#human/monster romance

[ill-written-god]

T | 151 | m/m werewolf/human, it's a Steddie snippet, I've stopped trying | off-screen, uncle Wayne, Werewolf!Steve

“Hey, kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you hiding a dog from me?”

Eddie frowned, confused. What?

“No?”

His uncle let out a huff.

“Just wanted to know why there’s so much fur on the couch.”

Oh. Oh shit. 

Eddie’s brain went blank with panic. Because, Wayne would be okay with him having a boyfriend. He’d probably survive the reveal that said boyfriend was a werewolf. But he might not survive knowing they fucked on the couch.

“No idea. Might be from Gareth’s dog? I’ll ask him to roll his clothes better.”

Wayne squinted at him, still suspicious. He’s known his nephew long enough to sniff out deceit. Eddie just gave him his best smile of oblivious innocence.

“Alright,” the man grumbled finally, flicking Steve’s butt hair from his favorite flannel. “But if you are hiding a dog from me, just fucking tell me, I’ll get a lint roller on the next grocery trip.”

[daynightshipping]

Kissing isn’t really a thing on Gundalia… Aires is willing to help him practice :3

[thiswasinevitableid]

Back to Me (Sternclay)

A tied yeehawgust prompt winner was "Rocky Mountain High." This fill is NSFW

The Rockies are not impassable. But to get through them requires skill, knowledge, and luck. 

When Joseph was seven, he was on a wagon train in which none of those were present. A guide who’d never done the route, a map by someone who’d never even seen the Rockies, and it was one disaster after another. Their wagon and another were caught in a rock slide; Joseph was the only survivor. 

He’d crawled into the fading sunlight and waited for the rest of the party to come look for him. When the moon came up and he was still alone, even his young brain understood he’d been left for dead. 

That’s where the Bigfoots found him. Curled up and crying in torn clothes, scratched and bumped in a hundred places. He hadn’t been scared when he saw them; he thought he was imagining them. Then he assumed they were just very big, extremely hairy humans. After a short conversation, one of them scooped him into her arms and cooed, “there, there, you’ll come home with us.”

Fourteen years later, he watches the same Bigfoot cross her arms and make a concerned noise in her throat as he sits at her side in the meeting hall. 

“It’s okay, mom.”

“No, it isn’t.” His cousin, Clarence, eyes the visiting group from another Bigfoot settlement in the southern part of the range, “How are we supposed to be confident going through with the marriage if it means sending Joseph off with those who cannot keep one of their own from going feral.”

“That was not our doing. Nor is the fact he remains that way.” The leader of the visiting delegates growls, exhausted, “we have tried everything to bring him back to himself.”

“That’s true.” Joseph glances between his family and the visitors, “yesterday I helped them go through all the written records and consulted with every elder we could find between here and the foothills. Nothing helps. I think it just needs time to wear off.”

Nods from both sides of the hall.

“Three days.” His cousin holds up their hand in a movement that’s half promise, half-placation, “You must understand, as head of our settlement, I cannot risk harm coming to one of ours from one of yours, no matter the cause.”

The visitors agree, and the meeting comes to a close. It’s late enough that most of the attendees head for the homes or guest houses scattered through the village, but a few invite willing visitors to join them for drinks in the brewing caves (a much homier and better lit place than it sounds).

Joseph considers following to try and make a good impression on his future kinsfolk, but worry gnaws at him too much. He wouldn’t be any fun, not when he can’t stop wondering if he’ll get Barclay back. 

When Bigfoots reach a marriageable age they, their family, and the heads of their settlements decide on which other settlement to extend an invitation. Once invited, that settlement may send any interested residents to woo the bigfoot in question. In Joseph’s case, they’d had to choose not only for which other settlement they wanted to strengthen ties with, but who they thought might be open to one of their own marrying a human in the first place. In theory, Joseph would be an easy sell; Bigfoot and human marriages aren’t unheard of, and those happen with humans who haven’t grown up in Bigfoot families. 

Still, he made his case as convincingly as he could. He’s smart, hard working, and while he’s not good-looking by Bigfoot standards, he’s at least tall. Bigfoots don’t have the same concept of men and women that humans do, a fact that had been a relief to him when he realized he was the fore and not the latter. It did mean his aunt has been brewing him a tea that helps put and keep hair on his chest, but it’s not remotely close to what the average Bigfoot has. 

The Southern Meadow settlement agreed to bring any interested suitors his way as soon as Joseph decided on his challenge. When choosing a partner, each Bigfoot is allowed to set a competition or trial to test traits they want in a mate. 

Joseph chose chess. His father had taught him to play, picking it up from the humans at the trading post where he worked. He’d only marry someone who could beat him at it. 

Three Bigfoot from the visiting settlement expressed interest, and he beat two of them easily. Then Barclay had shown up. Auburn fur neatly groomed, clothes suggesting he’d spent some time around humans. Smile sweet and voice deep as the rivers that run at the edge of town. 

He holds up a basket; biscuits studded with huckleberries, “Thought I better bring you something to eat in case this goes long.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”  Joseph finishes setting the board. God, Barclay even smells good. Like mint soap. He adds a playful edge to his tone, “and optimistic.”

Barclay sits down, “Careful, I’m more competitive than I look.” He smiles, showing his sharp teeth, “Especially with the, uh, right motivation.”

The game lasts close to two hours. When Barclay knocks down Joseph’s king, he does so with a teasing growl. 

“Checkmate, blue eyes.”

“Nicely done.” 

Barclay catches his hand, pressing it first to his forehead, and then to his lips, “You really okay with that result?”

Joseph feels the tingle that’s been present in his chest since Barclay sat down, enhanced by his laugh, by his conversation, by how at ease Joseph feels near him (a rare state for him).

“Incredibly.”

Barclay had wanted time to go back to his childhood village and retrieve the wedding crowns his mothers wore. When he’d met Joseph at his home to tell him this, he’d promised to be back within a week. That he was excited to start their life together.

He’d been so sweet and earnest that when he lifted Joseph off the floor and kissed him against the wall, Joseph’s legs wrapped around his waist as he yelped in surprise. Barclay purred and growled about how he couldn’t wait to come back to him, and Joseph realized that while he might not be to most Bigfoot’s tastes, Barclay was ready to eat him up. 

When the other group didn’t arrive a week later, Joseph tried not to worry. Weather could be unpredictable this high in the mountains. When they came back a week late with a feral Barclay and news of an ambush by a human hunting party, he expended two weeks worth of worry in about ten minutes. The anxiety hasn’t gone down since, and he’s exhausted. 

In a last ditch effort to bring him back to himself, they put Barclay in Joseph’s small cabin, in hopes that being surrounded by Joseph’s scent might calm him (and since the bachelor cabins are meant for turnover, they’re easier to repair if he damages them). Even though he hadn’t recognized Joseph when he saw him again. At this point, he isn’t recognizing anyone. The longer this goes on, the greater the risk that he’ll stay feral forever. 

Joseph is rooming with another cousin until it’s safe to go home. He lets himself into the cabin and starts prepping his sleeping pallet. Thinks of Barclay, alone across town; every Bigfoot who’s ever been feral and come back describes it as terrifying. 

He has an idea. A terrible one. But Barclay is worth it. 

Five minutes later, he’s in his own sitting room. The small cabins are made of that, a bedroom, and a small stove for cooking and keeping warm. They’d locked Barclay in the bedroom, just for an added barrier between him and the rest of the settlement. 

Joseph lights the lantern, turning in a circle. No sign that Barclay has been able to get out. The hinges of the bedroom door are a little loose, but when he steps close enough to study them he can see they haven’t cracked or torn free. He listens at the door; low, gruff panting comes from the other side, punctuated by a howl that makes him jump a foot backwards. Barclay is upset, but he doesn’t sound injured or in pain, which is all Joseph can really ask for right now. 

He should go.

Then again, the house is a mess; he’d left in a hurry when the visitors came back to town with their bad news. 

Just a few minutes. Then he’ll lock the door behind him and leave Barclay in the closest he can come to peace. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s angry. He’s banged his hands and torn his claws into the walls enough to know he’s not getting free. He doesn’t want to be here. There are others of his kind nearby, he can hear them, smell them, but they left him, which maybe is good, because maybe they’re not friends, maybe they’re here to hurt him.

Barclay runs his hands over his face with a frustrated grunt. Why did they put him here? It smells like humans. Humans are not good, they shoot at you and hurt you and hurt your friends. 

Now one is here. He can hear it through the door. It’s been here a while, walking softly, not speaking. It smells like the house. Familiar. Is this place familiar?

He stands at the door, sniffing the air. Still here. He peers through the crack at the side, but can’t see the intruder. He doesn’t like that. If he can’t see it, it’s hiding, and if it’s hiding, it’s hunting him, and if a human is hunting him he will rip its arms off. He can smell it, not see it, and that’s not good, not safe, no, he can’t be here, he’s trapped, trapped, no.

Barclay puts his full weight on the door and gives it a panicked, violent shove. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crack brings three things into focus at once. 

One: Joseph fell asleep on the padded bench instead of just resting his feet a second. 

Two: The corner of the bedroom door is laying in view.

Three: There is a massive shape at the end of the bench, eyes reflecting the dying lamplight, growl steady and menacing. 

The Bigfoots are his family, his people. He’s not afraid of them. But he also knows exactly how little strength he has compared to any one of them. How small he is. Barclay could snap his neck with one hand. 

Joseph holds up his hands and hoots once, dropping from high to low in tone, to indicate that he’s a friend. 

The growl stops, but now Barclay is moving closer, is at the side of the bench peering at him and sniffing the air. 

Joseph repeats the hoot, then adds, “Joseph.”

Speaking seems to remind Barclay that he’s human and he snaps his jaws and thumps his chest twice. The sign to leave. 

Joseph would, except there’s a feral Bigfoot between him and the door, and even standing too quickly could be misread as a threat.

A Bigfoot who was in their right mind would probably repeat the order, or at least pause to explain exactly what they’ll do if Joseph doesn’t move. But Barclay, impatient, is already reaching for his throat. 

“Mate!” Joseph shrinks back against the cushions. Barclay freezes, so he points between them, nodding, “mates.”

Barclay cocks his head this way and that, looks around the sitting room like he’s never been in one before. Then he crouches, huffing through his teeth as he leans in and sniffs at Joseph’s face, neck, and hair. Joseph focuses on breathing, on keeping calm. Slowly, the investigation turns to affection, Barclay nuzzling the hair above his ear, then nosing down his neck and inhaling deeply. 

“Mate.” It’s barely a word. It’s also the first time he’s spoken in weeks. 

Joseph is equal parts elated and relieved, right up to the point at which Barclay scoops him into his arms and stands, at which point everything gives way to alarm. 

“Barclay, wait, what are-”

“Mate.” The answer is both a noun and a command. 

“Oh.” Joseph’s whole body goes warm as he’s lowered onto the sleeping mat, “yes, absolutely.” 

It's not the reunion he had planned, but seeing Barclay again, seeing some chance he might remember him, makes it hard to care.

Barclay sits back on his heels looking at him like he’s trying to make up his mind about something, and Joseph realizes that the bigfoot is completely naked. 

He’s also sporting the biggest cock Joseph’s ever seen. 

Bigfoots aren’t shy about nudity, so Joseph has ample points of comparison. Up until now, he was confident he could handle all parts of being Barclay’s husband, but that part in particular might take some practice. 

He’s so distracted by the logistics of what’s coming that he barely notices Barclay trying to undo his clothing until there’s a rrrrrrip and it all flies into a corner of the room.

“In the way.” Barclay grunts, pushing Joseph’s knees apart to sit between them.

Joseph risks some flirtation, “I know, but I need them. I don’t have gorgeous fur to keep me warm.”

Barclay crawls over him, places one of Joseph’s hands into the auburn fur of his chest as he blankets him, “warm.”

“Very.” He pets absentmindedly up and down as he watches Barclay bring a hand between them to stroke himself. This is not making his cock any less intimidating, but Joseph is so wet from watching, from the way Barclay is growling and pawing at him, that he no longer cares. 

Barclay tracks his attention and for a moment he looks almost shy, “Good?”

“Yes. I just, um, I’ve never done this before so please be gentle.”

“Gentle.” Barclay repeats, leaning down to nuzzle his face. Then he adjusts, grabbing Joseph’s right knee and (gently) pushing it up, forcing his legs wide enough to accommodate him as he presses the head of his cock into him. 

“Shit” Joseph whimpers, wills himself to relax as Barclay nudges it deeper. His lover is going slow, is clearly heeding his request, but nothing can make up for the sheer difference in size, how his body has to stretch as he pushes deeper. 

When it hits the point where it can’t do deeper, Joseph gasps, digging his fingers into the blanket beneath him. Barclay thrusts again, making him cry out, then frowns at the third of his cock still outside Joseph’s body.

“Th-that’s as much of it as I can take, big guy. I, ooohhhfuck” he grabs at the fur of Barclay’s chest as he leans over him, bracing on his forearms as he starts fucking him in earnest, “I’d take the whole thing if I could, I promise.”

The answer seems to satisfy the bigfoot, a purr rumbling from him as he pets Joseph's hair and nuzzles his face as he slowly, deliberately, fucks him. Joseph imagined his first time often and he never thought it could be this tender, that he could feel so wanted, so safe even as his body ached from the stretch of taking his partner and his legs kicked weakly, as if trying to push him away from the intrusion. 

The wet, obscene sounds of Barclay claiming him take on a faster tempo, Barclay now resting his head against the pillow as he grunts and growls rather than trying to nip and kiss as much of Joseph as possible. It makes sense, now that Joseph thinks about it; if being feral returns you to your basic urges, then there’s really only one point of mating. It’s not a point that can currently be met, thanks to his aunts tea, but Barclay doesn’t know that. And so there’s nothing for Joseph to do but hold on and moan as the thrusts grow more and more insistent and Barclay’s growls of “mine” give way to wordless, possessive snarls that make Joseph want to stay here, open and vulnerable, while his mate takes anything and everything he wants from him. 

