, all of this. I Don’t deserve any of it. Sooner or later, Snow will come to his senses and this dream will come to its inevitable end.

Not today, though. Today is Saturday, we’re having a lie in…well a lie in punctuated with periods of…activity. Simon’s cheeks are still flushed, and his hair is just sweaty enough to accentuate his bronze curls. He’s huffing softly. I count his eyelashes. Then his freckles. Then his moles. I trace the ones on his back with my finger.

These last few weeks have been like an alternate reality fifth year, when Simon was following me around like a lost dog. Lurking outside my classes, glaring at me from afar. Only now, instead of picking a fight, he pulls me into assorted nooks and classrooms for a snog. Not that I’m complaining, I’m a more than willing participant, but perhaps I should set some boundaries before this affects my grades. I’ll be drawn and quartered before I let my romantic life cause Bunce to pass me up for first in class.

Bunce. She’s on to us. I know Snow has been avoiding her, I’m still not sure why. I think she believes I have Simon in a thrall. (Do I? Maybe that’s why Simon developed feelings for me. Not my good looks and charm after all, just another side effect of my vampirism. Perhaps I should focus on un-thralling him, to be safe. Maybe not.) Anyway, every time I turn around, Bunce is there, staring daggers at me. I’m used to her scorn, but this time it isn’t even my fault. Well, not entirely.

“Stop.”

“What?” I ask.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Simon says, rising onto his elbows. “You smell like intensity and Earl Grey and you’re going to get a wrinkle right there between your brows.” He taps between my eyes for emphasis. “Stop thinking.”

“Darling, I—” It slips out of my mouth before I even realize I’ve said it.

“Ohmygod,” Simon blurts, “You did not just call me darling.” He moves to straddle me, pinning my hands by my head. He’s grinning like a madman.

“You are an insufferable twit.” I squirm, but he’s got me pinned, and frankly I’m not sure which of us is stronger, given his were strength.

“It takes a proclamation from the Queen for you to call me Simon, but a good shag and I’m your darling.” Simon is laughing. “Say it again,” his voice is low in my ear, his breath hot.

“Absolutely not, you knob, you’ve ruined the mood,” I try to snarl, but he kisses me then and my brain shorts out. Because it’s so good, every time.

“Now, darling,” Snow says, dragging out the ‘r’ and still grinning like a fiend over me. “I know what we’re going to do today.”

“What?” I’m trying not to sound petulant. “I thought this was what we were doing all day.”

“Well, we can do this for part of the day, but I’ve got plans for later.” Snow leans in. Thick bronze stubble blooms across his jaw like velvet.

“You need a shave,” I say.

“Mmm, I always need a shave,” he laughs, rubbing his face into mine.

“Get off me, you mongrel.” I push him away, but not far. Simon Snow is beautiful. He always has been, but now, with his condition, he has a wildness about him. A ruggedness. Not an ounce of wasted flesh, every muscle and sinew defined and vital.

Snow kisses me again, long and deep, then pushes away and off the bed. “Come on now, you lazy sod. Get up. We’re going camping.”

“Pardon?” I say, propping myself on my elbows. I feel Simon’s absence from the bed like a phantom limb.

“Camping,” Snow chirps, like he’s being perfectly rational. He’s shuffling around the room, putting on a pair of jeans. “Wear layers, it’s chilly outside.”

“Are you insane?” I sputter, sitting up. “It’s winter.” There are about a hundred thousand reasons this is ludicrous; I settle on the most obvious.

“We’re mages,” Simon says, rifling through his wardrobe. He pulls out some kind of knapsack. “Weatherization spells exist.”

“Furnaces exist,” I reply. “Indoors, where there are beds, and toilets.”

“Come on, Baz.” Snow throws a plaid shirt at my head, thick flannel. It smells like him, Marlboro and cut grass. “Where’s your sense of adventure, get dressed, let’s go.”

“I’m a vampire, dating a werewolf. My life is adventurous enough.” I pick up the shirt, holding it in the air with two fingers. “Am I supposed to wear this? I’m not a lumberjack.”

“I don’t imagine you’ll be wanting to get your posh togs dirty.” Simon is rifling through his bag. He pulls out a knife roughly the size of a machete.

“What the hell is that, Snow? This isn’t the Amazon.” I’m growing alarmed.

“It’s leftover from one of my missions. Asp-sassins, I think,” Simon replies thoughtfully, scratching his chin. He tosses the blade back into his bag. “Can’t be too prepared I suppose.”

“Prepared for what?” I stammer, “Grizzly bears?”

“Come on,” Snow urges, “Let’s get out of here. Consider it a proper date. We haven’t been on one yet.”

“Proper dates involve things like restaurants, cars, and theatres, Snow. Places with climate control.” I slowly drag myself out of bed and sulk to my wardrobe. I commence shuffling for something to wear in addition to Snow’s lumberjack shirt. (I’m totally wearing his shirt.)

Simon slides behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Think about it, Baz. You. Me. Under the stars. I want to see the firelight dancing in your eyes.” He turns me around so I’m facing him. “It’ll be romantic.”

Snow is looking up at me. His eyes are soft and he’s currently biting his lower lip. He’s being sincere. I think my heart has melted all over my feet. I sigh. “Fine. At least we’ll freeze to death together.”

Snow’s smile is radiant. “I won’t let you freeze, you wanker.” He gives me a gentle shove. “Now get dressed.”

***

“Baz…,” Snow’s eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open. (Mouth breather) (My mouth breather)

I’ve just emerged from the ensuite, drying my hair with a towel. Not much use for product on this little adventure. “Yes?”

“You’re—you’re wearing jeans.”

I look down, then back up at him, “I am. Is that a problem?”

“What?” Simon stammers. “No—just, ah,” he hassles his curls, looking at me sideways, lips curling into a smile, roses blooming on his cheeks, “Well, you look really good in them, yeah?”

“Oh—thanks.” I say, quietly, trying not to grin like a fool. I’m so in love I could die.

“Yeah, so—” he stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “First stop, kitchen.”

“Of course, it is.” I shrug on a thick, weatherproof jacket and wool cap (Apparently Simon has a stash of all-weather gear for his missions.) “Can’t start an expedition without provisions.”

“That’s right,” Simon proclaims, jabbing his index finger into the air for emphasis as he heads for the door. “Off we go on our wild romance excursion.”

“Oh my god, you insane sap.” I grumble as I fall into step behind him.

“You love it.” Snow says as he skips down the stairs.

I love it.

#howlin forever #simon snow #baz pitch #werewolf fic #my fic #snowbaz #snowbaz fanfiction #werewolf simon

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splendidlyimperfect · 5 years ago

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This is my first fic for the ‘Carry On’ fandom, written for the @carryon-countdown!

shake me from my sleep (tell me it was all a dream)

Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow Characters: Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Additional Tags: Canon Universe, Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship, Nightmares, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Claustrophobia, Crying, Accidental Cuddling, Holding Hands, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Angst day

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Simon

Baz is dreaming again.

Ever since he got back from Merlin-knows-where two weeks ago, he’s been having nightmares. He’s always been a light sleeper (every time I try to crack the window open, he’s awake and complaining about it, even if he was snoring a second before). I’ve only heard him talk in his sleep a few times before, and it’s always rubbish – “don’t feed the turnips,” or “tell the Queen to cook the cabbage rolls.”

This time, he looks scared. He’s curled up on one side with both hands tucked into fists under his chin, and every few seconds he makes a sound that’s almost a whimper.

I try to tune him out and keep reading. It’s not my business – he’s evil and he’s probably dreaming about evil things. Although, he hasn’t really been very evil lately. Probably because of the truce, because as much as he’s a prat, he won’t go back on his word.

I get a few more pages into my book and then Baz whispers, “please,” in a voice that I don’t recognize. It’s soft and trembly and he sounds a bit like a little kid. It’s hard to picture Baz being little – was his hair that ridiculous when he was a baby? Was he always pale and sneering, or did he have fat cheeks and chubby hands? Was he—

“Please,” Baz whispers again.

Continue reading on AO3

Baz

The worst part about these kinds of dreams is that no matter what I do, I can’t wake myself up.

Usually my nightmares are full of fire and blood, and my mum’s eyes closing while my neck burns. They’re more like memories than dreams, and they hurt, sure, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

Ever since the numpties, though, the dreams have been dark. No matter how wide I open my eyes, I can’t see anything, just black that goes on and on forever in each direction. I can’t move and everything hurts, and it’s hard to breathe.

It’s not real, I think, but there’s nothing I can do to wake myself up. It feels so real – the chill and the dirt and the suffocating smell of wet earth and dried blood. I try to pinch my arm, but my hands are so cold I can’t feel them.

Even thinking about Snow doesn’t help. When I was there, it was the only thing that kept me sane. But now, even when I picture his stupid blue eyes or the moles I want to kiss, I still feel small and terrified.

I didn’t want to beg. Fiona would disown me (probably make me sit in the trunk, not just the back seat) if she knew how I’d given in, had whispered, “please,” over and over because I couldn’t fucking breathe...

Simon

It could be a trick. What if I move closer and he grabs at me, or tries to bite me? He has tried to kill me before. (Although not recently.) Does the truce apply when we’re sleeping? What if he’s dreaming about killing me and he wakes up and finishes the job?

Baz mumbles something else, then makes a choked sound, like he can’t quite catch his breath. It doesn’t sound like he’s dreaming about killing me.

I set my book down on the bed (yes, I dog-ear the page and yes, Penelope will kill me for it later), then slide down onto the floor and sit cross-legged next to Baz’s bed. Pieces of his hair fall across his face as he takes another choked, shuddering breath.

