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loftylockjaw · 5 months ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: Covet Couture / Kieran’s apartment PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) & Kieran (@debauchfairy) SUMMARY: Wyatt gets another distress text, this time from Kieran. CONTENT WARNINGS: Very slight wrspice near the end (b/c of course) but nothing explicit!

—

Trust was a funny thing. Kieran didn’t trust Wyatt, much like he didn’t trust any other person, but it was based on some very simple logic. People were self-serving, himself included, so trust was always a foolish endeavor. At least when it came to simply putting your trust in someone. Kieran trusted that Wyatt still fancied having him around, trusted that the shifter had no longing nor reason to rat him out to a warden. Yes, Kieran could put his trust in want and that was about all the safety he was going to get.

Especially when the choice was between getting some help from the shifter or waiting here for fuck knows how long until he had the strength to force his glamor back up.

His ears perked at the sound of a car outside, discomfort with the situation adding onto the quite hefty physical discomfort. Maybe this had been the wrong call, even though just turning his head to move his gaze towards the back door made his head throb, which in turn forced a sharp inhale followed by a sharper pain in his ribs. Kieran wasn’t used to too much physical pain, barring a right hook or two from angry club goers, a single hit usually dampened by alcohol, or a somewhat close call with a warden. This was… new. In a bad way.

“Now you’re finally in on my private joke of predator versus prey,” Kieran greeted once the door had opened and shut, having resigned himself to looking at the opposite wall instead of straining his neck. Not because he didn’t care to see which emotions would flash across Wyatt’s face, that was irrelevant. His dislike for this scenario grew with every passing second, the shift of a power dynamic so visually obvious even without the blood starting to dry on his face. Hunkered down on the floor, with what was technically his true form on full display, Kieran couldn’t wait for this moment to be over.

—

If you’re free, could use a hand at Covet Couture. Not a come on. Bring your car.

If he had a nickel for every time he got a distress text from someone in his life he wouldn’t be a rich man, but he’d have an annoying number of nickels to deal with. Still, there was no complaint from him as he did what was asked, driving himself to the store he knew Kieran worked at, checking his phone again to see another text telling him where and how to access the staff entrance. Following the instructions provided, it was only another minute before he was stepping into the boutique, and his eyes quickly started to scan the dark for Kieran. His heat signature was easy enough to find, and as Wyatt approached, his poor condition was made even more apparent. Slumped against the wall, staring straight ahead and cracking a joke about—oh. Oh. The deer legs (those were deer legs, right?) were unexpected. As were the horns. As was… well, all of it, really. Of course Wyatt had known Kieran wasn’t human, or that he was at least some kind of advanced human, but this was a pretty far jump from that. Was he a shifter, too? God, there were too many fuckin’ kinds of shifters in this town.

Squatting down to where Kieran sat, Wyatt didn’t miss a beat. He started to look the other over, making sure there were no wounds that needed immediate attention before slipping an arm around his torso and the other beneath his… ungulate thighs, lifting him into a bride's carry. “Funny joke,” he said without a lick of humor in his tone, carrying Kieran back the way he’d come. “Get you in the car, then come back n’ lock up. There anything you need from in here?”

—

There was no way of avoiding Wyatt’s gaze once he reached his side, Kieran’s eyes searching the usually quite readable face for any cues. His expression was annoyingly blank, guarded even, and Wyatt had no questions or witty comments. Only a dry reply in a tone he hadn’t yet heard from the shifter. The bridal carry felt like overkill but judging by how Kieran tried (and failed) to suppress a wince at just that, probably a good thing. It would heal, faster than for a normal human even, but at this point the pain was forcing a vulnerability that made his insides feel icky. So of course directing the focus onto Wyatt was the obvious solution. “What, this not how you expected to be spending your evening?” he quipped, hoping to incite any sort of reaction.