Barclay’s hips jerk as he cums with a howlgrowlpurr. He’s still cumming when he starts raising up and off of Joseph, and from the shaking of his limbs he realizes the Bigfoot was restraining himself, not continuing to thrust or chase the last remnants of orgasm because it might have hurt Joseph to do so. 

“Good?” Barclay kisses his forehead, warm palm petting his cheek. 

Joseph reaches up, cupping his cheeks and guiding him into a kiss, feels the purr buzzing between them as Barclay slips his tongue between his lips. 

“Good.” He murmurs, then lays back and lets his husband-to-be kiss him to sleep. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------

He likes having his mate in his arms. Even more than he likes mating with him. There’s no need under his skin, nothing itching at him until it’s satisfied, and so he can just lay here, happy and warm, feeling his mate breathing. Safe. Barclay is keeping him safe, and that is a good feeling. 

His mate is human. He can’t remember why. Every now and then the answer circles in his mind, but it’s shrouded in fog. Maybe there is no reason other than what he’s feeling now, that this body belongs in his arms, that the voice and face of this human soothes him and pleases him. 

He’d fallen asleep, he thinks, after they’d separated and he’d drawn the human against, back to his chest. He thought his mate had, too, but now he’s shifting, breath coming in bitten-back gasps. 

Barclay lets out an apologetic whine and slides his hand over Joseph’s waist, along his forearm to the point where he’s touching himself with frantic, sharp movements. 

“Sorry.” Barclay nudges the hand aside and sets his own in its place, rubbing against the wet skin.

“It’s, it’s alright, you had other things on your mind and you’ve been so restless I didn’t want to wake you-”

“Not a hardship, babe.” He murmurs, dimly aware of the fact he didn’t know those last two words a moment ago. 

“You called me-AH, ohgod.” Joseph twists in his arms, hips bucking forward as Barclay’s fingers dip lower and press into him. The human valiantly tries to finish his sentence two more times before giving up turning his head to moan into Barclay’s shoulder. 

He laughs and kisses at his head, behind his ear, along his neck; it’s fun, making Joseph lose himself like this. He can’t wait to do it more.

His fingers press deeper and he realizes some of the slick coating them isn’t from Joseph, but from him. His dick, already hardening from the way Joseph is grinding back against it, twitches at the proof of how much of him Joseph took. Aches to take him again, so much that it’s starting to hurt, and he growls in the human’s ear as Joseph fucks himself on his fingers, the movement delicious but not enough. 

“Fuck it.” He holds Joseph close and flips onto his back, bringing the human on top of him. Joseph is so light, it’s easy to lift and shift him onto his dick, even at this odd angle. He’s facing away from him, so Barclay doesn’t see the moment he registers what’s happening. But it floods his other senses; the human cries out, clawing at his thighs, muscles of his legs noticeably tensing and kicking as Barclay holds him steady and fucks up into him

He moves one hand down, rubbing Joseph’s dick until he cums with a long, helpless moan. The sound is still going when Barclay grabs his hips and begins bouncing him in his lap, enjoying how limp he goes as he fucks his cum back into him. When he floods him this time, it’s with a growled-out “mine” and a refusal to let the human up until his dick has finally stopped pulsing. 

“Yours.” Joseph looks over his shoulder with a smile, then promptly collapses against his chest. 

Barclay rumbles comfortingly, petting up and down his back and nosing his hair. He should really get up and get a cloth, get Joseph some new clothes. When they’re back in Barclay’s settlement, he wants to buy him something nice and warm to wear in moments exactly like this, when he’s fucked-out and sleepy in Barclays arms. Something blue maybe, to match the color Barclay painted the bedroom last year. 

He loves planning their future like this. Why hasn’t he been the last few days? What was he thinking about instead?

“Oh fuck.”

Joseph bolts awake, looking up at him, “What’s wrong?”

“How long was I feral?” 

Relief as sweet and simple as sugar fills Joseph’s face, “You’re back. I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“That’s not filling me with hope about only having been out a day or so.”

Joseph strokes his cheek, “It’s been close to two weeks. Apparently your group was attacked, it sounds like in an attempt to kidnap some of you. You went feral during the fight.”

“Fuck. Fuck” he looks down at the human with horror, “I made you have sex while I was feral! I’m so sorry, fuck, did I hurt you?”

“You were, um, insistent, but that was as intense as it got.” Joseph shifts upwards so they’re face to face, “I wanted to be with you. Even that version of you. And…well, some part of me knew you wouldn’t hurt me, no matter what.”

“You still want to marry me?” He tries not to sound as afraid as he feels; if Joseph doesn’t want him after this, he won’t argue. But that won’t save his heart. 

“Big guy, I cannot stress how tonight has shown me just how much I looked forward to being your husband.” Joseph kisses him and Barclay sighs happily and melts into the bed, Joseph comforting and warm above him. 

They’re both exhausted, but neither of them feels the need for sleep. Instead, they stay up, talking about all the good things to come, until the sun rises over the Rockies.

[imagine-darksiders]

Bowser x Reader - chapter 2.

Rose Soap.

Contains whump.

Read the full story here, on Ao3.

------

“Can't believe you'd...--- Mph... Why'd you have to go an'.. Hrnf...”

He's grumbling to himself again, his eyes fixed with deadly concentration on the path ahead. Apparently, he's also content to remain oblivious to your attempts at leaning as far away from his expansive chest as his grip will allow.

All the way back through the castle, he mutters and huffs whilst you glare at any passing koopas who brazenly stare back at you, their eyes on stalks. You're more than happy to let them think the liquid running down your cheeks is merely rainwater that trickles off your hair line.

Worse perhaps than the pain in your ankle is the sheer humiliation of being caught like this.

As hallways and spiralling staircases pass by, you begin to wonder where the simmering king is taking you.

Probably to his dungeons.

Somewhere he can chain you to a wall and leave you there to teach you a lesson.

Fine by you. This isn't the first time you've been held hostage. He'll find you can bend very far indeed before you break.

If it means he stops trying to bother you every hour god sends, a dungeon might actually be worth the downgrade.

You have to admit, the very last place you expect to end up is right back to the bedroom you'd just escaped from, but that's precisely where Bowser carries you, and your heart sinks at the sight of those enormous, wooden doors looming into view as he stalks down the long hallway.

“You there!” the King suddenly barks.

Heart lurching, you jump viscerally in his arms before you realise his glare is aimed at an unfortunate koopa guard who stands quivering at the end of the hall, “Go fetch Kamek. Tell 'im it's urgent.”

Quick as a flash, the guard snaps a hand up to his forehead in salute. “Uh y-yessir, Lord Bowser, sir!” he squeaks. And with that, he's off, scrambling around the corner as if someone lit a fire under his heels.

Heaving out a dismissive grunt, Bowser shoulders open the doors, ever mindful that they don't knock against your foot as he manoeuvres you both into the bedroom beyond and immediately makes a bee-line for the ensuite bathroom.

With your torso twisted away from his chest, you cast a bitter glare at the window and the bedsheets still hanging out of them before your eyes are drawn to a mess on the the floor - one that hadn't been of your own making.

A metal tray lays abandoned on the marble, and all around it are remnants of shattered ceramics, a bowl and a plate, whose contents have also spilled across the floor in every direction, as if dropped in a hurry. There's even an orange puddle of what you presume to be tomato soup splattered near the bed.

Bowser simply steps right over what's left of your dinner and bustles hurriedly into the bathroom, where, with an unexpected gentleness, he lowers you down onto the closed lid of the toilet.

Despite your chattering teeth and the comparatively warm hide you've been pressed against, you're all too eager to shove yourself away from him the moment he pulls back, shooting him a frosty glare.

His response is to chuff brusquely through his nostrils and turn to the bathtub, giving you a glimpse of his mud-spattered underbelly. Scales that had once been a pale, eye-catching yellow are now brown and grubby, hidden beneath the dirt.

Leaning over the tub, he fumbles awkwardly with hands that should be far too large to operate the crystal taps. But after another moment, two noisy streams of water start to glug forth, spilling into the bottom of the pearly basin.

The bath is enormous, more than large enough to accommodate such a vast creature. But you wish he'd go and bathe in his own room instead. Perhaps he's a finicky koopa and can't wait to go to his bath, electing to use yours instead.

Haltingly, your eyes drift towards the door that Bowser had left slightly ajar, giving you a glimpse out into the bedroom beyond.

As if he can read your mind, he promptly swings his tail out at the it and slams it shut.

You can't help but flinch at the abrupt sound.

Silently, you observe the giant koopa as he pushes himself away from the bath and backs up until his shell's spikes hit the door with a thud, then, he promptly slides down it onto his backside, scraping some of the paint off its wood and blowing a weary sigh out of his parted maw.

Frankly, you think it's overkill for him to bodily guard your only exit. It isn't as if you're going anywhere fast on this ankle.

For some time, the only sound that sits between you both is from the water gushing out of the taps.

You watch your captor for any sign of hostility, while he watches the opposite wall, his expression set in a rigid and pensive frown that casts his eyes in the shadow of his furrowed brows.

You expect to sit in this prolonged and uncomfortable silence without a word passing between you, but hardly a minute goes by before Bowser shifts, turning his massive head a few degrees in your direction, just enough that you know he can see you from the corner of an eye.

“Why'd you do it?” he murmurs.

One of your eyebrows gradually makes its trek up your forehead.

The kidnapper asking the kidnapped why she tried to escape... What a question.

Perhaps you're getting too bold, because you dare to give the side of his jaw a hard look, crossing one mud-slaked arm over the other. “I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific,” you intone slowly, “I've had a rather busy evening.”

The king's muzzle curls slightly, showing off more of his gleaming fangs. A warning.

“Why'd you jump?” he snaps, “That was stupid. You were stupid.”

Scared him half to death.

Pain flares in your ankle as if in direct concurrence with Bowser's words, and you find your fuse just a few inches shorter than it usually is.

“I was scared,” you hit back, missing the way his tail flinches towards his thigh, “I'm still scared. I jumped because the alternative was – is – going back to being your prisoner!”

You must have said something profoundly unpalatable because the koopa's head snaps towards you properly, fast enough that you're almost startled you off the toilet seat.

“Prisoner?” he has the gall to scoff, “You ain't no prisoner. You're a guest.”

Now that you will not accept.

“A guest,” you repeat sharply, “A guest who has guards posted outside the door? A guest who can never leave?”

“W-well, I...” You have him on the back-foot, and you know it by the sparking embers that scatter from his nostrils when he exhales and throws a meaty arm out at you, sputtering, “Well - Look at what happens when you do leave!”

At once, your head twitches to the side, eyebrows shooting up to level him with a wide-eyed, unblinking glare that borders on dangerous.

You don't expect a reaction from the oversized koopa. You certainly don't expect it when his lips press back together, hiding his fangs as he ducks, suddenly finding the bathroom tiles of particular interest. Far more interesting, apparently, than your gaze.

Well... Now that he knows exactly what you thought of that little remark...

“The bath is about to overflow.”

You never would have guessed that such a mundane statement could send a koopa his size scrambling to get his feet underneath such a hefty bulk.

“Dammit!” he hisses throwing his hands to the taps and spinning them frantically until the flow finally trickles to a stop with the water mere centimetres from the lip of the tub.

You watch him grumble under his breath, something highly impolite no doubt, before he plunges one of his enormous hands into the water and grabs the plug, yanking it out to let some of the bath drain.

Silence hangs heavily over the bathroom again.

“There,” he promptly declares, shoving the plug back once the tub is no longer in danger of overflowing, “Should be warm enough for you.”

You're suddenly taken aback, darting a glance between the bath and Bowser.

Perhaps in hindsight, it should have been obvious, but blinded as you are by a bone-deep chill and the pain in your ankle, it... jsut hadn't occurred to you that he wasn't running the bath for himself.

“What?” you blurt.

The king's head twists around and he cocks a brow at you over his shoulder. “The... water?” he says slowly, as if you're missing something unbelievably obvious, “It should be... warm enough?”

All at once, something clicks in your brain.

“I sincerely hope you didn't run that for me,” you tell him, eyeing the tub with a wary frown.

Cold as you are, you don't like the implications of having to get in the water with Bowser still in the room.

It would be highly improper.

The koopa however, actually seems surprised at your reluctance, giving your filthy night dress and mud-slaked skin a furtive once-over. “Who else would it be for?”

You spare his own muddy belly a pointed look and quip, “I can't imagine.”

Snorting gruffly, the king takes single step towards you, crowding you against the back of the toilet when he extends an arm, offering you his hand. “Here, lemme help you in.”

Teeth still rattling in your skull, you give his claws a mistrustful look. “If you think I'm getting in that bath with you in the room, you've got another thing coming.”

“C'mon,” he coaxes with a crook of his thick, taloned finger, “You're filthy. And you're cold.”

Cursing the goosebumps that scatter across your forearms, you turn your nose up at his proffered hand and firmly state, “I said no.”

Bowser's lips give an almost imperceptible twitch at their corners. “I ain't leavin,” he warns you. If he were a more honest koopa, he'd tell you that he's not about to let you bear any weight on that ankle.

Jutting out your chin in defiance, you dismiss him with a brusque wave of your hand. “Well then... it seems we're at an impasse...”

If you'd have kept an eye on his expression, you'd see his scorching eyes flash eagerly at the prospect of a challenge.

Your pain, it seems, has leant you hubris. You're on the defensive – angry that your little escape attempt had failed. And now, you're refusing his help. You've forgotten whose castle this is. For your own good, it appears he'll have to remind you.