“Baz,” I whisper. I don’t want to touch him. Last time Agatha tried to wake me from a nightmare, I nearly blew up the couch. “Baz,” I try again. “Wake up.”

Baz

A voice breaks through the panic and the darkness, and of course it’s Simon fucking Snow. The Chosen One. The hero.

Part of me wants to tell him to go fuck himself, and the other part desperately needs out of this godforsaken coffin, pride be damned. I try to kick at the edge, to push the lid off, but I still can’t move.

“Baz. Wake up.”

Right. This isn’t real. Which means Simon isn’t really here, it’s just my deranged imagination dragging him out to rescue me. (Because the world loves irony, and me being in love with Simon is the most excruciating joke it could play.)

Simon

Clearly this isn’t working, because Baz’s eyes are still closed and he’s digging his nails into his palms now, hard enough to leave little half-moon divots in his skin. He’s still breathing odd, and I’m a bit worried he’s having an attack, like the ones Mick at the home used to have when he’d run a bit too hard.

I chew my lip. Penny’d told me once about this spell she used to help the kids sleep when they had bad dreams, but I can’t remember the words. (Plus, with my luck, I’d just as likely put Baz in a coma.) (Which really wouldn’t be that bad if I hadn’t promised to help him. And I’m not sure if the Anathema would let me do it anyway.)

“Wake up,” I try one more time, and when there’s no answer, I reach out carefully and touch the back of his hand.

Baz

There’s a spark in the darkness, and I suddenly feel like I’m on fire (which, as a vampire, is definitely Not a good thing). There’s a sharp pain on the back of my hand, and it runs up my arm like wildfire, tearing through nerves and burning back the darkness.

Then I’m awake, and Simon bloody Snow is sitting on the floor next to my bed.

I open my mouth to tell him to sod off, but I can’t breathe, and I realize that I’m crying.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

“Baz, what—”

I shake my head, pushing myself up (I can feel my arms again, thank Crowley) and taking a deep, gasping breath. Simon just sits there, staring at me like a prat, and he’s...

...glowing.

“Wh...” I can’t talk, can’t ask him what the fuck is happening, can’t breathe around this tightness in my chest. The room is dark and he’s glowing, like the fucking sun, like the Chosen One he is.

And he’s beautiful.

Simon

Baz looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Are you going to faint?” I ask, and if Baz wasn’t half-asleep and struggling to breathe, I’m pretty sure he would have just ended me right there. Instead, he shakes his head and grips the blanket in his fingers, staring at me as he takes short, sharp breaths.

“You...” He manages the one word, then chokes on another breath and brings his hand up to cover his mouth.

Oh.

Baz is crying.

Now I have absolutely no bloody idea what to do, because this isn’t the kind of situation I ever expected to find myself in – sitting on my bedroom floor, next to my mortal enemy, who’s crying after a night terror. (I didn’t even know Baz could cry.)

He takes another shaky breath, then another, and he’s still staring at me like he’s never seen me before. Can nightmares cause amnesia? Maybe I should get Penny.

I’m about to stand up when Baz finally manages, “You’re glowing.”

I frown and look down at my hands, and sure enough, he’s right. It’s a warm, golden light that sort of reminds me of Rapunzel – you know, in the movie, where her hair glows and she saves Flynn? (It was on Netflix, and my summer was boring. Sue me.)

“I am,” I say after a moment.

“Why?”

“I’m... not sure.”

Baz

“You’re an idiot,” I manage, trying to rub at my face without drawing too much attention to the fact that I can’t stop fucking crying. “How are... why...”

“I was just trying to wake you up,” Simon says, frowning at his hands. The light flares up a little more, pushing the night away, and it makes it a bit easier to breathe.

This is real. Not the dark, not the mold and the damp and the stale blood. I’m in my room, in my own bed, with the stupid, perfect boy I love lighting up the night.

Snow stands up slowly, still staring at his arms. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and the light starts to dim. Before I can stop myself, I shout, “Don’t!”

It brightens again, and I can see the puzzled shadows on Snow’s face as he looks back at me. I groan, pulling my knees to my chest and dropping my face into my arms. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe this is all a nightmare.

The bed dips next to me and I flinch.

“Baz?”

I should have listened to Fiona. I should have stayed away.

“Go away,” I mumble. I’d shove Snow off the bed, but I’m shaking so badly that I’d probably miss and fall on my own face instead.

Simon

When I reach out and touch Baz’s hand again, I expect him to push me away. He hates me, after all, even if we’re tolerating each other out of necessity. And he’s clearly embarrassed – I would be too, if he caught me crying.

Baz doesn’t move, though. In fact, he shifts his hand so our fingertips are touching, and it makes my stomach do something odd.

“Are you... all right?” I ask, which I know is a stupid question, but I’m not sure what else to say.

Baz shakes his head.

“What can I do?” I ask. The light seemed to help a bit, so I focus on it, trying to make it brighter. I’m still not sure why I’m glowing, but right now it doesn’t really matter. The soft glow shifts, threads of silver and gold spilling down across my arms and toward my fingers where I’m touching Baz.

Suddenly the light is around both of us, and Baz is gazing at me. He’s paler than usual, and his eyes are red, and he looks... relieved.

“That help?” I ask, and I get my answer when he slowly, hesitantly, slides our fingers together.

Baz

I’m holding Simon Snow’s hand.

The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get out of here, to spell Snow away and leave the tower. Go home. Hide.

But it’s so dark, and Simon is so bright and warm, and I’m so, so tired.

Snow

Baz doesn’t push me away, and I don’t let go of his hand. The sharp edges that usually spark between us are gone, rounded by the night and the golden glow that surrounds us. The frantic gasping from earlier is gone, and Baz’s breathing evens out, slow and steady, to match mine.

“Better?” I ask, and he doesn’t answer, but he squeezes my hand just enough to let me know he’s heard me. His fingers are cold (I’m not surprised), and when he shivers, I shift a little closer to him. He lets me.

We don’t talk. I desperately want to ask him what happened, what he was dreaming about, why he was crying. But the peace between us right now is held in place by a fragile thread, and I’m pretty sure anything I say will snap it.

It feels like hours later when Baz whispers a sleepy, “Thank you.” Before I can respond he’s asleep – head against my cheek, hand in mine, snoring softly as the inexplicable light around us shifts and glows.

For the rest of the night, he doesn’t dream.

#carry on #coc 2019 #carry on countdown #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #prompt: angst day

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lunerbean · 6 years ago

Text

Witch Tips 21

1. Schedule your spells

I've mentioned before that it's very helpful to keep a pocket day planner in your grimoire or with it. You don't have to have one, but if you choose to then it's a great place to implement this tip. Some spells take multiple days to do, you want to make sure you'll be able to do it each day. Some spells have to be done in certain moon phases, so be sure to schedule those around in the correct times. Not to mention days, hours, zodiac signs, etc can also have an impact on when you need to perform a spell. Scheduling it helps keep you organized and helps you to remember to do the ones with specific time requirements.

2. Trance gifs can help with meditation

Sometimes it's really hard to get into a trance when you need to for a spell or when you're meditating. Find a nice, calming and serene trance GIF to help you get in the zone. Make sure it matches the mood you're going for.

Bonus: You can find ones with colors that correspond with the spell you're doing.

3. Sigils don't have to only effect you

You can create and activate sigils for a multitude of reasons. I mostly see witches use them for their own needs, which of course is 1000% fine, but it's not the only choice. Put a good luck sigil on the sidewalk so everyone walking over it charges it and benefits from it. Put protection sigils in the dirt around forests to help keep them safe. Draw sigils on or under desks at school to help other people succeed in their exams. You can use your magick to make the world a little bit better.

4. Center yourself after grounding

While not entirely necessary, many witches find it greatly beneficial to center themselves after ground. Centering can realign your emotional waves and connect your body back into itself. This can be as simple as doing some grounding yoga and then meditating afterwards, that's my preferred method.

5. Make protection amulets out of your protective weapons

I don't mean to jump from a peaceful, mindful practice right into stabbing bitches, but sometimes that's just the way it goes. Unfortunately, some of the people in this world can have terrible intentions. If you're in a place where you feel like you need to carry a knife, pepper spray, knitting needles, etc to protect yourself, take it a step further by charming those objects. Put charms on them to repel ill intentions. Put wards on them to repel negative energy. Protect yourself. I care about your safety and well being.

6. Get some gloves for handling cursed objects

Whether you're cursing the objects yourself or trying to break the curse that's already placed on them, you're going to want some gloves. These can be special gloves you use just for handling cursed objects, or the gloves you use to wash dishes. Either way, be sure to cleanse them with sage smoke or crystals afterwards. You don't want the negative energy being absorbed into your body. And while sometimes you have to touch things to find out if they're cursed, it's still a good idea to put the gloves on afterwards if you continue to work with the object.

7. Be sure the crystal jewelry you wear is water safe

I don't know if this comes from the fact that I live in a rainy state or because I always forget to take my jewelry off before I shower, but water safe crystals in your jewelry is a must. You wash your hands all the time, you don't want to accidentally damage your crystal rings. You could get caught in the rain, or sweat a bunch, or jump in a snowbank, or get splashed by a wave, or forget to take them off before a shower or bath. Make sure the crystals you wear on your body are going to be safe with your lifestyle.