Kieran started to shake his head at the question, immediately registering that as a bad idea, hissing at the way his neck protested the movement. “No,” he bit out, letting himself get discarded in the car with a sigh of resignation. Any witty comment about his pride or his human disguise felt like it would be wasted on Wyatt at this point and honestly, it felt like a bit too much effort with the way his head was throbbing. Once the car started up, Kieran found himself unable to keep quiet, projecting his own pathological curiosity onto Wyatt. “You’re seriously not going to ask?”

—

“No, actually, I was just settling down to a liver dinner with some fava beans and a nice chianti,” Wyatt responded with a smirk, recognizing Kieran’s second attempt at deflecting with humor and deciding to, well, humor him. It didn't change the way his stomach was in knots seeing Kieran so battered and bruised, but he could at least fake it. For Kieran’s sake.

With the store locked up safely, Wyatt returned to the car and climbed into the driver's seat, giving Kieran another sideways glance to make sure he was okay (relatively) before starting the engine and pulling away from the curb. “Ask what? About what happened, or… what's with the legs?” He gave a breathy laugh, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove the now-familiar route to Kieran’s apartment. “I ain't in the habit of askin’ questions, cher. But if you want me to… let's start with who did this?”

—

Finally seeing an actual expression move over Wyatt’s face did wonders to loosen the discomfort in Kieran’s chest which had nothing to do with cracked ribs. Not that any further introspection would be performed, the faun simply happy to have brushed off further pesky feelings that in no way contributed to the general direction of fun, easy and seductive he tended to roll in. Brief fear for his life at the hands of a hunter was already plenty of off-roading for one evening. “One of those sounds divine,” he replied, thoughts flitting ahead to which bottle of alcohol would be opened once he got back to the apartment.

Rolling his eyes at the soft laugh, something that also hurt apparently, Kieran turned his head carefully to regard Wyatt’s profile - trying his best not to cause any antler related damage. It couldn’t be that the shifter minded, being far from human himself and having been aware that Kieran wasn’t either. Not something he tended to overthink and wasn’t about to start now, just… overflow unease, too aware that his ability for hypnosis, his essence, was useless in this state. “Want is pushing it,” Kieran huffed but still wondered how much to share with Wyatt. Just because he did ask didn’t mean all the answers would be provided, no details spared. But he had showed up, seemed like he was owed something in return. “Just figured someone smart might have used this opportunity to gather information.” Smart, manipulative, distrusting… “Hunter. One for the undead, mind you. Turns out he wasn’t… as fond of my little party trick as say, you.”

He didn’t have any reason to suspect Emilio would be back. The message felt properly received, in every bruise and cut and pained inhale. Knowing the slayer’s name did raise an interesting thought however, made Kieran wonder if Wyatt could be persuaded into tracking down a particular meal. If the faun asked very nicely. Lucky for Emilio, at this point it felt like more effort than it was worth so Kieran sighed (which also fucking hurt) and added, “don’t think he’s coming back.” He didn’t add that the slayer could have easily ended him if he’d chosen to - admitting that outloud was a bigger blow to Kieran’s ego than it could handle tonight.

—

“Well, I never claimed to be smart,” Wyatt countered, meaning it more than he'd probably admit to if pressed. Jokes were one thing, but actually confronting the fact that he had a tendency to do stupid things, never learned his lessons, and constantly let his emotions get the better of him… he'd sooner eat someone than let them call him out like that.

Wyatt’s expression darkened, though he tried not to let it show. He knew a few slayers, one of which was certainly still skulking around town. But there was probably a lot more than just him, so it'd be no use jumping to conclusions. “You oughtta be more careful,” he warned Kieran, ever the hypocrite. It was useless anyway, Wicked’s Rest didn't give a shit how careful you were—it'd chew you up and spit you back out regardless. The lamia sighed, turning onto another street. “Okay, but if he tries to fuck with you again, tell me. You never know with these clowns.”