Shrugging his massive shoulders, the koopa withdraws his hand. “Suit yourself.”

And before you can dissect that gleam in his eye, he suddenly bends down and slides his palms beneath you again, hoisting you up off the toilet seat in one, smooth motion.

You immediately come alive in his grasp.

“I said don't touch me!” you bleat, wriggling like a trapped viper.

Your wayward arm smacks against his muzzle, earning a wince but he remains undeterred as he holds you over the bathtub and begins to gently lower you down towards the waiting water.

“You son of a – ow!” Crying out in shock, you stiffen at the feeling of warm liquid stinging uncomfortably against your chilled, muddy skin.

Bowser drops to his knees with uncharacteristic care, watching your face attentively for any sign of real discomfort, but all he finds instead is ruffled affront.

He'll take it. Better offended than hurt.

Powerless against the giant's impenetrable arms, you find yourself gingerly placed – nightdress and all – down into the warm bath, immediately cringing away from the thick, fleshy fingertips that brush over the backs of your knees as he withdraws his hands.

For a long moment, you stare agog at the water rippling around you, as if you can't quite believe that he really had the audacity to do that. Then, on a creaking neck, you turn a scandalised glower at up at the king, who only peers back at you, unintimidated by your expression.

“Well... Congratulations,” you deadpan, “It seems you've managed to rob me of my last shreds of dignity after all.”

At that, a self-satisfied grin spreads across Bowzer's maw and he lets a rolling chuckle fill the room, pushing himself up off his knees to tower over you and the bathtub once more. “Ah, don't be so dramatic,” he hums, turning to a shelf on the wall and deftly scooping a variety of bottles and pots into one, immense palm, “You still got plenty of that left... I let you keep your gown on, didn't I?”

Highly unimpressed, you slide away from him when he leans over the bath and carefully starts placing his various concoctions along the side in a neat, little line.

“And I suppose you expect me to thank you for that,” you say flatly.

Drawing back, the koopa casts a crimson eye about the room for anything he's missed before he replies, “Heh, it'll make me feel better.”

“Then I think I'd like to decline.”

Despite himself, a sharp bark of laughter causes Bowser's shoulders to jump. “Ha! Thought you might.”

“If I try to get out, will you just put me back in again?”

Dipping his snout, the King meets your eye and offers you a long, languid blink. “Give it a try,” he drawls, “And maybe you'll find out.”

His smouldering gaze watches you intently, waiting for you to make a move, to test the sincerity of his thinly-veiled threat.

Your eyes narrow...

Without warning, you make a sudden move and throw an arm out at random, not aiming for anything, but testing, and sure enough, quick as a flash, Bowser's hand is just there, wrapped firmly but surprisingly gently around your wrist.

You fall still at once.

Good reflexes on him. A little too good for your liking. But it proves he's willing to keep you sitting in the bathtub, wearing your nightdress and a layer of mud, until he deems you ready to emerge.

Mortifying.

You're going to have to surrender this time, though the prospect sends a shiver of dismay crawling down your back.

Several moments pass where the two of you simply stare at one another, he in growing intrigue and you in clear contempt.

It's only when you pointedly clear your throat and give your arm a tug that he blinks, his smile collapsing and his fingers carefully peeling themselves away from your wrist one by one.

“So-” With a deeply furrowed brow, you ask, “Do you really plan on watching me bathe, or can I get a little privacy?”

The immense koopa's demeanour shifts like a switch has been flipped. Ducking his head, he reaches behind his neck to rub sheepishly at the scales beneath his black, spiked collar. “Well... I.. figured you might need some help is all. I mean, you're still wearin' the dress, so it ain't too...” He trails off.

“Clothed or no, I'm still in a bath,” you press, “And where I come from, it's very ungentlemanly to watch a lady while she bathes.”

You may as well have smacked him around the face with how abruptly he wheels about, inadvertently whacking his tail against the tub in the process. “Well, of course it's ungentlemanly!” he professes, “I knew that.”

With his vast, green shell now standing like a makeshift barrier between you and the outside world, you heave a resigned sigh and begin tentatively scrubbing at the mud on your arms. You'd sooner pull your own teeth than admit it out loud, but the warm water does come as a relief to your bones. If nothing else, there's that.

Absently, you stretch out a hand and grab one of the nearby bottles - a modestly-sized tube that fits snugly in the palm of your hand. You cast a glance at the label and your brow instantly quirks when you spot the little illustration of a pink rose on its side.

“I-I wasn't, uh, sure what you'd like... so...”

Your eyes flit up to Bowser, but you find he's still facing away from you, his gaze affixed to the bathroom door.

Letting your stare drift back to the line of bottles sitting along the side of the tub, you breathe out a humourless laugh.

“Rose petals? Cinnamon?” you read aloud, “Shea butter, and Strawberry?” You peer up at the back of his immense skull again. “These from your own personal collection?”

Bowser lifts an arm, shrugging easily. “Nah, don't use the stuff,” he grunts, “Makes my scales itch. But, I thought it'd be nice for you, to... y'know, have a choice, or whatever.”

The flannel stills at your elbow, poised to scrub at the mud splattered across it. One side of your mouth twists up pensively as you scrutinise the king, roving a searching gaze from the fearsome horns on his head, down his shell, to the tip of his powerful tail that lays squashed up against the bath.

Then, once again, your eyes travel back to the scented lotions.

You suddenly recall a few instances, back when you were still a princess and your father's enemies were trying everything and anything to rile him. Once a season, you would often find yourself the unwilling captive of some small time lord who thought he'd make a name for himself by capturing the King's daughter.

He and many others. All making grabs for money, for power or clout...

Why, you've been tossed in cages and locked in underground dungeons, even tied to a tree...

But scented bath soaps? Silk sheets? Three course dinners?

These are decidedly not the norm for the average kidnapping victim.

“You know something?” you pipe up, dragging the flannel over your elbow, “You must be the strangest kidnapper I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

The tip of Bowser's tail slaps haughtily against the tiles. “M'not a kidnapper,” he grumbles, folding a pair of thick, yellow arms across his chest.

“Right...” You purse your lips. “And denial's not a noun.”

There's a pregnant pause as Bowser stews whilst you rinse the flannel out in the now-murky water before he speaks up.

“What d'you mean by that?”

“Well,” you reply, nonchalant, “A noun is something that's used to-”

“Not that!” he gripes, rolling his crimson eyes to the ceiling, “What d'you mean I'm the strangest you've ever met? You get swiped a lot or somethin'?”

You scoff bitterly. “Uh, yeah. At least a half-dozen times this last decade.”

And at that, Bowser is... well... he isn't entirely sure what he is. He struggles to make heads or tails of the molten burst of heat that ignites in his chest at the thought of you being kept by a stranger. Did they take care of you? Were your conditions there better than they are here? How did you escape...?

What did they do to you...?

A curl of smoke drifts between his bared teeth, and his eyes flash to it at once, blinking widely in alarm. He snaps his slips shut to trap the smoke behind them, gulping hard until the taste of sulphur fades on his tongue. 'What was that?'

He's... angry?

Bowser glances down at his hands, almost surprised to find that they've curled themselves into crushing fists.

Huh... must be his competitive side shining through...

Clearing his throat, he adopts a careless pose and plants one of his palms against a brawny him. “Huh, right,” he utters lamely, “So, uh... How'm I doin'?”

“How are you doing?” you repeat.

“Yeah, y'know. I'm – … You like it better here, right? Your room's better? You're okay?”

“Bowser, I'm here against my will,” you retort flatly, “I'm not sure I'd describe any of this as being okay.”

Yeah... He probably should have expected that...

“But,” you sigh, absently flicking the cap off the rose-scented soap and squirting a dollop onto your palm, “I have to admit, I've never been given bath soaps before. So... that's a new one.”

Still facing the door, Bowser perks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah... And, oh my goodness, there was this one man, some hired thug – he got so angry with me for almost escaping, he broke my leg on purpose-”

Unbeknownst to you, the king's back goes rigidly straight.

“- So compared to that guy, you're not the worst kidnapper I've ever had. Just, as I said, the strangest.”

Bowser doesn't reply. He doesn't trust himself to at the moment. He's unwilling to lose his temper in such a confined space, especially with you in the room.

What nerve...? What unmitigated gall... To deliberately hurt someone too fragile to fight back... To hurt you...

Massive shoulders start to heave, his heart thunders to a breakneck gallop in his chest....

… and the gentle scent of rose petals fills the air, wafting up into his nostrils on the bath's steam.

The maelstrom of outrage recedes a little at the smell, delicate and floral. Bowser's eyes slip shut and he draws in a slow, calming breath, willing his blood back from the verge of boiling point.

No sense in getting himself worked up and inadvertently showing his hand. You're all right now, barring a busted ankle.

You're here. And you're safe, with him, he knows that. He just wishes you'd realise it as well.

You said he wasn't the worst? Well... That's as good a place to start as any...

“You know,” he rumbles softly when he trusts himself to speak without growling, “If you just gave this place a chance, you might actually start to like it here.... Might even see that I'm not so bad.”

He's a bad guy, yes. But beyond appearances, he's not a monster.

The sound of skin being lathered goes silent for a moment. Then, slowly, you say, “You're trying to convince me that you're not so bad.... by taking me hostage?”

… Okay, so his method has flaws! Nobody's perfect!

Nostrils flaring defensively, the King barks, “Yeah! So?!”

“So!?” Scoffing an incredulous laugh, you shake your head. “Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds? Why would you do this?”

Ridiculous? In the face of your insult, the anger he'd tramped down begins to rear its ugly head again, stirring like a beast of fire in his belly. “Be-... because!”

When he doesn't elaborate further, you let out an exasperated groan and press, “Because what?”

The question in itself is harmless enough, really.

But... well... If the koopa King is famous for one thing, it's that it takes very little to set him off. You've touched a nerve, roused a deeply-rooted insecurity that even he is unwilling to examine too closely.

Why did he take you prisoner? Why did he take Peach prisoner so often? Why does he have to force people into his company...?

Without warning, the koopa whirls around, snarling like a wild animal, and you're forced to throw yourself against the opposite side of the bath when a colossal fist comes crashing down on the side, sending all of the bottles toppling to the ground with a clatter.

“RRRGH!!! Because I don't know how else to make frie-!”

But just like that, Bowser freezes, slamming his jaws together so fast that his teeth rattle in his skull.

You're staring up at him, mouth agape, one hand clutched against your heaving chest... The water around you is dark with the mud you've scrubbed off.

Like rain to a fire, his anger extinguishes with a hiss and a wisp of smoke.

“I'm... uh... I..” He can't think properly. Shame is an unusual concept for the King. But he does know regret when he feels it. Clawed fingertips twitch as he tries to raise a hand towards you, compelled by some long-forgotten instinct that urges him to soothe a lady in distress. “Look,” he mutters, “You don't-”

“-Lord Bowser? Are you in there?”

The koopa's muzzle whips in the direction of the door.

“My liege?” Someone knocks on the wood.

Oh... Kamek. Good timing, as always...

“Yeah, yeah... We'll be out in a sec, Kamek,” he calls to the other side of the door, using one claw to lift a fluffy, white towel from a nearby rail, holding it out for you to take.

But at the wide-eyed stare he receives, the King swallows and resolves to drape it over the toilet seat instead.

----------

It's only a few minutes later that you find yourself laying in a miserable heap on the silk sheets once again – warm, dry ones that have been fetched by Bowser himself from the airing cupboard. Those that had aided in your escape have been hauled back in through the window and tossed to one of the guards stationed outside your room. That same window was subsequently locked, and the key crushed out of shape under Bowser's substantial heel.

Kamek, the wizened, bespectacled koopa, stands beside the bed on your right, contemplating your heel before his king appears to hover vigilantly over his shoulder.

You despise their scrutiny.

“Mm, significant swelling,” the old koopa remarks, squinting at your foot through his glasses as he lifts a hand out towards it, pausing to ask, “Ah, may I, my dear?”

Offering him a weary smile, you reply, “Of course you can. And, may I just say, thank you, Kamek. For asking permission first.”

Over his advisor's shoulder, Bowser peels his lips back, unimpressed, though he doesn't meet your eye or offer a quip in response.

Oblivious, or perhaps apathetic to the exchange, Kamek begins to poke and prod at the skin around your heel. “Now, tell me where it hurts...”

Despite your best efforts, you end up flinching once or twice and hissing through your teeth, though Kamek is always swift to pull away when you do, which, you decide, is good of him.

Although you suppose his caution has less to do with causing you pain than it does with the gigantic koopa rumbling a cautioning growl behind him.

After a terribly unpleasant minute of being subjected to the unwavering scrutiny of the pair, you're offered respite when Kamek finally steps back and adjusts his glasses with a sigh. “Well, the good news is, it isn't broken. It's only a sprain. You're lucky the earth was so wet, young lady. Or this could have been far worse.”

To your surprise, Bowser actually looks even more relieved than you are.

“And... the bad news?” you ask.

At this, the old advisor spins on his heel and cranes his wrinkled neck back to address the King. “The bad news, is that this is not the kind of injury my magic can heal. However, with a little rest and some time, she'll be right as rain.”

Well... There go your escape plans for the foreseeable future.

“So, no strenuous activities. And for goodness sake, stay off that foot.”

And there go your lively play-dates with Junior. Shame.

"If that will be all, Your Majesty?" With a rustle of his long, blue robes, Kamek allows himself to be lead back to the door by an uncharacteristically quiet Bowser, who merely offers his advisor a stiff nod, ushering him outside.

Planting a fleshy palm against the wood, he stands on the inside of your room, waiting for Kamek's respectful bow before he pushes the door shut once more, listening to the older koopa's footsteps recede down the hallway.