8. Bring your grimoire to the library and have a wonderful adventure

Libraries are so much fun!! No one cares if you just sit there for hours and hours and no one is going to bug you about writing notes. They exist for a reason. Who cares if it's not university that you're studying for, no ones even going to look twice. Grab as many witchcraft books as you want and write down anything you need in your grimoire. Your BOS is essentially made for this. It's so nice and peaceful, enjoy.

9. Tips for drying your own herbs

It's wonderful if you're able to grow your own herbs! Make sure when you're drying them for spell work, you're giving them the best treatment.

Dark areas work best

It must be a dry location or else you risk molding or spoiling the herbs

Hang them upside down with all leaves facing the same direction

Placing them in a breathable or holey paper bag can help catch anything that may fall off due to breakage and help you keep the area clean

Different herbs take different amounts of time to dry. Check on them often to see if they're ready.

10. Before casting a spell or making a potion ask yourself, "Why?"

I've talked a lot before about the importance of clarifying intentions and having a clear head when doing magick. But this time, I'd like to talk about something else that loosely relates to the same topic. I recently saw a potion recipe that was supposed to get rid of scars and my first thought was, "But scars are so cool..." And then I read a little further and saw that it was also supposed to help fade moles and freckles and that really got me thinking. I have two little moles on my neck that look like a vampire bite. I used to hate them because I was taught that moles are ugly, but overtime I learned to actually really like them and genuinely think that they're cute. Looking at that potion recipe, I began to feel empathy for the people who may see that and write it down and begin the process of ridding their skin of these little "imperfections." And if you take anything from this tip, I want it to be this: Before doing anything that will effect your body, ask yourself why you're doing it. Even things you do outside of magical practices. Ask yourself why. And if the answer isn't overwhelmingly positive, then maybe reconsider what sort of spell or potion you really need to do. Do you need to vanish your scars, or do you need to feel better about your body? Maybe there are other things that will be more effective in aiding you. Just something to consider. I care about your wellbeing and I don't want anyone to be mean to you, especially not yourself.

Thanks so much for reading my latest #10tips. As always, please send an ask my way whenever you want to say hi or ask me some questions. I'm here to help! Have a magickal day.

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pipsqueakparker · 6 years ago

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“I’m too sober for this” snowbaz Drabble prompt request incoming

I’m too sober for this.

Simon Snow is not.

Snow is absolutely sozzled, leaning heavily into Penelope’s side as she tries to guide him to a bench away from the group of drunken, hormonal teenagers thrashing about to some too loud, too bass heavy music.

It’s not every day that Snow and I are invited to the same parties, but tonight just happens to be that rare occasion. He was spending Christmas with the Wellbeloves, and Dev’s obnoxious crush put Agatha and her friends at the top of the guest list. I’m here because he’s my cousin, and he and Niall wouldn’t stop pestering me until I agreed to attend this stupid New Years party they were throwing.

Daphne was thrilled when Dev brought it up, she thinks I spend too much time moping. She’d never outrightly say it to me, but I know that’s why she was just as insistent on me coming tonight because she and Father frequently forget that my condition gives me astoundingly great senses. Including the ability to overhear their conversations before they actually see me and cut them short.

Well, she’s wrong. I don’t spend too much time moping. I spend too much time pining, which leads to just the right amount of moping. It’s a delicate balance that I have been working on for the past seven years.

I’m stood in the a corner, barely touched drink in my hand, and my eyes trail back over to Snow and Bunce because I haven’t yet reached my quota for pining today. Snow’s hair is wild, he’s been running his hands through it a lot tonight. Or someone else has. My eyes flick over to Agatha, across the room, and I have to push that thought away. That will come later, when I return to moping. That’s when I’ll think of Wellbelove’s fingers running through those curls, her hands trailing down his arms, her mouth following the line of moles down his neck, from cheek to shoulder.

For now I’m pining, so instead I switch over to thinking of how much I want to do that.

It’s no secret that I’m hopelessly in love with Simon Snow. Well, it is a secret, I suppose, but I’m not sure how. It hit me like a freight train in fifth year, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

No matter how hard I try I always find myself coming back to bronze curls, freckles and moles, and astonishingly plain blue eyes. Astonishingly plain blue eyes that are now trained on me.

I look away as quickly as I can, but it’s too late. He’s spotted me, and he’s spotted me spotting him, and he’s on his feet, unsteadily making his way toward me.

“Baz! I didn’ know you’d be here.” He’s not quite slurring his words, but his mouth is moving lazily. Maybe he’s not as sloshed as I originally thought, but he’s absolutely not sober. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I don’t know, Snow, what would I be doing at a party hosted by Dev Grimm?” I say flatly. Usually, he’d already be bristling. He’s so easy to work up. Apparently not so much when he’s drunk.

“That’s what I’ve asked, innit?” He leans against the wall next to me. He’s too close, I can smell tequila on his breath and the general smokey scent that is Simon Snow. “You’ve never seemed the party type, have you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You hate people.”

“Correction: I hate you.” I bring my cup to my mouth and it’s absolutely not just to obscure my own face so I don’t accidentally give away how big of a lie that is. It’s two-fold, it’s for that and for getting enough alcohol into my system to be able to handle this interaction and this party in general. I’m three levels below everyone else, it would seem, even Penelope looks quite tipsy across the room, swaying and laughing with Agatha.

“So you like everyone else? Just not me?”

“Exactly.” I take another gulp and it burns the entire way down and I’m not sure if being a vampire affects my alcohol tolerance or if I’m just able to handle my liquor better than anyone else in this room. Either way, it’s complete bollocks, because Snow is leaning closer and I have to school my face into a glare at the proximity.

“Why d’you hate me so much?”

I roll my eyes in response. That wasn’t the answer he was looking for, now he’s frowning at me and grabbing the sleeve of my shirt between his thumb and forefinger to start tugging at it like a petulant child.

“Seriously, Baz, what have I ever actually done to you?”

Primarily, you made me fall for you, and remained heterosexual. Those are top of the list. “We haven’t got the time to start on that list.”

“Aside from all the shit I’ve done because you hate me - like, what did I do to start this? You’ve hated me since you met me but I don’t get why.”

“You exist, Snow, that’s reason enough.” I sneer. And then he’s dropped his forehead to my shoulder and I think every synapse in my brain short circuits. His hair tickles my cheek and I want nothing more than to run my hand through it. He’s so close and it would be so easy to reach out and put my arm around his waist and pull him closer. “I’m too sober for this,” I repeat. Aloud.

Snow looks up and I mourn the loss of contact. “What?”

He’s still just as close only now his face is tilted up towards mine, and I can see the flush across his cheeks and his dilated pupils and the drunken haze in his eyes. I could count every single freckle along the bridge of his nose if I wanted to.

Worse than that, I could easily close the two inches between us and kiss him.

And maybe that drink is starting to hit me because that suddenly doesn’t sound like the worst idea in the world, and I really want to do it.

“I know you want to kill me,” Snow says, not moving and not quite looking me in the eye. More in the cheek. “And I don’t know why that is. But I don’t want to kill you. And I don’t know why that is either, but it’s true.” His eyes have moved down. They’re on my lips. That’s absolutely the only thing he could be looking at, isn’t it? He’s not checking out my chin, though I do have quite a nice chin. No, he’s definitely looking above that. “But I think we could be friends.” I feel like I’m on fire from the inside. “Or something...” I want to set myself on fire from the inside.

I’m perfectly flammable even without the vampire thing, because I’ve apparently gotten drunk enough to lean in and press my mouth to his. Drunk from the vodka or drunk from being so close to Simon Snow, I’m still not sure.

It’s certainly becoming a combination of both because Snow is kissing me back almost immediately. For a split second I’m full of regret, and his mouth is stiff, surprised, unmoving. But in the next his hands are on my face, his lips sliding against mine, and I lose all sense of anything but the feeling of him against me.

His hands move from my face to my chest and he’s pushing my back against the wall, crowding me in and our bodies are completely touching from shoulder to knee and I want to scream. This is even better than any of my idle pining fantasies, this is the real Simon Snow pushing his real tongue into my real mouth and running his real hands down my real torso and beneath my real shirt.

I’m embarrassed by the whine that I let slip out as his blunt nails dig into my shoulder blades, but it’s fine because I finally, finally slide a hand into his hair and earn an equally embarrassing sound from him when I tug a fistful.

We’re somehow unnoticed by everyone else in the room, but I quickly realize it’s because it’s nearly midnight. Everyone else is too focused on the countdown, the eventual switch into the new year. I’m too focused on Snow to process anything else happening, until the room is full of people shouting at the final three seconds.

3... 2... 1...

Snow pulls away first, cheeks a pretty shade of pink and breath coming out in short bursts. He’s smiling, and I catch myself almost returning it.

“Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Snow.”

He leans back and makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Crowley, Baz, you just shoved your tongue down my throat but you still can’t call me Simon?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re a terror.”

“You’re one to talk.”

I don’t know what this will mean tomorrow when he’s sober. I don’t know if this is turning over a new leaf for the new year, or if we’ll go right back to being mortal enemies.

What I do know is Simon Snow is now holding my hand and pulling me away from the mess of our peers.

And I think I’m still too sober for this, but somewhere along the way I stopped caring.

#snowbaz #snowbaz fic #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on fic #snowbaz drabble #drabble prompts #Anonymous

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itsabluefloor · 6 years ago

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Snowbaz oneshot: prompt request.

Prompt request: Mordelia catching Snowbaz all loved up and teasing them with Malcolm. Loved writing this one, please send more<33 And tell me if you like this one.