His curiosity was climbing, despite his insistence that he didn't care. Eyes jumped quickly to the antlers on Kieran’s head, and the shifter bit the inside of his cheek for a moment before speaking again. “Fine, I'll bite… what, uh… what flavor of weird are you, exactly? And what is that party trick of yours that I like so much?”

—

Kieran huffed in amusement and instantly regretted it, each and every sore spot complaining. No, maybe Wyatt wasn’t the smartest but his head wasn’t just filled with air, either. The amount of time he willingly subjected himself to the influence of a faun, plus his career, that made him out to be more of a fool rather than an idiot. An important distinction. It definitely worked in Kieran’s favor and as far as he was concerned, the shifter was smart in ways that mattered. Not exactly like Kieran had been privy to a formal education like every other human but he was wily, a much more valuable skill than just ‘being smart’. A skill he thought he recognized in Wyatt, too. “Sure are pretty, though,” Kieran played along, cursing the slayer because his face hurt too bad for an accompanying wink.

What Kieran could only construe as a deep dislike for hunters swept over Wyatt’s face, a valid emotion. The half-warning, half-command however… “Oh honey, please stop making me laugh, it hurts like a bitch.” Be more careful. Please. No fun had ever been had by being careful. He’d stay away from Emilio at all costs, that much was certain but deep down, Kieran knew that this encounter wouldn’t stop him from antagonizing dangerous people in the future. It was instinctual at this point. Wyatt’s expression was once again unreadable as he offered assistance in case of a next time and Kieran’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he gave a noncommittal hum of agreement. Sure, he could let the lamia chow down a hunter for him if it came down to it. A win-win, nothing more to it.

Kieran let his eyes drift closed for a moment, since one of them seemed adamant on trying to swell shut anyway, a soft smile the only confirmation that he’d heard the hesitant question. “Knew you were curious,” he murmured, wondering how much Wyatt knew about fae and how much Kieran felt like divulging now. “Fae flavored,” he started, cracking open his good eye to gauge the shifter’s reaction. “Faun, to be exact. We… thrive on euphoria so only makes sense that we can influence it. Well, it’s more of a carelessness that we inspire, really.” Wyatt didn’t need to know the details or hear words like ‘feeding’ or ‘hypnosis’. Even though Kieran doubted the man would care, too hooked on the high that only someone like Kieran could deliver.

—

Of course Kieran brushed off the warning like it was nothing, because really, it wasn’t worth anything… especially not coming from him. But he’d felt compelled to say it anyway, and lacked the level of introspection required to dissect the exact reason why he’d been compelled to say it, so he just shrugged. Kieran was an adult and would do as he pleased, it wasn’t Wyatt’s concern. Except for when it involved him playing chauffeur, apparently. Maybe even playing nurse, once they got back to Kieran’s place. That’d be ground over which he’d lightly tread.

Fae flavored. Okay, so… great. Like Leo, then. But not, because Wyatt was almost certain that if Leo had this euphoric inducing ability, he’d be using it left and right. No, Leo was some other kind of fae. Faun, though… that sounded fun. Or it was fun, Wyatt knew from first hand experience, and where was the downside? So Kieran inspired carelessness. Freedom from the weight of responsibility and the self-imposed shackles that tied Wyatt down each and every day. Hell, he’d learned a few things about himself while under that influence, and he didn’t hate those things. “Sounds like you’ve got a pretty sweet deal, then,” he replied. Sounded like everyone ought to have their own faun, if this is what they were capable of.

Arriving outside Kieran’s apartment not long after, Wyatt parked as close as he could and once again made sure to carefully gather him from the passenger seat, knocking the door shut with his hip before marching them up to the stoop. “Here. Hooves down,” he chuckled, gently depositing Kieran’s feet on the ground, glancing around once more to make sure no one was around. “Grab your keys.”