Behind the King, staring down at your upturned hands, you let a quiet breath seep from your lungs whilst your shoulders and chest deflate like popped balloons.

You're not quite at rock bottom. Not yet. You're close though. All thoughts of freedom flit away from you, dancing out of reach, and with a bitter resignation and a twinge in your swollen ankle, you turn to face the window and slide yourself down under the bedsheets, expertly ignoring the looming presence of your fearsome captor.

In silence, you wait, keeping your ears pricked for any sounds that will indicate Bowser's departure.

You end up waiting rather a long time, long enough that you're starting to doubt your own senses, wondering if he's even in the room at all, when suddenly, a resonant sigh drifts into your ears, stilling the breath in your chest.

Ears straining, you listen closely to the shifting of a massive body.

There's a 'click' and the room is swiftly plunged into darkness, yet still you don't hear the doors creak open, nor do you hear his heavy footsteps receding down the hall.

He's still in the room with you then, standing behind you in the dark.

A shudder creeps up your spine like fingers of ice.

What is he doing?

It occurs to you that he's probably just trying to be intimidating, which... well... Mission accomplished.

Minutes pass without incident, and all the while you hardly dare to let a breath escape you lest you miss a crucial sound.

You remind yourself that it wouldn't be in keeping with Bowser's behaviour thus far if he were to try and hurt you now, when you're more vulnerable than ever.

With your eyes fixed on the window, you listen to the gentle plinks of rain hitting the glass and vow to stay awake. He won't get the jump on you if you don't sleep...

But exhaustion has made its home behind your eyes, dragging them closed temporarily before you give a jolt and they spring open again.

Every time, it gets a little harder to fight the siren song of sleep.

You're tired. A day of fighting, climbing, falling and panicking is finally taking its toll on you. At long last, with a soft, tentative yawn, you let your eyelids slip shut and this time, they don't flutter open.

In the darkness of your prison, poised like a gargoyle in front of the doors, Bowser raises his muzzle into the air and gives a curious sniff.

He knows exactly when you fall asleep from the sag of your shoulders to the breaths that start coming more naturally.

His mighty heart jumps when you roll over onto your back, but you're only readjusting in your sleep, sinking down into the plush pillows with a long, languid exhale.

Slowly, carefully, the koopa takes a step towards you, stilling at once when his clawed toes click softly on the marble floor.

… Nothing...

He takes another step, and another... and another, tiptoeing across the room as best as an oversized koopa can until he's towering over you while you slumber, oblivious to your nightly audience. A gap in the clouds allows the moon to throw her beams through the window and gives him the chance to look upon your restful face.

It seems so odd to see you without that permanent, troubled frown sitting between your eyebrows.

He realises, with an unknowable throb in his chest, that this is as happy as he's ever seen you, and it's because you've managed to escape into the safety of your dreams.

Away from him.

Bowser's fists, that have thus far been clenched at his sides, slowly loosen, hanging limply in something that feels a little too much like defeat for his pride to bear.

The pace at which he crawls into the meagre space behind you is arduously slow, and he cringes at every squeak of the springs. But you must be shattered, because even when he lifts his last leg off the floor and his whole weight bears down on the mattress, you only smack your lips a little and lift a hand to flop onto the pillow beside your head, palm tilted towards the ceiling.

With more hesitance than he's used to, Bowser lowers his chin down to lay right next to you, close enough that he can easily detect the rose soap lingering your soft, supple skin. Shamefully, he inhales a deep, quiet breath, filling the caverns of his lungs with the smell of you, exhaling it softly enough that it only disturbs the finer hairs that grow around the edge of your face.

The koopa's eyes blink lazily over to your upturned hand. It's so close. Would it be enough to wake you if he...?

As cautiously as he had getting onto the bed, Bowser slides a massive hand up to the pillow and dips his claws beneath your knuckles, holding his breath to see if you'll react. When you don't recoil in disgust, he swallows thickly and continues to slip his hand underneath yours until his own is resting on the pillow, whilst yours sits snugly in the cup of his warm, calloused palm.

Tomorrow, you'll wake up to an excruciating ankle and a king you can hardly stand. A king you'd rather stay away from by letting yourself get seriously injured....

But tonight? Just for a few hours, Bowser can pretend that you're here, happy to lay beside him with your hand grasped loosely, lovingly in his.

[gorillageek27]

[midwesternmonsterhunt]

It is FINALLY live!

Some of you may remember that literal years ago I asked for folks who were open to being interviewed about their interest in human/monster sex and a romance. I pitched the piece multiple times, to many places, and Juicy Pink Box was the one who picked it up.

[kiliinstinct]

The Forbidden Woods

A Genshin Impact Au Pairing: Aether/Xiao Urban Fantasy and Supernatural Romance Find on A03: [Here] Special Thanks to @genavere: My beta. Chapter 1: / Chapter 3:

---

Chapter 2: Golden Gaze

Someone was watching him.

The gaze was a subtle one that Aether hadn’t noticed at first. The kind of stare that builds over time until the pressure on the back of your neck became too distracting. 

And this certainly distracted him. 

The first few days in his family home were full of coughing and sneezing as he struggled to clear a space enough to consider his temporary bedroom. The rest of the home looked like an abandoned, haunted house that beckoned him to every shadow with promises of exploration and horrors. Dusty sheets covered old furniture, the remains of mice and other excrement could be found in every corner, and a musky, staleness filled the air.

In any other circumstance, this place could be seen as a bio weapon, unfit for the living, but he made do. Opening every window he could to air out the first floor, he struggled with the upstairs rooms to do the same. (Many locks had rusted over, making his hands itch and sore with the attempt to open them.)  But once the layer of dust was out of the way, sunlight streamed inside, illuminating every room with a calming, natural light. 

Amusingly, it brought to light just how his parents had left all those years ago. Ratty books, moth-eaten and dusty, still sat on the shelves and toys he had thought lost, were left on the floor as a frozen memory to their former games. Plaques and pictures still hung on the walls, reflecting those memories with the forever smiling faces of his family. 

Just what had happened to make them leave in such a rush? Aether couldn’t recall, temple pounding as he struggled to remember anything beyond  the car ride full of excited laughter as they crossed the border.

When he called his sister, Lumine, the first night to tell her of his jitters, she laughed and told him to not watch any horror movies while alone. Considering the lack of wifi, cable, and satellite access, it should have been an easy enough suggestion to follow. 

But no one ever claimed he was wise. Well, he did, often enough, too. Who better to be his hype man than himself?

The data on his phone was more than enough to bring up a couple true crime videos in the dead of night while he lay in bed. (Which was more a glorified pallet of his own sleeping back and linens he’d brought with him.)  Lumine’s early morning text calling him an idiot made him cackle through an exhausted yawn. It had come before he’d decided to admit his poor choice in entertainment, and the call out was enough to make the house feel just a little bit lighter. Unfortunately, the laughter turned to a string of sneezes from the dusty air.

That was then. 

Three days of toil later, Aether questioned his life choices. Was it even worth cleaning the place up—the only interest in the land was a company hoping to use the acres for its warehouse. Gone would be the house, the untilled land waiting to be used again. And gone would be the memories he held dearly in the treasure trove of his mind, examining them with fond nostalgia when he had the time.  The old fence, shed and forest boundary aligning the edges of the land would be replaced with industrial metal and merchandise, shipping in and out of the area. 

He ignored the way this reality clutched at his heart and settled in his gut like a sickness. 

The logical voice in his head claimed ‘no,’ but a louder part of him refused to acknowledge it. 

Even before he’d agreed to pay the house one last visit, making Lumine wait to sign the papers, Aether had felt the urge to return. Whether it be the old, nostalgic dreams and memories that plagued his sleep or just a feeling in his heart he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t ignore it. And so, he put himself to work, cleaning every room with his hair tied back in a messy braid and a mask fitted over his face. (It didn’t work. He still coughed each time he unearthed a new pile of dust bunnies under the old, moth-eaten furniture.)

It was the evening of that third day when he first began to consider the feeling of being watched as something other than his ridiculous love of horror and true crime documentaries. Anytime he passed by a window, the entry doors, or just laid on his makeshift pallet to rest, his skin crawled. Ignoring the way goosebumps settled along his arms, Aether would shut the blinds to every window he crossed in a fit of paranoia and irritation.  

The difference it made was zero. As if the presence could see through the old fabrics with relative ease. He had considered buying new ones before shoving the thought aside. He was just being ridiculous, he knew that.

When Lumine’s daily check in was answered with his worries, she held no sympathy for her twin, texting back her thoughts with humorous teasing. 

‘Is it bigfoot? He saw your pretty hair and is planning to take you away, ooooh~’

‘This isn’t helping, Lumine.’

‘You’ll wake up in the midst of night, being carried off like a princess, curled up in the arms of the hairiest beast alive!’

Aether would not let her know just how easily she pulled a bark of laughter from him, replying petulantly, ‘I’m ignoring you, now.’

It would be minutes later, when he was already busying himself with more cleaning, that his phone dinged with her final remark:

‘Can’t wait to see your new boyfriend. :P Take lots of pictures for me!’

Instead, he took a shot of her stolen bunny slippers currently resting on his feet, and laughed when her ensuing outrage caused a cacophony of notifications to ring from his cell. Lumine: 0. Aether: 1.

Unfortunately, the feeling persisted.

The fourth day came and went. As did the fifth. When a full week had passed, the sensation became a companion to Aether’s every movement; one he was constantly aware of.

Lumine’s sense of humor persisted, ‘It’s the calm before Bigfoot comes for you.’

‘You’re seriously not funny…’

‘Maybe he’ll leave you a gift?’

‘I’m burning your slippers.’

‘NO!’

Aether: 2

Whatever was watching him seemed only interested in doing just that: watching.  And with no visual proof of anyone on the grounds, Aether accepted it might be in his head. 

Another thought came to mind, one whispering of the old tales enshrouding the perimeter of his backyard. 

“These woods are the home of ancient spirits and demons,” he remembered hearing as a child. “They guard the land possessively, scaring away all visitors that mean it and its denizens harm. Those who don’t belong will find themselves lost in the accursed fog they create. Never cross the boundary, child, for those who do will never return.’

A silly tale, all things considered. He recalled the tale, written in a children’s book, but repeated by teachers and his parents alike. It was something aimed to keep children from wandering and getting lost in the woods, but he couldn’t get the story out of his mind.

In Aether and Lumine’s youth, they were fascinated by the stories and tested the limits by making their play location right along the boundary lines. He had the feeling they had even passed the lines once or twice, but the memories were too foggy to confirm. Like a dream that refused to fade away. Either way, there were no actual records of people disappearing, not in his lifetime, and he scoffed every time the thought crossed his mind. Considering his and his sister's penchant for exploration, he doubted the stories worked for any child with a healthy curiosity. 

No, he had to accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, all those late night podcasts, being alone in the middle of nowhere, and an active imagination were helping the tales take form into something darker in the back of his mind. His paranoia grew a life of its own without anyone else around to help keep him grounded. 

Not for the first time, he wished Lumine (or even his little sister, Paimon) had come with him. While the three had lived without their parents for the last two years, he had never, truly been alone. Not like this and it was fraying the edges of his sanity if he stood still long enough.

If Lumine knew he was regretting his want for being ‘independant’ and ‘capable,’ he’d never hear the end of it. So he urged his siblings to trust he was more than okay, and continued to bite down on the rising need to check over his shoulder every moment. He even considered taking Draff up on his offer for a night or two, just to get fresh air, but no…Stubborn pride kept him there. Soon enough, after  the house looked, for the most part, liveable, if a bit dated. 

When he finally took his attention to the exterior, dressed in a pair of overalls he’d pulled from storage (he wanted to look the part!) that were covered in dirt and grass strains coupled with one of his low-cut shirts and handkerchief for his hair, he noticed the state of the yard. Draff had done a good job in the upkeep throughout the years, visiting often enough to keep the weeds and overgrowth at bay. 

From an outside perspective, one would almost think the yard and untilled farmland was still occupied, like a summer or winter home. That didn’t mean the yard didn't need work, however…  Old pathstones were barely visible beneath the overgrown lawn and what was once a blossoming garden held no resemblance of the love their mom had poured into it. Gardening tools that had been forgotten in the moment sat against the wooden gate, rusted over, and  brought a feeling of sorrow to Aether. 

A part of him wanted to grasp the tools in hand and see what could be done with the old garden, to restore it to the vibrancy he remembered. But he wasn’t here for that, and stomped down those feelings. He’d clear away the old and leave it open for the new— whatever form that would be. And if possible, he’d just borrow some of Draff’s tools instead. The current ones looked close to falling apart if disturbed. 

These were issues he could tend to later. With another two months left of his visit, Aether already knew what he wanted to do that day, and spending more time cleaning wasn’t one of them. At least, not when it came to the old house and its fields. He had a more childish aim. The old stone shrine near the edge of the woods: his and Lumine’s childhood haven. 

The yard was large, covering a few acres and needing a riding mower to keep the grass at bay, but Aether enjoyed the walk. He kicked at sticks and pebbles that littered the old, almost non-existent pathways and enjoyed the treeline at the end of the path. It still held an air of mysticism for him; one born from the childhood fantasies he tailored in his youth. The trees had grown enough for their branches to bend over and out, stretching forth over the yard. 

Between them, as the limbs swayed in the wind, a flash of familiar teal caught his attention. He squinted his eyes, breath catching in his throat as he caught sight of a bird, slightly larger than the one he remembered, but matching in colors. It kept watch on the branches, head tilted as it observed from above. 

Recognition brought a burn to his eyes and a lump formed in his throat. “Did my old friend have kids?” he asked out loud, grinning wistfully. The fowl in question, ruffled its feathers and jumped to another branch, ignoring his query. Laughter bubbled up in Aether’s chest. 