“You know your eyelashes flutter?” Baz says, taking a good look at the boy beside him. Both of them are laying tightly wrapped in each other, covered in the warm morning light. Making Simons' skin even more golden than it already is as a canvas for his moles and freckles. They woke up over an hour ago, but none of them seem to want to wake up.

“Yeah." Simon lazily answers before even thinking. His curls splayed out on the pillow beneath them. "Or wait, what? They flutter?” He opens his eyes for and looks up at Baz.

“Yeah” Baz whispers back, holding back a yawn, "when we’re really, really close, they flutter"

“How do they flutter?" Simon asks again, sitting up in the bed, now curious. "Like ‘her eyelashes fluttered as he looked at her’ kind of flutter? Or like a bloody butterfly flutters his wings?” Baz shakes his head and holds back a laugh to answer the curiousness that is Simon Snow.

“Maybe the first one I think. What, you haven’t noticed before?” He answers sitting up straighter too.

“No, I don’t think so? No one has ever told me anyway. It's not like Aggs ever noticed stuff like that and no one has been as close to me as you two. Do it again!” Simon hurries through the sentence. His eagerness taking a slight hold of him where he sits.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. Get close, make them flutter.” Simon says, blinking his eyes to prove the point. Which only makes Baz smile even softer than before, if that’s even possible when he's with Snow.

“Make them flutter, wow” Baz repeats to himself before he moves one of his fingers slowly towards Simons' eye, as carefully as possible. It's not like he wants to stab them again. He did that once, by accident in third year, and as funny Snow looked with an eyepatch, Baz is not that bad of a boyfriend. Not this morning anyway.

“No, wait!” Simon stops him panicking slightly before standing up on his knees to find his phone and reaching it to Baz. “Film it”

Baz laughs again “You serious?”

He earns a decisive nod back. «I’m curious,” Simon explains as he lets his back hit the mattress again.

“You’re such a tosser,” Baz says, but takes the phone either way. He presses play on the camera and then with an American accent, explains the video like he is doing a magickal science project. Mostly because he knows that Simon loves his American accent...

“First try on the experiment; how does it look when Simon Snow's eyelashes flutter.” He says with a stern voice. Making Simon laugh out loud before he finally settles down. Too afraid to move and get stabbed in the eye. Cause that was not a good experience as he remembers it.

“You ready?” Baz asks with a smile and earns yet a nod from the boy beside him. He is just about to again, carefully touch the lash, when someone barges in the door. Immediately followed by a disgusted outbreak and the door closing harshly.

"What the fuck are you lot doing? Dad said no fucking in the house and you're making a porno?"

Baz and Simon jerk quick as lightning up from the pillows. Simon with cheeks as red as tomatoes and Baz with his usual, unaffected look. Both shirtless.

"What have I said Mordelia, if you don't knock you don't go in," Baz says, his voice as stern as his fathers.

“And for your information, we weren’t making a sex tape." Simon pipes in, his voice a little smaller. He still isn't sure that Mordelia is not a vampire herself as she looks and acts exactly like Baz did when he was here age. Like right now, she's just standing there with a big smirk on her mouth like she just found the best blackmail material ever.

"We weren’t even fucking,” Baz says, standing up from the bed and closing the window, earning a mine from Simon. “Now at least.” He adds, and Simon tries to hide the blush rising from the comment.

“What the hell were you doing then? With a phone, in the bed, you on top of him?” She asks. Giving suggestively looks at both of them as she speaks.

“Snow wanted to see how it looks when his eyelash flutters,” Baz answers for the both of them and Mordelia delivers a disgusting face again. "It was cute,"

“What even” Is all Mordelia answers, before quickly giving up on finding what weird thing they do when she’s not here and instead reaches into her pocket to get her phone. She plops down on the sofa in the room and Baz practically jumps up to shove her out again the second she does.

"I'll tell mom if you don't let me hang with you!" She shouts when he tosses her over his shoulders. Making Simon laugh out loudly. "I'll tell dad!" She tries again but has no chance of getting down from her vampire brothers’ hands before she is over the threshold and the door is closed between them again.

"You know that she will tell Malcolm, right?" Simon asks as Baz joins him on the bed again.

"I know, but he won't be home for a couple of hours, Daphne won't care and it's still morning and I don't want to stress any more than I have to." He says tiredly. Simon stares at him weirdly.

"What?"

"I mean, who are you and what have you done to my overthinking, emotional mess that is my boyfriend? Did you finally cave in and tried human blood or?"

“No, I did not kill anybody today Snow.” He would never bite a person for food and they both know it. "And are you calling ME a mess? You're the definition of mess Snow." Baz teases back, leaning in to tuck a curl behind his ear.

"Wasn't me who was pining after my roommate for years without telling them." Simon laughs, shoving Baz's shoulder playfully where they lay face to face.

"Wasn't me who took three years to realize that my girlfriend never really liked me in that way." Baz shoots back and Simon gives him another shove along with an offended look.

"Truce?" Baz asks and reaches out his hand for him to take. Simon cackles at that but shakes it nevertheless along with a soft: "truce"

Hours pass before Simon is too hungry to stay in bed any longer and needs food asap. Baz grudgingly joins him down to their grandiose, marble tiled kitchen and opens the fridge filled to the brim with different kinds of food, along with a couple containers of pig’s blood. Baz takes one out and then looks back into the fridge to find something to eat.

"Dinner leftovers?" He asks.

"Nah," Simon answers from his kitchen stool behind him.

"Okay, how about a sandwich?"

"´Yeah okay"

"What do you want on?" Baz asks again, finding some bread from the drawer.

"I don't know, normal sandwich stuff?" Simon shrugs back

"Normal sandwich stuff, you tosser." He insults back but still picks out some cheese and etcetera to make one for Simon. He is just about done when Malcolm enters the room.

Two hours too early.

"Good day boys" He announces as he picks up his paper at the table Simon's sitting on. "Or should I say morning for you two?” He asks, looking them up and down.

"Father," Baz greets back as neutral as possible. Pouring himself a cup of blood to go with the food. "Didn't think you would be home so soon. Would have put on some more suitable clothes if I had known" He tries to excuse himself.

"I did text you to say that the meeting went quickly, but you were probably too busy with Simons phone to see that message." He says, and Simon chokes on the food in his mouth. Baz can't hold his redness down this time either and stops in the middle of a sip. Malcolm just smiles smugly at himself.

"Ehm, what do you mean?" Baz finds the words to ask after a couple of seconds.

"Mordelia told me about how she found you two this morning, and you know what I said about these kinds of activities in the home when you're guests."

"Father." "Sir." Both Simon and Baz say in unison, desperate to tell the truth as quickly as possible.

"Calm down boys, just be careful right?" He answers smugly again and rises from his chair along with his paper. As he walks out the door he says behind him; " And use protection!" Both Simon and Baz are left completely stunned in the kitchen. Neither of them knows just what happened.

"Forget about you," Simon says after he has collected himself a bit. "What has happened to your father?" He asks, taking a big bite of the sandwich.

Before Baz has the chance to answer he hears through the wall a weak: "Did it work dad?" "Oh, you should've seen their faces" And then a high five.

"Mordelia happened to my father." He smiles to himself and leans in to kiss the mole on Simon's neck before going back to his cup. “That little devil.”

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on #fluff #snowbaz fic #firstfic #writing prompt #send prompts #why am i doing this

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dvrkprinces · 5 years ago

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&&. ( carter blackthorn ) was just spotted in amsterdam. rumor has it ( he ) is a ( 30 ) year old ( alpha werewolf ) who resembles ( michael b. jordan ). ( he ) has been said to be ( loyal & hard-working ) but also quite ( distrusting & proud ). with all the chaos surrounding the magical underworld, he has chosen to align with ( the werewolf rebellion ). ( he ) is currently serving as ( bunny deerling’s personal bodyguard ). hopefully the city doesn’t devour them whole.

— ❝ if i cannot be better than them, i will become so much worse.❞

( hi there, kiwi here! this is the official intro for my precious bb carter blackthorn. this is the first time i’m playing carter in a group and i’m so excited to see how he fits with everyone! needless to say, i want all of the connections for him! please let me know if you’d like to plot; i’m available through both the group’s discord and tumblr ims. ♡ )

name: carter octavius blackthorn

birthplace: oakland, california

birthday: june 18th | gemini

scents: windswept shores, white seafoam, sea salt, sage, ambrette seeds, fresh woods, rugged woodland cliffs + ( signature cologne: wood sage & sea salt - jo malone london )

appearance: 6′1″ and honed from years of playing physical sports outdoors and working out, carter is in the best shape of his life and enjoys spending time running or working out in the gym or training arenas. he is an alpha wolf to the fullest physical extent and it’s obvious even when looking at him. carter has dark brown / black hair he tends to keep in a close buzz / fade to his scalp and well-groomed facial hair, though he’s been known to go without a beard, as well.

carter doesn’t care much for fashion and tends to dress casually when he’s not working for the deerling family; t-shirts, v-necks, sweaters, jackets, and casual pants make up most of his personal wardrobe.

personality: ( + ) loyal, hard-working, protective, kind, passionate ( - ) distrusting, proud, stubborn, emotionally distant

biography: carter hails from the great city of oakland, california, and remains a steadfast californian at heart. born to a human father and a beta werewolf mother, carter never heard the term “half-ling” or “half-breed” in his house growing up. instead, he was nurtured with all the love, devotion, and care of two parents who were desperately in love with one another and supportive of the small, tight-knit family they had culminated together. carter grew up with a love for sports, playing basketball with kids in the neighborhood during summer breaks, football for school in the autumn, and baseball training in the winter and spring months. his father thought his love for sports would soon blossom into something of a professional player, but his mother spotted his energy and physicality for what it was: carter exhibited all the telltale traits of an alpha werewolf, and though it was a term the blackthorn patriarch was unfamiliar with, carter’s parents attempted to teach their son the importance of his heritage and lineage to the fullest of their capabilities.