—

There was no obvious hesitation or disgust that Kieran could easily pick up on but he was trying to read the man’s expression from his profile, in a dark car with a concussion and one eye threatening to swell shut. Maybe Wyatt didn’t really know much about fae? He obviously didn’t know about faun and with the way the shifter didn’t particularly seem to be careful with his words… Finally, a confirmation that Wyatt, at the very least, valued Kieran’s ability over whatever he was. Not that it mattered, there were plenty of people out there to replace Wyatt if he had a change of heart - maybe not the ‘same flavor of weird’ to use the shifter’s phrasing, but certainly ones that would just as willingly get on their knees for him. One person’s opinion didn’t matter. Not really. “I’m not exactly subtle about finding myself to be a splendid specimen.”

Living in Deersprings was a blessing, with most of the residents tucking into their sofas after dinner and staying there until their early bedtimes. The street was vacant as Wyatt scooped him up again - not strictly necessary but a hell of a lot faster than letting the faun wince and force his way on his own - and it was impressive, how careful he was. Kieran had seen him tear monstrous creatures to shreds, seen him drunk and brash and unfiltered, take it rough and give as good as he got. Correction, the gentle side was unnerving but Kieran’s head hurt too damn bad to linger on it. “Enjoy it while you can,” Kieran grumbled, opening the door and meeting blue eyes for a moment. Deciding that if Wyatt wanted to follow him inside for some incomprehensible reason, Kieran wouldn’t stop him from wasting his evening. “Just know I’m saving every jab. You’ll get yours.” Later, when he didn’t feel like a popped balloon.

The apartment was such a sight for sore eyes, a straight beeline made for the bathroom to root around for painkillers and pointedly avoid mirrors, to the kitchen for a bottle of tequila for some better analgesia and then finally the couch to start forcing it all past the split and swollen lips. He’d deal with the dried blood of it all later. “How the fuck do you take a beating every day?” Kieran sighed, settling into the safety of his apartment, the soothing burn of the tequila.

—

“I’m shakin’ in my boots,” Wyatt hummed, amused, as he followed Kieran into the building. He went to the hallway that led back to the bedroom while Kieran moved to the bathroom, opening a door that was likely a linen closet—bingo. Taking a hand towel out, Wyatt then headed for the kitchen and started rooting around in the fae’s freezer, shutting the door just as Kieran entered. He was paid little mind, Kieran grabbing the booze and sinking down onto the couch without a word, that is until he asked about, ah, work. Wyatt wound the towel around the ice cubes he’d gotten from the freezer, creating a makeshift icepack that he walked over to Kieran with a smirk. “Get used to it, I guess. Pain tolerance is pretty high after twenty-somethin’ years of it.” He gently set the ice pack against Kieran’s eye that was starting to swell shut, swapping out hands with him before disappearing down the hallway a second time—this time for a washcloth. That blood ought to go.

A bowl was easy enough to find, and Wyatt filled it with cool water before dumping the washcloth in it. This was a familiar routine for him, one he could practically do in his sleep at this point. The bowl was brought over to the couch, set on the coffee table, and Wyatt perched on the cushions beside Kieran after wringing it out. He started around Kieran’s chin and lips, going as gently as he could, deeply familiar with the ache the other was experiencing and not wanting to exacerbate it.

—

Normally, someone rummaging around his apartment would not have been met with such a cavalier attitude but this evening was full of exceptions - having someone inside the apartment without the immediate intention of taking him to bed, for one. Letting Wyatt do his thing had been the right call, the relief from the cold immediate and very welcome. The question had been hypothetical and the answer one Kieran could have predicted. The faun had no interest in getting used to this feeling, much less the one from earlier, the ice cold reality of the slayer’s threats. “You can take a pounding,” Kieran hummed in agreement, quite thankful for the distraction of being able to take cheap shots at the shifter.

A few more decent gulps of tequila went down before Wyatt returned, adding to the haziness at the forefront of his mind. There was probably something to be said about mixing booze with a head injury but Kieran was more than human, it would be fine. He’d eyed the bowl curiously on Wyatt’s arrival, stunned into an exceedingly rare moment of silence as the cold cloth passed over his skin. Yeah, fine. He deserved as much, honestly, providing Wyatt with a break from reality the way he did, a release time and again. That line of reasoning was comforting - this really wasn’t so different to any other sort of favor Kieran usually relished in, whether it be gifts, drinks, attention or something more sensual. This was still very much the correct hierarchy of power.