“Must have. You have the same temperament!” 

Somehow, that thought brought him more joy than he’d felt in the last week.  Relieved laughter bubbled in his chest as his shoulders shook with a rising happiness. Was this the source of his paranoia all along? Feeling this swell of emotion, he withdrew his phone to take a picture. Lumine would love an update on their old birdwatcher, he was sure of it!

But before his fingers could pull up the app, the bird had warbled an annoyed cry and took off towards the woods, careening Aether’s excitement down to the bits of his stomach, “Aww, you couldn’t stay for just two more seconds?”

 He felt his shoulders drop, maybe he’d have another chance later. Instead of a picture, he sent a quick, ‘I think our bird friend had babies!’ to his sister and pocketed his phone once more. He’d check later for a reply. 

Later would come much later, Aether realized. When he came upon the stone altar, he saw the state it was left in and gawked. Far messier than the rest of the yard. Draff hadn’t been asked to clean so close to the boundary fence due to his aversion to the woods and it showed. 

“The Mistwatcher would prefer his boundaries respected,” Aether recalled over hearing the man say over the phone months after their departure. Despite the inconvenience, his parents didn’t fight over the local superstition and the altar paid for it.

Debris from storms and over growth littered the small clearing and the old stone seats he and Lumine had carefully dragged into the area were covered in moss and fungi poked out from the shadows. Old, dead leaves littered the ground, while dried vines and other plant life had reclaimed the area. 

Aether had come to see it for the sake of nostalgia with no intention of making it what it once was, but the urge to fix what was lost swelled in his chest and he moved to clear off the altar without a second thought. They didn’t need seats, or the old blankets and streamers that had been left behind long ago. Even the old rope, tied to the nearest tree for swinging, could stay broken and festering on the ground, but the table itself…he couldn’t leave it as it was. That wasn’t right. 

He thought, for one insane moment, that his old, childhood friend, unseen by anyone but himself, would be sad at the state of things. This had been his home, after all, made up in the minds of two kids who wanted to believe the world was more magic than not. And while he no longer believed in imaginary friends, he was determined to return things to the state they were before. It was an illogical, desperate pull at his fingers and mind that refused to loosen its hold on him.

He HAD to clean it off.

Pulling thick, leather gloves from his back pocket, he pulled them on and went to work, brushing off every bramble he could. 

It was almost meditative. Each task a pattern. Tear off a vine here, brush dirt away there, move the debris off to the side. He fell into a rhythm, humming as he worked. It would take more time than he had in the day to complete, but he continued with a smile.  

He began to zone out, body moving on autopilot while his mind drifted into the skies and all the thoughts in between. He wondered when Lumine would text him back, when she would have the next meeting with their prospective buyers, and just how much was being offered for the land. As much as he understood that the land was wasting away while they struggled to pay off the debts left to them in their parents' wake, Aether couldn't help but think no amount of money could truly equal the amount his childhood home was worth.

After all, it had been the most constant place in his life until they were spirited away to Sumeru City. 

The thought made him laugh, snorting at himself as he refocused his attention. The top of the altar was clear now, but the decades of grime and moss would need something more. A hose, perhaps? I could bring one out from the shed, he thought. While rusted over, he recalled the tools left behind. All he would need was more time to unearth the old relics.

Perhaps they could be sold, too? He began to consider the logistics of a garage sale or donating to the local flea market. It was as good a train of thought as anything else and he considered the particulars as he worked. As the minutes passed, a pile of debris began to grow by the old oak tree  while his mind continued to wander. The pile pulled a frown at his lips and displeasure began to color his mood. Did he really want to sell these items?

His train of thought was interrupted by a large gust of wind, picking up a torn vine as it blew back into the woods with a flurry of leaves. He watched it cross over the gate, but froze when he returned his attention back to the altar, eyes widening in surprise. 

The bird was back. It bounced on tiny talons across the flat surface, picking bits and pieces of leftover twigs with its beak. Was it the season for building nests, Aether wondered, reaching for his phone for a quick search on bird behavior. But the question was moot as he watched the bird drop the twigs to the side, clearing the space as it went.

Aether blinked. Then blinked again. Its agile movements belied its apparent thick size, feathers ruffling any time it failed to fit something in its mouth. Any failure was quickly dealt with, however, as it renewed its hunt for what Aether left behind with vigor.

“...is,” Aether muttered breathlessly, voice so low he could barely hear himself in fear of chasing the fowl off, “is he helping me?”

The ball of feathers continued its task and Aether marveled at the intelligence behind its tiny eyes. Too afraid to ruin the moment, he stayed in place to watch silently while his fingers itched to record it on his phone. 'Lumine would find this so cute-' 

His hand was already moving before he could reconsider it. With slow, mechanical movements, he readjusted his phone and smoothly swiped his thumb along the screen to his camera, eyes trained on the bird the entire time. He didn't glance at the screen, too afraid to break the magic.

So when he pressed what he hoped was the record button, the sudden flash that occurred not only surprised him but sent a jolt of panic through his veins. “No, no, no-!”

He fumbled the phone, quickly trying to change it, but dropped it to the leaves at his feet instead. Dazed by his own mess up, he noted in confusion a sudden pain on his head as he dove to retrieve it, but the pain persisted. It stabbed him again and again and again until he processed all events and recognized the sound of angry squawking just overhead.

When he stood back up, phone firmly in hand, his now angered bird friend stopped its constant attack to Aether's skull and dive bombed his fingers instead. Talons grasped his thumbs as the point of its sharp beak pecked away rapidly.

Aether couldn't help it when the phone fell again as he jerked his hand up to shake the bird off, shouting, “I'm sorry! Ow!“ He tried to grab the phone again, but the bird persisted, landing on the screen to peck at not just him but the phone itself. ”Hey, stop! I need that!“

A quick tussle followed as Aether cursed to the skies above and finally had to admit defeat. He couldn't count the amount of times he'd dropped his phone as the crazed bird continued its attack, far braver now than it had appeared an hour ago. After the umpteenth time of the device flying to the ground, Aether changed tactics and used the side of his foot to slide it across the yard instead—

Which ended in his shoes being attacked just as viciously. Any onlookers would find it a comical sight. (It relieved Aether to know that wouldn't be possible this far from the nearest town.) By the time he made it to the back door, he was feeling less apologetic, focusing on swiping the bird away in a last ditch effort to protect his phone.

”Shoo! Go Away!“ He said, once more sliding the phone further from the bird's manic grasp. The rush to save the device made him miss the change in terrain as the grass became scarce the closer to the porch they came. Giving the phone less friction to fight again, it grinded across loose dirt as his final push sent it sliding straight under the back porch. 

Mouth agape, Aether wanted to scream in frustration. That was his only connection to the outside world. The thought of not calling Lumine, or hearing Paimon’s voice as they checked in on each other filled him with a boiling, desperate rage, but the Bird's relentless attack had switched targets. Landing on the bannister, it watched him with angry eyes, boxing itself up again with the fluffiest of feathers (a view Aether would have found adorable in any other circumstance). When he stepped forward, the bird trilled an angry warning and bounced on its feet back and forth, preparing another dive bomb.

Nope. He was done with this. “Augh, fine!” If he couldn't brave the dangers under his porch for his phone or enter through the backdoor then he'd simply retreat and come back when the risk was safer. 

“Don't you have a nest to make? Or a female to attract?” He threw his arms up, tangling his fingers in his hair. “I...I can't believe a bird is this evil!”

Grumbling the entire way to his front door, Aether thought he felt the bird following him, or a faint laughter. The sound and sensation disappeared as soon as it had begun, and in retaliation he slammed the door behind him without a second thought. He'd be back for his phone, the world and that demonic bird be damned!

Though, after a quick examination of the shallow bites left by a surprisingly sharp beak that littered his arms and possibly his head, he sighed. He'd run back into the demon’s realm for his phone after he cleaned himself, he amended. 

Thankfully, the adventure to retrieve his phone wasn't nearly so harrowing an experience as it had been to lose it. After disinfecting the tiny marks on his arm and checking his scalp (surprisingly undamaged, he noted.) a hot shower, and lunch to mollify his angry stomach, Aether decided it was time to try again. If anything, he needed to attempt before the sun went down and the need for dinner distracted him.

And he hoped—no, prayed to the very stars that the tiny menace had long lost interest and went off to do whatever birds did. Another thing he considered searching for out of inane curiosity, but how could he with his phone MIA?

As luck would have it, his once tentative friend now turned enemy was nowhere in sight. He almost let out a sigh of relief, but if the bird's nest was nearby, he couldn't sit on his laurels just yet. He'd have to be quick. And that's exactly what he did with arms wrapped in ace bandages and covered in a long sleeved sweater for extra protection. It was hot being bundled up like that in the afternoon heat. Ridiculously so, but he'd rather have some form of armor than nothing. 

Aether was lucky that most things didn’t disturb or creep him out. When he finally crawled under the wooden deck with what little light his small keychain flashlight could manage. Cobwebs left and right and other bugs did not disgust him, and what little spiders that lived there, scurried off as he disturbed them. A second shower would be needed to get rid of the itchy feeling caused by their presence and the cobwebs above. Gritting his teeth, he moved quickly, determined to find his phone.

Surprisingly, it was not too far away, just enough for him to crawl his entire body inside to reach. It glinted in the light from his flashlight, a faint blue hue outlining its surface to notify him of missed messages. He'd check that later in the safety of the house. Swiping from the dirt, he shoved it into his pocket and quickly inched back out. A shiver of disgust ran through him as he stood and tried to dust himself off and rid himself of the crawling sensations. 

A quick glance around for his enemy brought not a single chirp or a flash of teal. Perfect. He dashed through the back door without a second thought and slid to the floor in a heap.

“Hah,” he breathed sharply, “take that you little demon.” Smiling triumphantly, he withdrew his phone to look it over, turning on the screen to check his messages.

His jaw dropped.

The screen was broken in many places, punctured by a tiny beak. The screen still worked, but the lock screen was discolored and he had to squint to read most of the notifications.

He was the kind of person who'd consider himself an animal guy. He loved all kinds and wanted to adopt any critter he came across, but at that moment: Aether wanted to go hunting and have fowl for dinner.

[geekybombshell]

JPB let me write about monster-themed sex toys and the folks who make them!

[wet-toast-slime]

Fandom: Original Work

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships:

Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character Characters: Original Characters, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Human/Monster Romance, Blood and Violence, Slice of Life, Historical Fantasy, sorta more fantasy than historical, has 1800s vibes, Disabled Character, no beta we just perish

Summary:

Centuries ago, a contagion broke out mutating humans into beasts-- monsters by all definitions. Surviving humans isolated themselves behind walled bastions, while monsters seized territory outside. Those immune to the disease is shunned. Seen as the traitors who caused the outbreak to begin with, those immune are given the choice to either hunt the beasts or be killed.

Fesa, whose bloodline is immune to the contagion seeks, risks her life to live outside the walled city. She seeks the freedom to live without the heavy burden of hiding away in society.

Octaius, a monster of shadows, stalks the forest outside one of the last human civilizations. When he smells a human trespass into his territory, he seeks to chase them out.

[ill-written-god]

T | 1625 | m/m Steddie human/wingfolk | fantasy | winged!Eddie, wing grooming

The business was slow at first, but as the word spread, more clients were coming, including those that paid a lot for full treatment, from cleaning to waxing, and sometimes even dyeing. In a year, the salon became the best known in the region, with some arguing it was the best one. Maybe it wasn’t the biggest achievement considering the services provided were still hard to come by, but it was an achievement nevertheless.

Robin saw wingfolks from many species and all walks of life, but the man that walked through the door one Thursday afternoon was a sight to behold.

He was dressed in all black, the alternative type that didn’t mind cutting a hole through a shirt to accommodate his wings. The clothing matched his feathers, dark like coal and opalescent when the sun hit them just right. Black wings were rare in general, and their owners also kept to their circles. Steve could count on the fingers of one hand the times he worked on them in the past year of running his business.

“Welcome to Robin’s grooming service, how can I help you today?”

Instead of a greeting, the man looked around, studying the salon walls and the man who greeted him.

“I’ve heard you take in all the customers?”

Steve straightened his spine. It was a question he’s heard before, in many intonations.

“Yes, we care about the wings, not who they belong to or what color they are.”

He’s heard about salons that refused to treat black wings, running on a prejudice that black wings belonged to demons or, as some called them, corrupted angels. Thus why they kept to themselves.

The man relaxed a bit, finally approaching the counter. 

“Are you free today?” he asked, fingers drumming nervously on the wood.

“Yeah, I have noone scheduled. What would you like to get done?” he smiled, hoping to come off as reassuring as possible. His client didn’t look very convinced though. He fidgeted with the feathers of his right wing, curled slightly towards himself.

“Just the basics. I don’t have much money and,” he hesitated before admitting. “I’ve never been to a groomer before, usually my uncle did it, but his arthritis got worse, and, you know…” he shrugged sheepishly, realizing he's sharing more than necessary. “Long story short my band leaves for our first tour this weekend and I wanna look good on stage.” He smiled, finally, and Steve could read the pride and excitement behind it, despite how small it was. He offered his own, wide grin back.

“Congrats on the tour, man. It sounds like a special occasion.”

“Thanks, it kinda is, isn't it?” The man scratched his cheek, the sheepish grin back.

"My name's Steve, I'll be working on you. What's yours?"

"Eddie."

The man notes the appointment down in his calendar, then closes it.

“Well, let’s get you stage ready then. Would you like some tea? I have a great yasmine blend. Do you prefer to lie down or sit?”

“Sit, I think. Tea would be great.”