his father worked as a local physician and his mother maintained a classroom of kindergartners as an early education teacher, so carter considered himself fortunate enough to grow up in a family with two parents who loved and cared for him. his life changed when he was roughly 13 years old and a close family friend to the blackthorns died in a tragic automobile accident, leaving behind a young and bright-eyed little girl. the blackthorns took in the toddler, first as foster parents, and then eventually adopted her into their home. she and carter were raised like siblings, and to this day, he’s fiercely protective of his younger adopted sister, particularly because she’s recently shown signs of being an omega.

carter’s family was happy - for the most part. by the time he had graduated high school and entered university with the intentions of studying foreign language and history, tragedy struck the blackthorn household. carter was twenty years old when his father had a heart attack at work--one he didn’t recover from. the kind, soft-hearted blackthorn patriarch passed with his wife, son, and adopted daughter all around him. the grief gnawed at carter’s heart, and though his father left behind life insurance and an inheritance for his mother to survive on, her occupation as an early chilhood educator took a toll as she struggled to figure out how to raise a family of two on her own. so, to help soothe his mother’s concerns, carter took on a job serving to pay for his college classes and tuition. he assured his mother the tips were enough to get by...but they weren’t.

so rather than stress his mother out with an unnecessary financial burden, carter did all he could think of: he used his traits as an alpha wolf and his years of physical training and exertion to enter into the sordid world of cage fighting. he was good in the ring; a natural, some of his competitors often said, and the bets and cash prizes won from the illicit underground fights he participated in was enough to help push him through school. he helped his mother in whatever way he could, taking care of his younger sister and helping to cook meals and run errands after long days. it was no easy feat, to be sure, but carter knew there were many out there who had it much worse than him. he made do with what he had.

and he was good at fighting. he excelled where other fighters fumbled and fell.

finally, when it felt as though the never-ending tunnel of darkness would refuse to give way to light, carter made it through with a double major in foreign language studies and history. he acquired a job after college teaching american history to esl students, and felt he had finally found his calling when his mother told him of her concerns about his younger sister. she showed all the signs of being an omega, and with the turbulent and dangerous circumstances surrounding the rarity of omega children in the world, his mother feared that something might happen to her one day, and then their family of four would be reduced to a family of two. she claimed that she knew of a place where they could join up with a resistance and place his sister into hiding; a werewolf-led rebellion that she’d been told about from old friends and family members of carter’s mother back from her days immersed in the supernatural underworld.

though oakland was where he grew up, his family was his home. carter was quick to agree to help his mother, packing their bags and setting their sights for the netherlands. in a bid to protect his sister and mother from plans the human government might have for both of them, carter joined leagues with the werewolf rebellion and became placed on an assignment as none other than bunny deerling’s bodyguard: the daughter of a government official for the human-werewolf coalition.

presently, carter is just entering his role as a mole for the werewolf rebellion and a bodyguard to the deerling estate. he’s not sure how well he’ll be able to pull off this coup, but if it means protecting his family and ensuring rights for werewolves all over, it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

after all, carter’s certain it’s what his father would have wanted.

wanted connections: i would really love to hear any connections or ideas you have for carter ! definitely some acquaintances within the werewolf rebellion, maybe some humans he’s not on friendly terms with, antagonistic relationships with fallen angels or vampires, etc. !! he’s really not that familiar with the political climate here, growing up in a household that tended towards human behaviors, so hit me with what you’ve got !

#CARTER //#thorns and roses: ( intro )#parent death tw #car crash tw #fighting tw

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6v6taeminisloveshineeworld · 6 years ago

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Body & Soul x Taemin

Genre: Supernatural, Romance

Summary: Set during SIRIUS era you are a Japanese fan of Taemin's and you go to his final concert fulfilling all of your dreams. But what happens when you meet by chance and he's not who you thought. This story uncovers the truth, is Taemin human?

Word Count: 7.7k+

Pairing: Reader (Yuki Sakamaki) x Taemin

Part 2

"Taemin-san, Kakkoii!" (Cool) The sound of applause was deafening as Shawols said goodbye to Taemin. It was his third day in Tokyo and he was now on his final thirty-second SIRIUS Concert. "HOLY WATER, HOLY WATER..." His voice was that of an angel's and before the curtains closed, he cupped his small elegant hands around his mouth and shouted: "I am so happy!"

The tears in his eyes made Yuki Sakamaki tear up as well. It was hard to hold back her emotions when he displayed them so openly like this. Selfishly in Yuki's heart, she wanted him to stay in Japan with her forever but at least for two times in her nineteen years of life she was able to see him in person on this tour. First in Hiroshima on the twenty-ninth when he'd worn that silly, adorable tiger outfit and then again today. Getting two tickets was the most amazing surprise and Yuki thanked her best friend Azuma for the second ticket. The curtains were closed now and Yuki shakily got up from her seat. 'What's This Feeling' was playing in the background as fans all started to file out of the concert hall, their faces were filled with pure awe. "Sugoi ne!" (Awesome) one girl yelled to her friend as they walked past her. "I loved Mars the most!" Said one lady in her mid-sixties beside Yuki. Yuki smiled at her, it always made her happy that people of all ages and genders loved Taemin-san as much as she did. Yuki turned on her phone when she was outside the auditorium. Instantly it began to vibrate with messages from her older sister Kumiko who would have given anything to be there with her but was unfortunately stuck at college abroad in America. Their father owned a specialty candy store with many popular fandom Items from Anime toys to K-pop merchandise. It was getting to be a quite popular store in several cities and Kumiko was going to college in New York for business. Soon she would be running the store there. "I was listening on stream!" I can't believe you are still alive after that! I was blown away as usual by how amazing Taemin-sama sounded!" Yuki laughed at her sister's use of sama (lord) as an honorific for Taemin. Her sister was overjoyed when she heard that Taemin would like to be called sama as an honorific in a recent fansign. "Yuki-chan I am so happy for you. Call me immediately when you get home I want to know how it felt to be in his presence." Yuki looked at the time it was already getting late and because of the crazy rainy weather they had been having lately (no thanks to Taemin's power to make it rain wherever he went) it was already pitch-black outside. She dialed for a cab to take her to her hotel but suddenly remembered what she was missing. "Ah! My lightstick." I must have left it on my seat. Turning back Yuki ran into the concert hall and back to her row, letting out a gasp of relief when she found her pearl aqua diamond lightstick still on the red cushioned seat. She looked around the room. Everyone had left already except for one man in a black bucket hat. Yuki held in a gasp because the man looked like Taemin and he was leaving the hall through the red-lit exit door close to the stage. A rush of adrenaline burst through Yuki's veins and even though she thought she would be crazy to follow him she knew she couldn't have seen it wrong. Yuki opened the door and looked around outside. Everyone was in the front of the building taking pictures with Taemin's SIRIUS white van so it was very quiet back here. Yuki remembered Taemin saying that he liked to take walks right after concerts to burn off his remaining energy and look at his fans happy faces. She wondered if this was such a time and if it was, would she be lucky enough to spot him when no one else had before? Yuki walked closer to the front of the building where she would be able to have a perfect view of fans taking pictures but remain unseen. If Taemin was anywhere it would be here. "I guess just the presence of that doppelganger's charming aura would frazzle even the most sensible of people," a voice said from the shadows. Yuki turned around and her eyes widened when the figure came closer into the light of the full moon above. His hat was gone now. Even though the man wore a black mask concealing the bottom half of his face she knew that his eyes were undeniably Taemin's. He pulled his black hair out of his eyes revealing a pale forehead. Her brain was having a hard time registering how it could be possible to change his hair from blonde on stage to black in so short a time. "Taemin-san, I am so happy to see you," Yuki said with a slight bow as she tried not to act like a stalking lunatic in front of him. "How did you change your hair?" Taemin pulled off his mask revealing his full lips and the small black mole she loved so much on the right side of his nose. Up close like this, she saw that he truly didn't need any makeup to show his mesmerizingly handsome beauty. Yuki pulled herself together if she lost her nerve now she would regret it forever. "Taemin-san, I just wanted to tell you that you are the biggest inspiration in my life. Thank you for pursuing your dreams to the fullest and for always pushing yourself to become even greater. You bring joy to all of us and I want you to know that I love you." Yuki blushed as she said this last part, but she never looked away from his eyes and she was so happy that her voice hadn't wavered either. "I know you can't take a picture with me because of the rules but please sign this," she said taking out her SIRIUS pamphlet and handing it to him with a pen from her SIRIUS bag with all of the little mini Taemin pins she had collected on it. She hoped he found it cute and not embarrassing. Taemin laughed while taking the booklet and pen gently from her hands. It was like a song his laughter. She wished she could pause this moment and never leave his presence. Taemin looked up at her his eyes changed in an instant from warm brown to deep crimson and Yuki covered her mouth in shock. "Be careful what you wish for Yuki Sakamaki," he said in her mind. "I may really decide not to let you go." Yuki felt paralyzed by those beautiful crimson eyes. She didn't move as Taemin brought his hand to her face brushing his thumb across her cheek, the cool metal of his ring making her shiver. He pulled her chin closer to his face. But his aura wasn't the same as the Taemin Yuki had seen on stage. He opened his mouth and two small fangs formed from his perfect set of white glistening teeth. "You're a vampire!" Yuki said in disbelief. "Does that mean you don't want my autograph?" Vampire Taemin said with the most seductive smile she had ever seen. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked, moving his hand to her shoulder. "I should be, but I'm not." Yuki admitted silently since she knew he heard her. "I've always believed you to be otherworldly," She said with a laugh. "I guess I was right." Yuki's heart raced faster as Taemin pressed his lips to her neck, his fangs brushing her skin gently before coming down hard and piercing her. Yuki let out a scream at the sudden pain, but it soon turned into a moan as he began to suck her blood. His hand traveled from her shoulder to the small of her back pulling her closer and she let herself fall into him as if it were a kiss. He removed his fangs licking the droplets of blood left behind with the tip of his tongue. Yuki trembled at the heat he emanated around her and tugged him closer. He came near to her ear and whispered "Don't mistake me for my mortal shadow-self again," his breath on her ear was a feather-light kiss as he said, "we are quite different him and I. If you're smart, you'll forget about both of us." Then he was gone and all that was left behind was Yuki's SIRIUS booklet that he'd placed in her hands with the note: Meet me in Shukkeien Garden if your curiosity gets the best of you. - Francesco.