Even with the occasional jab of pain and accompanying wince or hiss, Kieran found his eyes closing, relaxing into the almost soothing motions of blood being wiped off. The booze and pain meds probably played their part as well, bringing his mind away from the pain and, with a deep inhale that now hurt considerably less than before, allowing him to shift his focus towards throwing the glamor back up.

“You know what would really help?” Kieran murmured, pulling the ice pack away from his face, eyes opening to find Wyatt’s before he was claiming his lips. It made the cuts and bruises sting but he didn’t really mind this amount of pain. “A bit of your euphoria. Speed up the healing,” he explained, feeling more like himself now that he was no longer exposed nor vulnerable from pain. The way his head threatened to float away, that feeling he was used to. “If you don’t mind taking care of the heavy lifting.”

—

Wyatt scoffed lightly, only mildly embarrassed now that he’d worked more on coming to terms with the person he actually was versus the person he had always thought he was: he was by no means ‘all the way there’, but Mateo had already done a lot of footwork in dismantling the image Wyatt had of himself. Or of what he was supposed to be. “Yeah, well, brick houses tend to be built with that in mind,” he countered softly.

Each wipe of the wet rag was careful, a far cry from the way he’d sometimes take one to his own face if he didn’t have the strength to stand in the shower or make his way to the lake. Wipe, dunk, wring, repeat. The water in the bowl was turning a light pink, like some sort of concoction out of a fairy tale—to match the man with deer legs and antlers that was sitting in front of him. Not wanting to make the other move his head to clean off the opposite side, Wyatt instead knelt in front of him, body pressed between those furry knees (was that even a knee anymore? he didn’t know deer anatomy) as his hands reached up for the other’s face to resume his work.

A small smile had settled on his features as Kieran seemed to relax into the coddling, and then suddenly those legs around his waist were changing. He glanced down at them, then back up, watching the antlers dissolve, or… dematerialize right in front of him. Insane. His own shift was pretty one-to-one… things grew and stretched, or shrank and shortened until they were no longer there. This was just… well, it seemed like high magic, if he had to compare it to his own, brutish version that involved a total reconstruction of his physical form. He was mystified.

Blinking once or twice, Wyatt dropped his gaze to Kieran’s face again just as the other was speaking, moving the ice pack away and closing the small distance between them to surprise him with a kiss. My euphoria will speed up the healing? It didn’t make sense to him, but then many things didn’t. And he’d regret it later if he didn’t help Kieran feel better as quickly as possible, so the shifter just smiled, twisted around to put the rag back in the bowl of fairy water, and stole the bottle to take a pull of the tequila. “Just tell me what I need to do,” he mumbled amenably.

—

There was no longer any regret over the call for assistance, Wyatt proving himself more than useful in this particular scenario. It was a one off, anyway - Kieran wasn’t about to offer himself up as a punching bag on the regular. A blip, a slight detour away from the unconventionally conventional, allowing for something that was bordering dangerously close to tenderness this one time. Everything else was par for the course, including the blue eyes looking up at him and asking to be told what to do.

Even bruised and woozy, Kieran had no trouble letting the tendrils of his influence wrap around Wyatt, even less trouble telling the other exactly what he wanted from him. He was fairly familiar with all the things that made Wyatt tick at this point, where he liked to be touched, which turn of phrase worked wonders on him - enough so that Kieran barely needed to move and risk jostling his injuries. No, he could let Wyatt’s hands do the work, meticulously guided by Kieran’s command, dark eyes drinking in the sight while he consumed every crest of pleasure.

It did help, feeding off the shifter providing a much needed restoration of energy, but not just the actual ‘life sustaining’ part. This way made the whole evening feel more… transactional, not just a favor or something to be brought up as a bargaining chip later on.