“Gotcha. Get comfortable, you can change the music, adjust the chair however you like. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The man sauntered to one of two stations in the salon, the one with the chair, tracing the leather before he turned to the radio and a stack of cassettes beside it. The wide selection of genres proved that the owner cared about his clients’ comfort more than imposing his taste on music on everyone. He shuffled through them, finally settling on an Aerosmith tape to pop it in. He settled on the chair, watching the man lineup needed supplies. A steaming mug of fragrant tea was settled down next to him.

“Thank you,” he said, following him with his gaze and then listening intently as he ran him through the process and the tools he’ll be using. First, came the brushing, to get rid of anything his feathers don’t need. It took him a moment to loosen up to the fact that a stranger was touching his wings, but when they finished the first one, he was relaxed enough to engage in some small talk.

“What’s the name of your band?”

“Corroded Coffin. We play metal, mostly covers, a few originals.”

The man hummed.

“Sounds fitting. Are all your bandmates winged folks?”

Sometimes this line of questioning would rub him the wrong way, but the groomer’s intentions seemed genuine. Besides, he got raving reviews from people Eddie trusted.

“Our drummer is fully human, but other than that, yes. Only mine are black, though.”

“They are beautiful,” the man said, and he blushed under the compliment, glad to be turned away from him. “Pity I don’t get to work on black wings often.”

“Well, if you do a good job today, who knows,” he offered. “Maybe I’ll need some grooming when I come back from the tour. Someone’s gotta brush away the leftover coke.”

Steve snorted.

“Oh, it’s this kind of tour? Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll? I’m fine with coke, but cleaning up sperm will cost you extra.”

Eddie choked on his spit, head snapping back to see the man’s cocky smirk. He could feel his cheeks heat up, imagining scenarios in which cum could get up there.

“Thanks, I think I'll manage,” he choked out, turning back away.

“I mean, it takes two, at least, and a good partner should help with it.”

“I guess so,” he mused, red faced against his arms, and the topic simmered out. 

“Were you in a forest recently?” the groomer asked instead.

“Uh, yeah, why? Oh no, is there a tick?!”

“No, no, don’t worry,” the man chuckled. “Just some pine needles. And twigs. Found a small pinecone too,” he said, showing him the findings in his palm.

If he gets any redder he might faint.

“Uh, that’s not cool, I’m usually more careful, I swear I’m not a slob-”

Steve stopped him, patting the bare skin between his wings soothingly.

“My friend has wings too, I know how easy it is to get stuff stuck in them after just a short walk through the woods. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about."

Eddie grumbled into his arms, melting further into them as if he wanted to disappear. The rest of the brushing was uneventful, with Steve mostly talking about his winged friend. Her name was Robin, the namesake of the salon, and she was a co-owner of the place. It seemed like they were close, but not once did Eddie get the idea the feelings between them were romantic. 

“Now I'm gonna clean them for any remaining dirt, then just conditioning and we’ll be done.”

Eddie nodded, watching him swap the supplies for the next task. 

Five minutes in proved him wrong for thinking brushing was his favorite part of grooming. Steve was way more attentive than his uncle, gently rubbing the suds into feathers. Under his touch, and with a faint smell of jasmine, he started dozing off. After the third time he jolted himself awake, Steve gently said:

“It’s okay, you can nap. You wouldn’t be the first one. I’ll wake you up to pick the oil when I’m done.”

Eddie nods once, and settles his head on his arms, letting himself drift off.

He’s woken up by a warm hand soothing the knobs of his spine. He purrs at the touch, still in a sleepy daze, before catching himself. The man chuckles, but doesn’t comment. He offers him a slim brown bottle.

“I have others to choose from, but I think this one would work for you.”

Eddie screws it open and takes a sniff. 

“It smells…” he searches his brain for the right word. “Foresty.”

“Yeah, Do you like it?” The man is grinning again, so Eddie rolls his eyes before admitting that yes, he does. Steve takes the bottle back. “You can go back to sleep, or I can make you some more tea or coffee if you’d rather wake up before leaving.”

As appealing as another nap sounded, Eddie didn’t want to embarrass himself further in front of the man.

“Coffee sounds great.”

“Gotcha. Be right back.”

He returned bearing coffee and immediately went to work. He rubbed the oil on his palms before applying it to the feathers with the same motion he’d been cleaning them with, slow and attentive.

Maybe not going to sleep was a bad choice, but Eddie determinedly sipped on his coffee, just letting himself enjoy the treatment. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” the man spoke up, surprising Eddie. He made a hum of encouragement. “For a favor, actually. I’d give you a full treatment for free as payment, of course.”

Eddie turned back to look at him, now curious. The man was focused on his wings.

“Just spill it, man.”

He breathed out, finally looking up to meet his gaze.

“I’d like to add your wings to my portfolio,” he motioned vaguely to the walls of the salon, decorated with photos of wingfolk. The main focus were their wings, some of their faces weren’t even shown, though some had make up and hair done - a secondary specialization for the salon. “Most of those are of my friends, but none of them have black wings. I’d love to have yours displayed.”

Eddie frowned. 

“You want my wings on your wall?”

“Greatly.”

“Wouldn’t that scare off customers?” he reminded. 

The man only huffed.

“Good, I don’t need people like that around me.”

Eddie was stunned into silence. He turned back to settle against the chair, considering the photos on the walls.

“Okay. I’ll contact you after the tour?”

“I’d love that. Thank you,” the man said with a smile in his voice and went back to work.

[princesssarisa]

And out of curiosity... There are also some love stories about demons/monsters and humans?

👹❤👱‍♀️

Well, of course, there's the most famous one of all, Beauty and the Beast.

There's also Shrek: the first movie, that is, not the sequels where Fiona is an ogre too.

There's the movie The Shape of Water... and the animated series Gargoyles, where the gargoyle Goliath and the policewoman Elisa fall in love...

There's the Scandinavian fairy tale Prince Lindworm... and the Chinese legend of the White Snake and her husband Xu Xian.

If vampires count as monsters, then there's Twilight too.

There are many different fantasy novels with human/monster or human/demon love stories too, but I barely know them. One I especially liked, though, is Serpentine by Cindy Pon, which was partly inspired by the above-mentioned Legend of the White Snake.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Cactus Gorge (Sternclay)

For the yeehawgust "chaps n spurs" prompt poll, the tied winner was "cactus blossom." This fill is NSWF and does reference violence.

Cactus Blossom Gorge is said to be the prettiest place west of the Rockies. In the spring, the cacti bloom in waves of pink and orange, leaving the air almost candied in its sweetness and the vistas like a watercolor. 

Barclay’s never had a reason to be in the canyon until now; it’s a day's ride from town, is steep and treacherous to descend, and is rumored to be home to a race of monsters. So, the fact that the blossoms can be boiled into syrups that make desserts taste amazing (and sell out faster than his flapjacks) has always taken second place to staying alive.

He wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for the fucking kidnapping. 

He’d been hired out as a day cook for a party of wealthy tourists from back east. He didn’t take those jobs often, but with summer on the horizon, visitors to Kepler Desert will get scarcer, so he took the generous fee and left Moira to run the kitchen. 

It should have been easy; pack a picnic and drinks, show off cooking on the campfire at dusk, then call it a day. But the group hired a guide they met at the station, rather than asking in town. 

Turns out the guide was a member of the Copperhead Gang, looking for a fat mouse to lead straight into a trap. 

So now he’s stuck here, five days later, arms tied except for when the bandits demand he cook something. They’ve left his legs undone, because his first escape attempt was also his last; he can afford the broken nose. If they get his fingers, like they promised they would, he’ll be fucked when he gets back home. 

If he gets back home. 

He’s laying on his side, in the shade of a boulder, wondering if anyone is looking for him. Mama, Aubrey, all his friends, they must be worried sick, must know what happened. The gang left the bodies there for the coyotes, after all. 

But what if the sheriff and his men assumed Barclay’s body had just been dragged off? Told everyone it was a shame, that they’d catch the varmits eventually (as they’ve been saying for the last four months, in spite of there now being bounty hunters prowling the desert, looking to catch what they clearly can’t).

Dirt crunches behind him. Before he can sit up, a kick catches his upper back. 

“Up. Buddy shot some quails.”

Barclay spends the sunset plucking the birds, cooking them over the fire. Sprinkles a seasoning blend over them; he intended to make these assholes eat the blandest food alive, but after they threatened to cut out his tongue since it was clear he wasn’t using it to taste, he’s been using his special mixture on sad stews and shot birds.

The leader, Bobby, snarls that he better not overcook it. Or he’ll end up like the last cook. 

Barclay tries not to think about the last cook. The guy must have had friends and family, must have sat by the fire with these same copperheads circling him, hoping someone would save him. 

(“Copperheads” he can hear his friend Duck’s voice in his head, “we ain’t even got those out here.”)

The meal is good enough to keep him alive, though he gets ash kicked on his shirt and nearly in his eyes for trying to snag a stray piece of skin. 

Then he’s tied up by the boulder once again, eyes stinging, stomach rumbling, and hope fading. 

It’s when empty plates are being scraped that one of the men says, “Where’d Mike go?”

“Powder room.” Bobby chuckles, still pleased with his idea to call the privacy granted by some stones twenty paces from camp. 

“No I know, but he’s not back. Ain’t been since the start of dinner.”

“Then eat his share and shut up.”

“I’m worried-”

“Then you go check on him.”

A set of footsteps disappears into the darkness. 

“Boss!” Buddy’s call is cut off, like someone knocked him out. 

“What in the hell-” Another of the men, the one closest to Barclay, stands. Barclay rolls over in time to see him disappear the moment he steps out of the shrinking ring of firelight. 

Guns are drawn now and Barclay curls further against the rock as bullets ricochet off stones and get stuck in cacti. A rock hit’s one of the remaining three men in the head, and when they all turn to shoot at the thrower, Barclay watches a huge, lithe figure dart past the fire, a tail kicking up sand to douse the flames. 

The darkness only makes the gang fire more panicked shots. One man turns to flee, only to scream a moment later, and then there’s a horrible, clicking sound as the remaining henchman is dragged from view by clawed hands. 

“Come out and fight me, fucker!” Bobby screams. 

The monster is back, leaping from the surrounding boulders directly onto the outlaw. There’s a struggle, a moment of panicked, sobbing screaming, and then nothing as the creature sinks its teeth into Bobby’s neck. 

Barclay is shaking, hands over his mouth, praying to anything that might listen that the thing hasn’t seen him. 

The narrow head raises, then snaps his direction. Eyes, glowing eerily, faintly blue, lock onto him, and the beast stands. 

Barclay closes his eyes. But the creature doesn’t move. 

Or he thinks it doesn’t. When he opens them, it’s nearly to him on silent, clawed feet. 

At this point he’s hiding his face in his arms, trying to do something, anything, rather than shake and whimper like a whipped dog. 

“It’s okay.” The monster’s tone is cool but not unkind, and Barclay does not feel any less like a hound when it says, “it’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

He freezes as it grips his arms, but a moment later the ropes drop away. 

“Can you stand?”

He nods, lets the creature lift him until he has no choice but to take his weight or risk his feet leaving the dirt. Then the hands retreat, falling by dark-furred thighs. Barclay wills himself to look up; the monster is a head taller than him, face close to that of a wolf yet narrower, with a small mane of fur. It’s arms and legs are long, it’s tail like one of the lizards Duck is always trying to get to eat the ants who attack his garden. Short spines sit along it’s back from below it’s shoulders to it’s tailbone. 

It takes Barclay a moment to register that the spines are poking through a men's shirt. No, not poking, it looks like it’s been tailored to let them through. 

He looks down again; since when do monsters wear pants?

“Since I was able to get some made to fit. But I’m guessing you didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“S-sorry.” He looks away, “I, I don’t, I can’t…” he hugs himself, “what’s going on?”

“The short version is I don’t believe in letting murderers escape justice. The longer version is I’m a bounty hunter, they’re my quarry, and your friends back in Kepler will be so glad to see you.”

“How did-”

“You’re Barclay Cobb, right?” 

“Yeah. Yeah I am.” He feels like he’s speaking from far away. Like he’s about to wake up and discover he’s still tied by the boulder. He shivers; it gets so cold in the canyons at night, it isn’t fair. 

“I’m Joseph.” The monster extends his hand and Barclay shakes it, “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable for the night, Mr. Cobb.” 

“You can call me Barclay. Basically everyone does.”

A smile, charming in spite of the sharp teeth, “I can manage that.”

He follows his rescuer out of the camp, doing his best to pick his way over small rocks and patches of plants without any moonlight for help. After his third, near-miss with a cactus, Joseph pauses. 

“Do you want to take my hand? Night vision has its perks.”

Barclay takes the offered hand, holding tighter than he really means to as Joseph winds them through the canyon and up onto a ledge the size of a homestead. Barclay can make out the shape of an abandoned Pony Express depot; they’d tried to place one here once upon a time, only to half complete it before the express stopped running. 

Joseph holds the door, allowing Barclay to pass inside. He stands awkwardly in the dark as there’s a rustling of a drawer, a thwick of a match, and a lantern springing to life. 

The inside of the building is shockingly tidy; there’s a small bookshelf, a bed that’s been made as neatly as if they were in a hotel, and small wardrobe that looks like it’s been fucking dusted. 

He glances down at himself and growls in frustrated disgust; his clothes are a mess of dust, sweat, spit, and blood both his own and not. 

“Let’s see, order of operations…” Joseph is moving through clearly familiar motions, lighting lamps and opening doors, checking cabinets and running his claws though the fur atop his head. 

“Please tell me there’s somewhere I can rinse off? Or change?”

“There’s a spring in the hillside. I have a towel somewhere, and I should be able to find you something of mine to wear.”