Yuki had sworn to herself that she would not go to him but two days later she found herself taking a flight to Hiroshima and making her way to Shukkeien Garden. She read and reread Taemin’s Francesco’s note through the entire hour and a half flight and rode a bus the rest of the way. The garden was a paradise of miniature trees and a beautiful pond at its center. Small pink buds clung to a few branches she passed as she made her way through the circular path and caught sight of a tea house ahead. Before she could decide whether to make her way to it alone or stay on the path and wait, Francesco appeared beside her as if he’d apparated there.

“You came,” Francesco’s hair was still ebony black but this time it fell over his forehead and into his luminous blue eyes. His contacts made her wonder again for the millionth time if she had been mistaken over Taemin being a vampire and maybe the red eyes were contacts and she was being played by some very elaborate prank but now that she was here with him again she had the distinct feeling that Francesco really wasn’t Taemin and knowing that made her ever more cautious of his intentions.

“Francesco, I came for answers only you can give me I need to kno…”

Francesco stopped her with a light hand at her shoulder as he began to guide her in the direction of the café. He pulled up his black hoodie but seemed confident enough that he wouldn’t be recognized to order for them both, a cold coffee for himself and some of the shops freshly brewed tea for her. They sat in the bench outside overlooking the pond and for a moment Yuki was content enough to watch as Francesco held the plastic cup from the lid and took long sips from the straw. She remembered how Taemin held his cups in much the same way but she didn’t dare voice the thought. But then was he reading her mind even now? Angry at the power he held over her she turned away from him and sipped her own hot tea, the styrofoam cup warming her fingers.

“You want to know why I look like him down to every freckle don’t you? Why I may have some of his mannerisms and carry his voice?”

Yuki met his eyes and squeezed her cup a bit tighter.

“Remember last time we meet I mentioned my Shadow-self?” She nodded. “Shadow-selves are more often referred to as doppelgängers… He paused looking to the pond before continuing. “Yuki…” The ease with which he said her name made her feel oddly closer to him, as if they had known each other somewhere or rather sometime before. “Many years ago I did something to anger some very influential people and I regret that I wasn’t the only one to suffer from the curse I brought upon us.” The seriousness in his voice made Yuki’s back straighten and she braced herself for the words to come.

“You may not believe this but I meet you during the Asuka period, as a demon my role in life is to reap the souls of the living and even though it was your time, I could not bring myself to take you down with me. This angered the Balance of our world and you became a symbol of everything I strived to become.” Francesco’s laugh was loud and genuine as he said, “I remember when I found you hunting a demon who had killed your family. Do you remember it Yuki?

“I believe you can show me my lost memory,” even as she said it she knew it to be true. Yuki took Francesco’s hands in her own and closed her eyes, the world seemed to swirl and melt into a long forgotten memory:

Yuki knelt in the snow outside of Good Eye tavern under the window that overlooked the back of the room. Her palms were slick with sweat as she grabbed the hilt of her dagger harder and watched the revelry within. She watched Makoto down his fifth cup of sake, his pockets becoming as empty as his addled mind as he continued to gamble the night away.

Just yesterday, she would have been one of those tavern girls who stood behind him now, whispering the opponent’s hand in honeyed tones against his ear. Just yesterday, she would have been the girl serving the sake, would have been the one to receive those unwanted caresses at the knee, and would have been forced to mask her disgust with sweet smiles. But not today. Today she was death incarnate; her blade would run through his body just as he had run through her parents and little sister for nothing more than a few meager gold coins. Tonight, revenge filled her heart. She knew now after weeks of tracking him down and serving at the Good Eye just what hatred felt like.

Hate flourishes not in the deep murky caverns of the mind like she’d thought in her naive days, but in the warm sunrooms where happy guests are seated to tea and their host's thoughts are deviant but filled with patience. Before long, that patience grows thin and that hatred turns to their blades as a vessel. The host’s hands are then soon stained with the blood of their guest.

Yuki lifted the hood of her black cloak over her head to hide her moon-white braided hair beneath it. The tavern owner, Akhil, was about to throw Makato out at any moment and she would be ready. Yuki pulled another throwing knife from her boot cuff and climbed to the roof of the tavern. She’d gauged the exact spot on the roof she would need to wait in to strike the killing shot. Just when she was in place, the tavern’s little golden bell chimed with the arrival of a new customer. Yuki cursed under her breath as Makato was thrown into the snow. The new customer had blocked her shot by standing in front of Makato like a shield while he fought with Akhil and pleaded with him, “Just one drink”.

The angry customer hidden under his gray cloak practically lifted Akhil two feet off the ground. Yuki, transfixed by the spectacle, almost missed Makato who was crawling away in a drunken snake-like slither, leaving a path in the snow. Goddess be damned, she thought as more people came outside to watch the fight unfold. She couldn’t kill him with this crowd. Careful not to make a sound, Yuki lowered herself to the ground again and followed Makato as he crawled into the woods. It was a wonder that Makato didn’t give up and fall against a tree, with how slowly he walked. The bitter cold was the only thing keeping him in check. It tore at his bones, and the foul wind howled at him to keep on living his worthless life. Yuki raised her throwing knives again, this time with Makato right before her, she knew she could not miss.

She was right! The knives hit their mark with perfect accuracy, right between the shoulder blades. Makato howled as the knives pierced him, and soon the pure snow turned crimson around him.

“This is for my family you bastard,” Yuki screamed. She refused to shed a single tear. It was not the first time she’d killed, and it would be far from her last. This was simply the first time she’d known the victims of her victim. The empire had hired her as their assassin on her fifteenth birthday and she’d done the job, not only for its pay, but for the glory of it. Her father had been the general of the emperor and had taught her to fight since she was old enough to walk. She’d bathed in the blood of war and fallen into hell and back for nothing better than what this man in front of her had killed her family for: greed.

But now this greed was fueled by hatred; hatred for what this man had done to her family, hatred for what the empire had made her into, and hatred of herself. Yuki knew she was too valued to the empire, too skilled in the art of murder to ever give it up now. It was a game and she simply played it better than others.

Yuki walked away from Makato but as she did, she could hear the furious roar of an animal. She turned, and there before her what use to be a man was now a massive brown bear in his place. It stood three times her height on its hind legs. Its dagger-like teeth gleamed under the moonlight and his eyes, oh gods, his eyes, were as red as the blood that had just spilled from him.

She pulled two shurikens from her waist holster and aimed between the eyes. The throwing stars embedded themselves into the bear’s skull, but it only seemed to enrage him more. The bear continued toward her on all fours. She threw dagger after dagger at him, but the bear did not waver. She only had one knife left now, and she doubted that it would make much of a difference. The Makato in front of her now was in the form of what she imagined he’d looked like inside. This was what rage and hatred looked like, tough fur and blazing eyes. He just might devour her, but not without a fight.

Just as she let her last knife fly, a whistle of air passed her quick as a breath, and a figure jumped down from the trees above. It was the hooded customer who had been turned away at the tavern. He was the reason she’d confronted Makato in the woods instead of where she’d wanted to take him down. As he stepped between her and Makato, Yuki’s blade, that had been meant for the beast, sunk into the stranger’s back just as his sword ran the bear through in one swift movement. The bear gave one last deranged cry before falling backward onto the snow.

The stranger turned from the fallen beast to Yuki and pulled back his gray hood to reveal a face not much older than her own. The scar across his left eyebrow was the only thing that marred his almost femininely beautiful features. Yuki remembered the way he’d lifted the tavern owner and wondered where all the strength from his small frame came from.

He pulled her blade from his shoulder and wiped it with his hood. “Here. I’m sure you’ll need it again soon,” he said, flipping over the blade, and handing it hilt first toward her. She took it.

“How did you kill him? I’ve thrown six daggers at him already and nothing happened.”

“You can’t kill a demon with blades like yours,” he said while cleaning the blood off his own sword now, “you need blessed metal to kill a higher demon.”

“So that’s what Makato was. I can’t say I’m surprised,” Yuki said. Remembering those crimson eyes made her shiver.

“You would have killed a lesser demon with those knives, but one of his rank is harder to exorcise,” he said placing his sword in its sheath. “Also, you might say ‘thank you’, seeing as I just saved your life. And if I may ask,” he moved one step closer, “why were you tailing my target? Is the empire hiring two assassins per job these days?”