—

There hadn’t ever been a time when Kieran’s influence was unwelcome, but it was especially welcome tonight. Wyatt had been doing quite a good job of alienating himself while trying to ‘stand up for himself’, as he put it, when in reality it was just bullying. He was so filled to the brim with anger and hurt and desperation that he lashed out at everyone who so much as looked at him wrong, and those altercations were starting to bite back. He felt miserable, but didn’t want to show it. He felt alone, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. He felt like every last little good thing he still had in his life was dangling by a thread that was quickly unraveling, and he couldn’t face it. Some part of him was probably trying to sabotage those things, to make the inevitable end come quicker so he could get over it sooner. As if he’d be getting over anything—he still got a lump in his throat at the mention of his mother. He still got hot under the collar at the mention of his cousin, rage sparking up like a bolt of lightning starting a forest fire. He still felt unworthy, undeserving, and unlovable but god the desire for it was so strong, he couldn’t hold himself back. Instead of sparing everyone the pain to come, he kept wrapping other people up in his mess, destined to take them down with him. He’d never be satisfied, he thought. He’d be like that bolla that lived underground and slept most of its life away, only waking to partake in a ravenous, man-eating rampage. He was in his rampage era, and the next sleep might be his last, if he pissed enough people off.

That’s why this time with Kieran was so nice, so needed. There were no strings attached here. If Wyatt went down in a blaze of glory (or of sin), Kieran would shrug it off and move onto the next. While it didn’t satisfy his desire to be loved, it did allow him to exist without guilt. That shit was freeing. So he was happy to give Kieran what he wanted, happy to listen to his instruction and provide a service he knew he was good at, internally preening in response to the praise that trickled his way between soft groans. In return, he got to feel nothing but elation for a while, and that was well fucking worth it, in his mind.

Coming back down was never great, but it was a discomfort that Wyatt shouldered along with the rest of the tribulations in his life, smirking though the dull ache—though the light of it never reached his eyes. Normally, this is where he could have gotten up and left the apartment. He hadn’t made a habit of sticking around afterward, and Kieran seemed perfectly content with that. But this time was a little different, and in spite of the strings that definitely did not anchor them to one another in any way, he felt like the offer ought to at least be made. Kieran was recovering, after all. What if he needed more help from Wyatt? What if he needed to… to thrive again, as he’d put it earlier? If it helped, Wyatt wanted to do it. He wanted to be of use to someone.

“Do you want me to stay or leave?”

—

It seemed silly now, the fleeting feeling of vulnerability Kieran had experienced earlier this evening while showing his true nature to Wyatt, along with the fact that he bled easy. A situation in which the faun was the vulnerable one didn’t exist - not because of what he was or was capable of but purely because Wyatt would have him beat at every turn. The man was longing, aching for something out of his reach, not privy to Kieran’s luxury of getting pretty much anything he wanted (as long as that want was carefully regulated within a certain frame, of course). The perfect playmate for a faun.

Any physical aches were a dull footnote at this point but Kieran held no misconception that tomorrow wouldn’t be absolute hell. At least he could welcome sleep for tonight, injuries as well taken care of as they would be, the faun well satiated. The question caught him off guard and he regarded Wyatt curiously, weighing his options. Kieran generally preferred not to share his sleeping space for two reasons, one of which was obsolete now that his true form had been revealed. The second reason… Wyatt was endearingly needy but also brimming over with boundless, possibly misplaced, pride. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking this was more than it really was.

“You can stay,” Kieran decided but there was no talk of want. Want implied something more, something other than the convenience of keeping Wyatt around tonight. Semantics, but he was fae, after all. And if Kieran didn’t particularly mind the steady sound of breathing, the grounding warmth of a body next to his as sleep pulled him under, he was sure to have expertly forgotten as much by the time morning came around.

#. thread ;#. with ; kieran lucero #. vulnerability ;

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