Barclay looks toward the back door where Joseph gestured. He can’t go out there. What if the gang isn’t all dead, what if one of them comes looking, what if Joseph isn’t the only one of his kind out here and the others aren’t nearly as friendly-

“Or” Joseph is studying his face, taking in his huddled posture, “I could fetch a few buckets of water and bring them in.”

“Please?”

“Make yourself comfortable.” Joseph picks up two wooden buckets and slips through the door. Barclay hears that same clicking, not as menacing, and the words, “here Nessa, brought you some blossoms.”

Barclay is still trying to figure out why someone like Joseph needs to ride a horse when his host returns, buckets sloshing slightly as Barclay holds the door for him. 

“Here we go.” Joseph pulls over a stool, then sorts through the wardrobe, pulling out a washcloth and a bar of ivory soap and presenting them to Barclay, “there’s not much privacy so I, um” his spines ripple a moment, “I promise I’ll keep my eyes elsewhere.”

“Don’t mind if you peek, not like I haven’t been naked around guys before. But if you want a show, I might charge you.” 

Fuck, where did that come from? 

“Sorry, I, that was weird.” 

Joseph lays a hand on his forearm, “You don’t need to apologize. You’ve been out here for close to a week, scared out of your mind and being mistreated. People say all kinds of things when they’re stressed. Or coming out of it.”

The hand retreats, the claws brushing his skin making him want to sigh and melt, to beg Joseph to trace them over him again. 

The water is cold, Barclay’s skin going goosebumped after only a few minutes of scrubbing himself, but just being able to get clean makes him want to cry with relief. 

When he’s done, he hangs the cloth on the little washline strung up on one of the windows, and picks up the towel Joseph left for him. He turns as he finishes tying it around his waist, and catches Joseph looking quickly back down at the newspaper he’s reading at the little table. 

“I found a shirt that should work” Joseph stands, handing him the white fabric, “but none of my pants will fit you. The ones I wear, you’ll be swimming in, and the ones I have for a human body won’t fit someone as big as you.” His eyes stay politely on Barclay’s face, but the spines ripple again, “this should at least let you make a very comfy skirt.”

“Thanks.” Barclay takes the clothes, pulls on the shirt and wraps the soft blanket around his waist in place of the towel as Joseph pours them water and sets out a handkerchief with some hard tack and cured, even harder sausage. 

He sips his water, finds it floral and bright, “Cactus blossoms?”

“It’s what I grew up putting in water jugs. If you don’t like it I can-”

“No, no I like it. Just surprised me. Kind of a delicacy up in town.” He takes another sip, “does that mean you, like, live down here?”

“Only sometimes; it’s often a better base camp if I’m hunting than town is. And since this stretch of canyon technically is my family territory, it does feel like home.” 

Something about the way he says ‘technically” suggests a sore spot, and so Barclay flicks his gaze to the folded newspaper, looking for a new topic. 

“You were solving the chess problem?”

A smile, “Yes! This was a quick one, at least for me. Do you want to give it a try?”

“Maybe after dinner. I try to solve those when it’s slow at the Lodge. I like the little mystery they’ve been running in the town paper lately, too.”

“Yes.” Joseph nods emphatically, “those are so tricky, I love the challenge.”

“Y’know they’re actually by the McElroy’s youngest? Kid’s got quite a mind for puzzles.” He snickers, “they’ve been coming to Lodge long enough I remember when his brother went through a phase where he’d only eat beans.”

“At the restaurant or…”

“Nope, period, poor Mrs. McElroy kept coming to me for recipes…”

They eat up the remainder of their dry, but pleasant, dinner discussing some of Barclay’s stranger customer requests, and Joseph’s memory of a fellow bounty hunter who seemed to survive on Parsons Cashews alone. 

Joseph insists Barclay take the bed for the evening, so he settles himself on top of the quilt with the chess puzzle as Joseph snuffs out all but the nearest lamp and goes to check on Nessa one final time. 

Barclay holds his breath the entire time his host is outside, afraid he’ll hear a thud and then a human face will peer through the door. 

Joseph returns unscathed, tipping the last of the water into Barclay’s cup before setting himself in a chair with a book of ghost stories. The wind in the canyon is picking up, carrying blossoms past the windows as it rattles them. 

Once he solves the puzzle, Barclay flips to a new page, reading the mystery for the day and solving it a bit faster than he’d hoped. Then he reads the news, then the want ads, then advertisements. 

He’s considering starting the paper all over again when Joseph yawns, “I think we ought to turn in for the night. We have a long ride back to town tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Good point.” Barclay sets the paper away and crawls beneath the blankets. Joseph murmurs a goodnight and Barclay responds with the same. 

Then he lays there. Wide awake. His brain plays the same song of “what if” over and over again; what if Joseph didn’t get them all? What if one escaped and brought back friends? What if Bobby was just playing dead and is waiting for them to sleep so he can sneak in and gut Barclay like a trout?

The window shakes again and he winces. 

“Everything okay?” Joseph’s eyes glow up at him from the floor. 

“Are you sure they’re all dead?”

Joseph sits up, “No. Because I didn’t kill them.”

“What?” 

“I paralyzed them. My bite can do that, and I have enough practice to know how hard and long a bite I need to give in order to keep them out and immobile until I can round them tomorrow and take them into town. I…prefer to at least let there be a trial before someone dies. If you hadn’t been here I might have just tossed them all into the cart I have waiting and started for town, but you needed rest. And care. Besides” his smile is a little bitter, and a little ashamed, “I also don’t feel too bad if someone who murders people in cold blood loses a toe to a coyote because my bite has them too paralyzed to run.”

Barclay nods, trying to take all that in at once. 

Joseph leans forward, resting a hand on his knee, “I’m good at what I do, Barclay. But even if somehow, someone slipped out of it and came here, I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

“Thank you.” He takes Joseph’s hand, clinging to it, “fuck, I’m sorry, I know we need to sleep but I can’t, it’s awful, I keep jumping at every sound and when I close my eyes I see them leering over me or, or I see, see what they did, what I only survived because they’d seen me at the campfire.” He holds tighter, “I’m so tired. I could barely sleep because of how scared I was, or because they thought it was fucking funny to kick me awake.”

A low, rapid click, as Joseph’s tail twitches. Then he clears his throat, rubbing his thumb over Barclay’s knuckles, “Is there some way to help you relax.”

He starts to shake his head, then meets Joseph’s eyes, “What happens if you give someone a little bite?”

The spines straighten a moment, then relax, “It depends on how little. If it’s very small, it will produce a sense of relaxation and mild euphoria. You’ll still be lucid, but it might be easier to sleep if your body isn’t holding all that tension.” 

“Please bite me.” 

“You’re sure? I can try to think of something else, I don’t want it to backfire and leave you feeling helpless or like I’m hurting you-”

“Please” He says again, rolling onto his side, “I…I trust you.”

Joseph studies his face a moment, then lifts Barclay’s left hand. Carefully, he brings the tip of the thumb to his mouth, parting his lips. A hint of pressure, then a sting, and before Barclay even finishes gasping his monster is setting his hand gingerly back down on the mattress. 

“How long does…does..” he blinks, suddenly finding his legs and neck heavy, but not unpleasantly so.

Joseph chuckles, “It happens incredibly quickly. In humans it’s almost instantaneous, but even for my kind, a bite only takes thirty seconds at most to kick in.”

“You bite each other? Like when you’re fighting?” The image of Joseph attacking Bobby comes back to him, but this time his mind lingers on how graceful Joseph was, how swiftly and smoothly he rescued him. 

“Sometimes, but we love a debate more than a fistfight for settling arguments. Even if the debates take longer and can result in more bad blood in the end. But we do more biting with, um, with mates. Lovers. These mouths aren’t exactly as easy to kiss with as a human one is, so love biting takes its place.” The spines are rippling again, and Joseph is looking away from him. 

Barclay reaches down, pulling Joseph’s hand up to his mouth. Then he turns it, palm up, and bites down on the soft, short fur and the skin beneath. 

Joseph yips, surprised, but doesn’t pull away until Barclay lets him go. 

“It’s not nice to tease, big guy.” He murmurs, tracing a line along the edge of Barclay’s beard. 

“Not teasing. Was trying to kiss you. Besides, you just called me big guy.”

“It slipped out.” Joseph’s posture suggests he’s blushing, “Barclay, you’re incredibly handsome, and I’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I knew that’s what you wanted. But I don’t want you to do anything with me you might regret. Like sleeping with someone whose appearance scares the hell out of you.”

“I mean, it did.” Barclay tries to scoot closer but can’t without risking falling out of bed, “but it doesn’t now. Now I know you’re Joseph and not just something waiting in the dark to tear my throat out. And you’re, uh, It’s” he drags a hand over his face, “I almost never find guys who are bigger than me and it’s so fucking hot and it makes me feel so safe. Felt that way before you bit me, too.”

“In that case…” Joseph pulls the blanket off him, “you can bite me as many times as you like.”

Barclay undoes the knot on his makeshift skirt as quickly as his fingers allow, letting it fall open under Joseph’s appreciative gaze. A different noise bubbles from the monster’s throat, more a purr than a click, and he bends forward, tongue longer than humans lapping at Barclay’s cock as he cradles it in one palm. 

“Ohhhhfuck, fuck, Joseph it, that feels incredible.” He’s heard of people paying to have wax dripped on them during sex, and maybe that’s because it feels like this; warm without being painful, smooth as it covers his skin and leaves him tingling. 

“Better test it a few more times to be sure.” Joseph swirls his tongue over the head, licks lovingly up and down his shaft from every side. The claws of his free hand run with a comforting prickle along Barclay’s thigh and card through the hair on his stomach and chest with obvious pleasure. 

He’s weightless, he’s in heaven, he’s getting the best head of his life. 

And he’s not getting hard. 

“Fuck” he groans, frustrated. 

Joseph sits up, though his hand continues stroking and teasing Barclay’s cock, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t, I think I’m too exhausted, or stressed or something, I can’t get it up, I’m sorry.”

“My sweet Barclay. That’s nothing to apologize for.” Joseph leans down, nuzzling his cheek, “All you have to do right now is let me take care of you, however feels good. Besides” the tongue drags up his throat, “who said anything about us needing your cock?”

“Fuck, yes” Barclay tries to spread his legs, but they feel as if they’re too heavy, or as if he’s too far away from them somehow.

“Oh, big guy, has it been too long?” He says it with genuine sympathy as he rolls Barclay onto his front.

“Uh huh, fuck, people get one look at my dick and they, they think I wanna be in charge, wanna be on top, fuck” he gasps, clutching for the pillows as Joseph’s tongue runs from his neck down to his ass. 

“Well, they can have their narrow ideas while you and I have a great time.” Joseph nuzzles the top of his head this time with a happy sigh, “now, be a good boy and hold still for me.”

“You’re not gonna prep me?” Fear reemerges, threatening to spread through his system in a wave. 

“It’s a little different with my, well, set-up,” 

Barclay glances back; Joseph’s cock is thinner than a humans but a good seven or eight inches long, absolutely dripping with something golden and sticky,  with short, knobbly spines scattered across it. 

“They won’t hurt. Here, feel.” He rubs the shaft along Barclays ass with a hungry growl as the spines bend, soft and flexible. 

“Okay.” Barclay takes a deep breath, spreading his knees wider, “okay.”

The tip of the cock presses into him with ease, whatever’s slicking its way seeming to open him as it does. Joseph wraps an arm around his middle, sets the other hand on top of Barclay’s own, “I’ve got you big guy.”

Joseph works his hips in short, deliberate thrusts, his cocking sliding deeper and deeper until he’s flush against Barclay’s ass and Barclay is nearly clawing the sheets from how good it feels. The spines rub against him, finding sensitive spots he’s not even sure he knew existed before now as Joseph’s breathing picks up. 

“You feel so good, big guy. I think I might just stay here all night. If you can’t sleep, I could just keep fucking you until you’re too tire to keep your eyes open.”

“Fuck, yeah” He moans, trying to push back to meet the thrusts but finding his limbs to relaxed to do anything but keep him how Joseph has arranged him. 

“Mmmm” Joseph laughs into his neck, then trills and clicks when Barclay turns to nip at his forearm, “maybe that’s my real reward for this bounty. Not the money, but the chance to demand that because I saved your life, I get to find you every night and fuck you until you’re dripping and so relaxed that all you can do lay there and let me be good to you.”

“Yes, fuck, yes, Josephohfuck” His toes curl as Joseph picks up the pace, his cock finally responding to being ground against the bed. 

“That’s it big guy, let go for me. You’re mine, I’ve got you, I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again, I take care of you, I will, ohfuck, shit” he pulses into Barclay, working his hips frantically as Barclay rocks against the quilt, desperate to cum. Eventually Joseph gets his breath back, little clicks and purrs leaving him as he whispers, “I love feeling watching you fuck my cum back into that perfect ass.”

Barclay cums with a weak cry against the sheets, Joseph rubbing his sides and doing his best to kiss his shoulders as he shakes and twitches through it. 

There’s a mess on the quilt the instant he pulls out, but neither of them minds. Instead, Joseph curls around him, promising him he’s safe, telling him how wonderfully he did, and Barclay falls asleep petting soft, black fur. 

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barclay steps into the morning light to find Joseph hitching Nessa to a wagon full of bleary-eyed, terrified outlaws who, upon seeing Barclay, begin begging him not to let the monster get them. 

“It’s funny, what heat and liquor can do a man.” Joseph produces a silver ring and slips it over his finger. Suddenly there’s no monster to be seen, just a tall, black-haired man with blue eyes and the most charming smile Barclay’s ever seen. 

“Agreed. Makes people see things that aren’t there.” Barclay steps beside Joseph, ignoring the ongoing shouts from the wagon to press a kiss to his cheek. 

Joseph passes him the reins to one of the outlaw’s horses, “We should hit Kepler before sunset. I need to take these men to the jail and collect my bounty.”