“I would have done just fine without your intervention and I have far more claim on this particular target than you do. I didn’t take him for money this time. I hated that man. He killed my family in cold blood.”

The stranger laughed at that, and she noted a very distinct mole at the corner of his nose as it crinkled, his brown eyes seemed to twinkle as he said, “A piece of advice, Honey, in this line of work let no one drag you down through the mud far enough to hate them. That hatred will turn on you, make you reckless, predictable, and stupid, then no one will be around to save you.”

“Wait,” she said as he pulled his hood back up and began to walk away. “Who really sent you? Was it Takashi?” She wondered if maybe the new general of the empire really did care about his assassins or maybe he just thought of her as invaluable. She’d never missed a target before. “Did Takashi send you because he found out my target was a demon?”

“Only scum work under the man who didn’t care to inform you that almost every target you have killed so far was in fact a demon. I don’t serve under the general, but Her Majesty and Honey,” his smile made her want to punch him, “the monsters from your nightmares are real. They crawl this earth before your eyes. After all, don’t humans act like beasts.”

“Wait,” she called after him again, but he was gone, vanishing amidst the trees and snowflakes. She lifted her head and caught a few on her tongue. Her body stiffened when she gazed behind herself at the fallen beast. She wasn’t going to lose her place in the assassins’ guild just because of one flowery man too quick with a sword. She pulled out her newly cleaned knife and turned toward the demon in the snow.

The entire court gasped as Yuki walked down the throne room holding the severed head of a bear. Blood spilled onto the lush carpet as she walked. The shocked looks and fainting ladies of the court were worth the trouble she’d be in for this stunt. Takashi’s eyes were stern and unamused as she placed the head at his feet.

“I figured you’d like to mount this on your wall,” she whispered to him as sweetly as she had when she’d poured poisoned sake into Makato’s mug. “Whenever you look at it think of me.” Yuki leaned closer to Takashi, palm outstretched to receive her pay: five-hundred gold pieces that she had been promised. Yuki had loosened her long braid before coming into the hall so that now her hair fell past her shoulders. She’d exchanged her leather for a comfortable pair of trousers and a white blouse.

“Yuki, your pay has already been given away. Don’t try to deny that you did not kill that beast,” Takashi said looking down into the open eyes of the head fisted between her palm. “Please leave before Her Majesty sees the mess you’ve made in her hall.”

Just then, Empress Haruko entered with her entourage of court ladies in her wake. Dressed in fine silk kimonos with elaborate designs, they each had fans tied with a small rope at their waists. The Empress was the only one ornamented with jewelry, her headdress made up of golden flower pins. The man who had stolen her victory walked in behind them, his beauty surpassed that of any of the ladies present, including Her Majesty. He’d exchanged his gray cloak and trousers for a light green kimono that, while far simpler than any of the court ladies, only brought more attention to his features and long black hair, which he’d gathered in a topknot and fastened with a single gold clip. He looked more like The King’s cupbearer than a member of the assassins’ guild. Yuki’s eyes met his and he quickly looked away.

“Is this blood staining the sacred stone of my chamber, General Takashi?”

“Your Majesty,” Takaishi said, quick to kneel before her, “It is an offering to you from the gods. This blood and animal’s head represents your good fortune to come. The assassins’ guild is holding a ceremony in Your Grace’s honor.”

This seemed to appease her as she took her place on the throne and Takashi summoned a servant to clean the blood. As Takashi rose from kneeling, he leaned into Yuki’s ear and said, “The empire no longer requires your services, Yuki, you can crawl back into the sewers with the rest of the vermin. I believe Taemin,” he said, resting his gaze on her newfound finely dressed adversary as he leaned down to hear The Queen who whispered something to him, “can take it from here.” Yuki picked Takashi’s coin purse and left the hall. She didn’t look back.

I’ve lost my position to the empresses’ new lapdog; how pathetic can I be? Yuki let out a few choice words and gulped from her flask. Her throat felt raw and her stomach empty, but she didn’t want to move from the piano bench. She always came to the old village concert hall when she felt upset. It was the only place that really felt like home anymore, even if it was half-burned by a fire; a fire she had started. For someone who couldn’t even read notes, she sat here far too often.

Yuki gently rested her fingers on the piano’s singed ivory keys. They were now covered in ashy soot and some flats were chipped, but the piano she found still played a tune; a haunting melody that somehow resonated with her feelings at the exact moment she played them. Yuki had swapped her trousers and blouse for one of the costume dresses she’d found mostly unharmed in a wardrobe. It was white with the long draping sleeves of a goddess’s gown from a painting she’d seen long ago. She supposed it was from one of the many plays that had taken place at this stage. Maybe one she’d seen with her father when she’d been younger. But after her parents had been killed, she’d felt the urge to unleash her wrath on this place of harmony. Why should others laugh and sing in a world so dark? She’d brightened it that night with the flames of her hatred. The fire had flourished till every instrument, except for this piano, were nothing but dust. Yuki’s hands came down on the keys hard and the sound that emanated was chaos; the most familiar kind of melody. She cursed this place, she cursed how she used to be, and her good memories.

“You have quite the sword for a tongue.”

“How did you find me here?” she said, her voice weary.

“Takashi told me you come here often. I’ve been here once or twice myself,” Taemin said. He walked up to the stage and lifted a piece of the floorboard. He pulled out a koto she hadn’t known survived the flames and blew on it to release the dust. It seemed he really must come here often to know it was there.

“I used to play on this stage,” Taemin said. “Terrible what happened to it,” he tried to meet her eyes, but Yuki looked away. In his silk kimono and fastened hair, he looked in costume already, like an emperor’s son who had run away from the throne to become a minstrel. He stood on the stage with her, only the beam of light from the moon coming from the broken rooftop lit the stage, as well as the solitary candle she’d placed on the piano, its wax already filling more than half of its basin.

Taemin sat on the stage and placed his thumb, index finger, and middle finger against the white strings of the koto. Then he closed his eyes and plucked the instrument with elegant strokes, the ends of his kimono sleeves moving with him. The melody stirred something inside her; it made her angry, it made her weep, it made her smile. She raised her fingers to the piano keys before her and this time she followed his tune. As they played, she felt even more hollow, like this had been the joy she’d wiped out of her own life and the lives of so many others. The tears streamed from her face now even when Taemin had stopped playing and walked toward her; she kept on.

“Do you feel this pain? This is how the souls you’ve sent to hell feel in their purgatory,” Taemin said. “This is how the many demons and innocent blood you’ve shed spend their days.” Yuki froze and looked up at Taemin; his face, that had been lovely and peaceful only minutes before while playing, had turned hard, and his gaze pierced her with so many needles that she had to blink.

“You know, Takashi never said anything about this concert hall. I can smell the blood of my people’s murderer for miles.” He placed one pale hand atop her head and stroked her hair as gently as he’d played the koto. “This moon-white hair was a beacon that lead me to you, it can be seen even from the pits of Yomi and most importantly, from my throne.” Taemin’s eyes turned from warm brown to crimson, the same blood-red eyes of the demon bear he had killed in the woods. Yuki knew who this man before her was now. She knew why he’d killed one of his own servants only to corner her now. He was the king of demons, a reaper of souls who had come to collect his pay. So many of his monsters had died by her blade, whether she had known it or not, and he wanted compensation.

Yuki tried to move, tried to reach her iron short sword hidden in her gown, but his music had done something to her body. She felt paralyzed, and at this point her survival instincts were almost nonexistent. She’d done enough, killed enough to deserve this fate. If the king of the underworld had worked this hard to track her down, enough to disguise himself as an assassin, hypnotize an entire court and the empress herself in order to get to her, then she was ready.

After all, she was just like him, a demon hiding under human skin, clawing to release the hatred that always followed nipping at her heels letting her have no peace. Like a restless river that she waded deeper and deeper into till she’d surely drown. She could still hear the howls of the beasts she’d killed, all lecherous and iron-toothed. She could remember each of their names. As Taemin’s dagger drew closer to her chest, she smiled, at last she would be home. But before the dagger could pierce her soul he embraced her instead.

“I have never known a woman so fearless of heart and yet a purity shines within your soul. Even damned as you are to the darkness of Yomi you do not belong in the land of the dead. I wish to see your sadness turn to smiles and see those smiles directed at me,” he said taking her face in his.

His gentleness surprised her and so did the sincerity of his words, she saw the truth in his eyes and she wasn’t afraid. She covered his hand at her cheek with her own and said, “Perhaps life is still worth living but I’ve lost the reason for it long ago.”

“Can you remind me what being alive feels like I haven't felt that way in centuries?” Taemin said bringing his forehead to rest against her own.

Yuki brought her lips to his and whether they had known it or not the heavens and the high priests of hell had been watching and grew displeased at the disturbance of balance.

“Yuki! Are you alright?” Taemin had his hands on both of her shoulders as she came out of her lost memories.

Yuki looked at the concern on Taemin’s face and squeezed his hands to reassure him that she was alright.

After she had enough time to catch her breath she said, “I’m not the only Yuki you’ve told this to over the centuries, am I? The curse you said you endured we endure together. There are human duplicates made in your likeness on this earth who reincarnate as I do. And every time we cross paths through every lifetime you must endure seeing me with someone else in your image, am I right Taemin?”

“I only go by Francesco now Yuki. You are right, You live and you love and you die and you do it all without me but somehow someway you always die a terrible death at a young age that breaks both me and my shadow-self to pieces. Do you know what torment I go through seeing you live through that pain again and again,” Francesco said as he leaned his forehead against hers.

“Something strange did happen this time though because while my shadow-selves are usually made in my image it was never this close a resemblance, never this close a connection. I feel his emotions more deeply and find myself connected to this current Idol child more than I have ever before. Usually, I feel nothing shared with my doppelgängers but my love for you as if we are two separate beings but this time, I am not so sure it is that simple. I can hear his thoughts sometimes and I worry if our closeness will affect him as well. Yuki, the only way for you to break this cycle of death is to stay away from us but because of my selfishness I dragged you into this again.”

“I would have come anyway Francesco, you know I’d have followed Taemin to the next concert as soon as I could.”

“Spend the rest of today and tomorrow with me? I’m leaving after and I know the perfect place you’ve been wanting to go” he said.

Yuki knew she couldn’t resist the chance of spending the day with him. Her pull to Francesco and Taemin were far stronger than she wanted to admit but at that moment, she was thankful for it. Here beside her stood someone who truly understood her, loved her, watched her die in a thousand ways and still risked everything to be with her. If the tables had been turned and she had been the one to watch him suffer over and over would she have endured it?

“Then what are we waiting for, let’s go.”

The late-night flight to Okinawa had lasted six hours and Yuki had fallen asleep on Francesco’s shoulder to her humiliation for most of it. He’d told her when she’d awoken that looking into the past can take a strong toll on a mortal’s body. Yuki’s excitement to be in Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium was unparalleled. It was were Taemin had gone on his SIRIUS tour and just the thought of it made Yuki giddy with excitement though she tried to suppress it for Francesco’s sake she knew he felt it. Francesco smiled at Yuki’s enthusiasm to make a beeline for the whale sharks as she passed the pages of the map they were given at the entrance.

It still felt strange separating both Francesco and Taemin as two completely different people entirely. But no matter whom Francesco looked like she knew the experiences of both men were profoundly different. On top of that Taemin was a mortal, an angelic, ethereal mortal but a mortal none the less and he could not find out about Francesco at any cost.

“Yuki I found it! Francesco pointed at the glass with a grin as he motioned to the white spotted whale shark with a small gray fish following at his underbelly. Francesco watched Yuki press her hands to the glass and laughed when she pressed her nose to it as well. “Look over here so we can get a picture with the gentle beast.” Francesco pulled out his phone and caught the perfect shot of the shark just between their heads.

“I guess this means you’ll have to send me your contact information now,” Yuki said snatching his phone from his hands. “Or I guess I’ll be imputing mine,” she said as she added herself as a new contact.

“Yuki you know that’s a bad idea,” Francesco said reaching for the phone as she raised it above her head. He followed after her as she went to see the eels in the next tank and she slipped the phone back to him and took his hand.

“I know we only have a short time and that it's foolish to-”

“Dangerous to-” He corrected.

“I just want to pretend for the rest of the day that we don’t have to say goodbye at the end of it,” she said meeting his eyes. It terrified her that she could see his sadness beneath his smiles.

“Okay,” he squeezed her hand tighter. “You are going to have the day of your life Yuki Sakamaki.”

He wasn’t wrong. The hours to come gave her more joy than she had ever dreamed of and it wasn’t just that Churaumi was one of the largest aquariums in the world but it was the growing feelings she couldn’t shake around him. Yuki had already been in love with Taemin and her past self had already loved Francesco and though she knew it was wrong to compare them she knew the reason she loved them both was really because Taemin was a mortal incarnation of Francesco himself. Seeing Francesco come to life as he animatedly spoke about all of the different fish in the aquarium calling them all by name and telling her of his many swims in the ocean made her heart soar. She knew that Francesco and Taemin were connected far more than he’d like to let on. This shadow-self, unlike the others, held similarities that even he feared. What if it was because the curse was ending and soon enough there would be no more diluted parts of Francesco to give? He already felt and heard the things Taemin did so would the passing of his mortal soul hold an effect on his as well? Yuki worried that this was the plan the heavens had in store for him, ripping out Francesco’s heart wasn’t enough, it was his immortality they longed to steal and place a new king on hell’s throne.

“I can breathe underwater,” he said pulling her out of her disparaging thoughts and back to the food stand they stopped at. “I’ve spent so much time underwater in some of the darkest parts of the sea that go even deeper than the tunnels of the underworld. There are so many bizarre creatures down there that the mortals still have yet to discover, Yuki. Do you remember when one of my shadow-selves was a pirate captain and you were the cheekiest of vixens with hair brighter than the flames of hell.”

Yuki surprised herself by knowing exactly what he meant. In those days her father had wanted her to marry the wealthy son of a clerk and she had run away by moonlight. Bess Gallagher dressed in doe-hide breeches slipped her way into the most cunning, infamous of gangs and pledged her life to piracy. When her ship The Coffin waged battle and seized The Magpie she captured the unfortunate vessel’s captain in more ways than one and once the red knot had been tied and a babe was on the way she died a terrible death at the mercy of the sea and to her watery grave.

“I was quite spirited then wasn’t I.”

“You’ve always been that way Yuki,” Francesco said as he moved her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering and reminding her of the feel of his lips against her neck, his fangs against her skin. “You are still the strongest woman I have ever known you just haven’t realized it completely in this life yet, you don’t quite know quite what you’re capable of” he said as he drew his thumb across the top of her eyebrow and she closed her eyes as his fingers traveled down her cheek. She opened her eyes quickly when her back came in contact with the wall behind her and Francesco’s hand slammed against it.

“Francesco, If you wanted to pull a Kabedon there are much less dramatic ways of-”

“Shhh, honey.” With one hand against her lips he brought the other from the wall and held his hand out to her. She was thankful that it had been there to quite her for if not she would have screamed. There in the palm of his right hand lay a large dead redback spider. Francesco pulled away from her and in one quick swoop, he swallowed the poisonous creature.

“Francesco!”

“Shhh you’ll bring attention to us,” he said as he took her hand and lead her away from the crowd.

“Now I definitely won’t be confusing you with Taemin anymore after that stunt,” Yuki said her heart still pounding widely though she wasn’t sure if it was from the sight of Francesco eating an insect or his proximity from moments before.

“How many times do I have to clarify that Taemin and I are much more different than you think. Also, I’m not afraid of insects.”

“He’s no coward Francesco, mortals have fears and trepidations it makes them human,” Yuki said a bit annoyed now.

“I never said he was Yuki.” Francesco looked up at the darkening sky with a sigh their day was close to an end. “Come, I have one more thing to show you and I’m afraid this time you will surely compare me to him.

The music shop was large and not many customers were there at this late hour. It was half an hour till closing time but somehow Francesco convinced the man behind the counter to let him use the piano room in the back where they could be alone. Yuki stood by the hood of the grand piano at the center of the room and Francesco placed his hands gently to the ivory keys.

“The song I’m about to sing is one Taemin will release next year, I’ve heard how it is sung from our connection and I can’t escape from the feeling that it’s about us three. Somewhere in the mortal’s subconscious mind, I believe he knows something as well.”

Before she could say a word, Yuki was transfixed as the hauntingly beautiful melody and Francesco’s voice-Taemin’s voice filled the room.

“Memories of being in love come back You follow me around and pester me every day You’re like a shadow

Your voice that echoed on and on in my ears Won’t leave me Though I run away, I’m still in the same place Oh you’re like a shadow”

The song was about yearning, heartbreak, loss, and haunting spirits but she understood what Francesco meant when he said it reminded him of their story and of their forgotten memories. Perhaps Taemin was also searching for this shadow-side of himself that he knew was lost to him. Perhaps he felt the yearning that Francesco felt for her in some crazy intuitive way. She didn’t know why the bond between Francesco and Taemin was stronger than any Shadow-self that had come before but she did sense the danger ahead of them.

“Only the splintered memories Sink deeper and deeper into my heart A crack of light comes back And your shadow stabs me again

Though I hide in the dark again and again You chase after me You won’t leave me Though I run away, I’m still in the same place Oh you’re like a shadow”

When Francesco finished, he looked up at her and met her glazed eyes with a tormented expression of his own. She never felt so blessed and yet drained of life all at once, his voice and those words made her feel things in the way no one else could. He knew that their love would never be enough to stop their fate if they continued to meet she would die and saying goodbye was the only way to keep her alive, at least for now.

Just as Yuki was about to break the silence a large gust of wind swept through the room and there before her in a blanket of mist stood the bronze gates of hell with its many beautifully carved yet intimidating figures and its ever more frightening inscription: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Yuki swallowed as the enormous doors opened and a black snake came slithering into the piano room and onto Francesco’s arm.

“Yuki meet my Familiar Mizuchi, Mizuchi this is-”

“I know who the girl is my lord no need to make a fuss,” The snake said elongating her S’s and looking at Yuki as if she wanted to eat her alive for touching her master.

“Now Mizuchi, be polite,” he said petting her head. “I’m sorry Yuki, she can be quite protective of me-”

“We have no time for this my lord, the high priests are gathered at the Inferno Court to discuss current affairs, you must come back before they notice where you have gone.”

“She’s right Francesco.” Though it took all of her strength to stand before him and say goodbye Yuki refused to cry. However, when he embraced her tightly in his arms and kissed her forehead she felt her resolve weakening as he opened the gates of hell and steeped into the mist, the doors closing firmly behind him with a bang that shook her core. She didn’t know how to end a cycle that had gone on for centuries, but for this moment she wanted to be with him, no matter the cost and she swore to herself she’d find a way.

This was my first try at Tumblr fanfic. I hope you enjoyed it 6v6

Thank you @taemeyouloveme for your kind support and inspirational writings:)

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