“Any idea what you’re gonna spend it on?” Barclay climbs into the saddle and Joseph does the same. 

The bounty hunter sets a black hat onto his head as blossoms begin dancing in the breeze, “How about taking you to dinner?”

[smittenroses]

— Frosted Feathers

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Fandom — ORIGINAL Pairing — (Oc) Javob Jones / (Oc) "Carrie" (Human/Fae (canary)) Summary — When winter mornings are cold and bitter, pain in song melts harden hearts. Content Warnings — detail about bear trap injuries, broken legs, gore Word Count — 2.5k Author's note — an original piece written from class, it's something I worked REALLY hard on and frankly I wanted to share because it's also from a project I've been working on myself. Javob and Carrie are a part of a much larger project but frankly, I've fallen in love with them <3 I'd love to hear if you guys would like more about these characters because I certainly have story.

A hunter was always lonely, even if he had a village to look after.

It had been many winters since he had first begun his job as a hunter, many winters since he had found himself in the service of his village, but yet Javob could not find the strength to think of leaving the village when the fae were still watching. Vicious, cruel, the fae had been the reason why many of the people in their home had gone missing or had been eaten alive. Javob’s memories were full of vicious teeth and sharp claws, ones that haunted his sleep at night every time he closed his eyes.

That is why he chose to never leave the village. The people may hate him for having been a cruel child in his youth, but it was him that helped keep the fae away and meat on their plates, especially as the winter storms lashed away at their homes. Winter was upon the village, Javob using the early morning sun as a guide as he walked through the outskirts of the village, the forest’s trees looming overhead as he checked each trap.

While the fae that spread their wings, covered in feathers, had left for the season, their presence indicated by the flapping of wings the month prior, the fae of the ground were still active, still waiting, their teeth bared and their claws sharp. Those fae would be waiting for their next meal, waiting for their next bite, to be vigilant was an understatement; they always had to be prepared.

If they weren’t prepared, they may as well have been sitting ducks. Many of their people had already been taken during the night before by the fae, never to be seen again unless they were in discarded pieces. You’d be lucky to even find more than a head at times, even luckier to find something that was mauled beyond human comprehension.

Footprints, unlike a human, littered the outskirts in the snow, Javob’s nostril’s flaring as he parked his sled, kneeling down next to a trap, noting how the footprints stopped shy of it; they were beginning to grow smarter with the way the bait was gone, beginning to know where he placed the traps, he’d need to move these ones the next time he had a chance. Muttering under his breath as he pulled deer meat from his sled, he began to rearm the traps with the bait, green eyes shining brightly against the snow.

‘Strange…’ he couldn’t help but think, these marks were not one of the fae he had seen in the woods. While many of the fae that wandered the ground had footprints closer to that of wolves and bears and foxes, these ones were long and skinny, each foot print holding three toes… like a bird. But there could be no bird fae in these woods, they had all already left.

A bear trap’s snap always carried far in the woods. Shaking the snow and earth, cracking like lightning in the air.

Looking up from where he knelt in the snow, Javob’s eyes came to the tree line, listening as the sound of something screaming out followed soon after. It wasn’t like any animal he had heard of, any animal’s cry the moment they stepped foot into a trap.

The cold winters were always cruel, animals and humans who had not prepared during the previous months usually becoming desperate mid-season — setting out traps for those foolish animals and fae is why he kept setting them up, arming them, preparing them for the moment someone wasn’t looking, paying attention to the teeth in the snow.

If it were human, it most certainly wasn’t one from the village. Javob grunted as he pulled himself to his feet. It wouldn’t be the first time a stranger had wandered into their neck of the woods after all.

Piling his things onto his sled was easy enough given he had little to take with him anyway, but yet his lack of a snow dog or horse meant that he had to take the reins, hoisting the rope over his shoulder as the clear sky warmed his skin. The biting wind kept it forever cold on his exposed cheeks as he began to trudge through the forest.

“Do not go into the woods alone,” the village people would speak to their children at night, making sure they were tucked underneath their furs nice and warm, “or the fae will surely get you”. It was both a warning and a way to keep their children in line, making them fear the fae with every fibre in their body, making sure that they feared for what may come. The fae iron that stayed secure around the necks of the villagers told another story. Tried and true, iron burned the skin of the fae, kept them from their flesh. The necklace of iron hung around his own neck, keeping him secure as he trudged through the forest.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t defend on his own either, his axe hanging faithfully at his side.

As the trees grew denser, the forest becoming darker, Javob struggled to see against the never-ending woods of pine, yet each tree was different enough to help guide his way. He knew the woods by the back of his hand, the earth under the snow having developed tracks from where he would pull his cart. The lake would be frozen over by now, the fathers of the village using it as a chance to fish in the middle where all the fish slept, but yet as he pushed through the thicket, he allowed his eyes to squint against the sunlight.

The first thing he saw once he broke the dark forest’s hold was the lake, vast and grand, not another soul in sight. There were no holes in the lake, no people setting up, the snow hadn’t been disturbed yet. If it were spring, autumn or summer, he was sure the banks would be populated by wild life, from bears to squirrels to fawn, but yet as he let his eyes scan the forest edge, something as yellow as the sun caught his eye.

Feathers ruffled and fluffed, soft sobs coming from the pile, he struggled against the sunlight as he watched the creature roll about right where a trap would be buried under the snow. It was truly nothing he had ever seen, nothing he had witnessed in his life, yet as he knelt down onto the snow to observed the creature, a stick snapped under his knee.

The cold, blackened eyes of fae stared in his direction, forcing him to hold his breath. With the creature’s body turned to him, the face of a human woman distorted in pain, he was able to catch a glimpse at the trap and seeing the mangled bird-like leg held within. Bird fae usually didn’t occupy the forests when the first bite of frost graced the tree, choosing to migrate south to keep warm, but yet she shivered and sobbed, her wings doing little to cover her nude body.

She would surely die out here, even if he set her free.

Her bright yellow and orange-tinged feathers stood stark against the snow for a bit before she slumped, watching as she fluttered her wings, her hands coming to grasp at the bear trap, trying to pry the teeth open. Like the hollow bones of her body, her strength was not much, Javob’s heart bleeding with pity as he watched her try again, and again. He could see from here that her fingers had begun to turn pink, that her cheeks were bitten from the cold.

Yet his heart couldn’t help but bleed out more as he watched her slump helplessly into the snow, the awful sound of bone crunching on bone being heard, the chain from where the trap was nailed into the ground rattling with her movement.

She looked so small, so hungry, he could see her ribs poking from underneath her feathers. Had she been left behind by her flock to starve? From his time watching the fae, he had never seen one be on their own, but yet as the fae’s wings fluttered again, he took note about how they spread, shivering as they came to wrap around her frail body. It made him grateful for the furs that lined his own body, the woollen inside brushing against the bottom of his beard as he watched patiently, watching as the fae’s head moved around.

‘She looks like… a Carrie…’

Shaking his head, Javob couldn’t believe his own thoughts; naming a fae? What madness had he fallen into to think he could name a fae like her? Yet as his eyes focused back onto her, onto Carrie, he couldn’t help but sigh. Bird fae usually were the most fearful of humans, they didn’t really approach, but yet as he heard a noise, he couldn’t help but open his ears and heart.

She had begun to sing. Soft and slow, the chirps and bird song of the fae woman lying in the snow filled the clearing, a soft lullaby being sung in his ears as he listened. Soft and weak, her voice carried across the clearing, carried towards the man hiding in the thicket. ‘Is she calling out for help?’ Javob couldn’t help but wonder in his own mind, the inhuman noises filling his ears. How long had she been hoping for help, hoping for saving?

It was then he finally noticed the bald patch on her left wing, noting how the feathers made a notable gap. No wonder she had been left behind to brave the winter alone; she couldn’t fly. If you couldn’t move, couldn’t run, couldn’t fly, then you may as well have been dead weight.

Just like him when he had been young. Young, scrappy, skinny. He remembered stealing food from the people when he could, doing little to provide anything in return after his family had been murdered in cold blood by those creatures with the blackened eyes. The people’s hatred brewed from every little action, still brewing even today, even as he worked for them. The fae called Carrie’s struggles, the way her eyes welled with tears, all of it reminded him of his younger self.

Even if he hated the fae, hated them for what they had done to his family, this one was innocent, scared, alone. She was like him; she was in help. Grabbing the sled and stepping into the clearing, he watched as the fae’s eyes focused on him as soon as he stepped out of the thicket, watching him with every movement as he slowly approached, the fae moving back with each step, smearing blood onto the fresh white snow.

She backed away until she could no more, the chain of the trap jangling with each tug, but yet as he dug into the bait, the fae’s head turned slightly, her black eyes keeping track of him with each movement he made.

Only to watch her retch as he pulled out deer meat.

“You don’t like this?” He asked, not expecting an answer. He watched her, watched as her brows knitted together, her blackened eyes narrowing at the meat — though he could not tell if she was actually looking — before shaking her head. His breath caught in his throat at her reaction, his skin prickling with goosebumps.

She had understood him. Even if he couldn’t understand her bird song and chirps, she had understood his own gravelly voice.

Dropping the meat back into its back, Javob’s own brow knitted as he dug around his rickety sled, going through his few items, hearing the bear trap slowly part snow. Looking over his shoulder, the fae stopped her movements, moving back again as his stare kept on her longer.

Seemed she was just as afraid of him as he was of her, his hands shaking as he came across some blueberries he had secured just before the bushes had died for the winter, holding them in his hand as he stared at the few that were left in the bag. ten little blue balls looked up at him, his own mouth watering at the idea of popping one into his mouth, but yet as he turned around and held a blueberry up to the fae — no, she was defiantly Carrie — and watched as her eyes widened. “You like blueberries, don’t you?”

As soon as he had spoken, his hands were empty, the fae holding the bag in her talon tipped hands as she devoured the berries inside, her pleased chirps filling the air as she finally had something in her stomach. Now, the trap. Getting down onto his knees, he slowly went around her, seeing the trap come into view from where she sat on the snow, the blood from her wounds having begun to crust against the trap. Though as he reached out, the iron around his neck grew warm, the fae squawking as she moved away, eyeing at the necklace around his neck.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” Javob sighed, ripping the charm from his neck. As he tossed it to the snow, the fae finally allowed him to approach the trap, her eyes constantly watching him as he gently poked around the trap, assessing the damage. “Going to need to splint this when I get you somewhere warm.” The fae chirped from her spot, her face trying to get into the bag that had formally been filled with blueberries, but yet as he braced his fingers against the trap, he wretched it open with practiced motions.

As Carrie flew from the trap, it snapped shut again once his fingers were free from its sharp, iron teeth. She didn’t fly very far, just enough that she was clear from getting anywhere near the trap. Iron burned fae upon touch, the trap’s teeth having cauterised her wound after each time she had opened it again, but yet her leg was still limply hanging from her body, her toes not moving an inch.

“Yeah, that feels good to be out, doesn’t it?”

Up close, he was able to spot more gradients of yellow and orange on her feathers, see the way her lips were naturally curved downwards into a frown, painted with red from the blueberries that she had devoured without a care. He could see her lack of ears, lack of brows, but yet as he reached a hand out, her face naturally went to his palm, feeling the oddly human hair of Carrie as she nuzzled into his warmth. She was so cold, almost like ice against his finger tips, not even taking a second to think as he removed his coat, wrapping it around her shivering body.

She did not attack, she did not try to run. Yet, as she settled into the woollen liners of the coat, her face all but disappearing into it beside her eyes, remaining just above the collar, he couldn’t help but smile. Small chirps and coos echoed between the layers of wool, Carrie’s noises muffled between the fabric, she didn’t reject his touch, his care, as he loaded her up onto the sled, watching as she settled herself onto the furs.

The hunter wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore.

[kiliinstinct]

The Forbidden Woods:

A Genshin Impact Au Pairing: Aether/Xiao Urban Fantasy and Supernatural Romance Find on A03: [Here] Special Thanks to @genavere: My beta. Chapter 2:

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Chapter 1: A House of Dust And Memories

Aether remembered the bird.

It was a tiny thing, perched atop the broken, overgrown altar of stones where he and Lumine had played in their childhood. Confidence born from innocence pulled them to the small clearing where the altar stood, partially shielded by the forest behind their home. They’d been warned countless times to never venture near there, but had regarded the warnings only as general advice rather than an outright rule. 

They never passed into the thicket, after all, what was the worst that could happen? 

The old altar was cracked, crusted in dirt, but it had fueled the twin’s imaginations as they darted about, fighting imaginary enemies or digging for made-up treasures. Over time, it was no longer an ancient, abandoned shrine to them, but a hideout from the rest of the world. And it was theirs. 

So was the bird. 

Aether had noticed it once or twice, observing their antics from a distance. He convinced himself it was a baby who’d only recently left its nest as it was far too small to be anything else. Lumine scoffed at the notion, stating that many birds were tinier than that, and perhaps its nest was nearby. He wasn’t so sure, but lacking any proof (or an attention span willing to focus on being right), he gave it a little wave before resuming their game. 

It was closer the day they decided to clean the area, head tilted and eyes glaring. With gloves equipped, rakes and shovels as their chosen weapons, they attacked the area with a single mindedness only sheer determination could manage.  As they removed old, decaying vines and swept away the undergrowth of dried leaves and fungi, the bird examined them every step of the way.  

Aether was delighted to see its colorful, teal feathers flecked in bits of gold along the edges of its wings. Like little gems that made it pop in comparison to the looming woods around them. 

When he trilled a failed attempt to ‘speak’ in bird language, its feathers ruffled until it gave the impression of a round ball, angrily squawking in response. 

The twins laughed and decided then this pretty bird was also theirs in the same sense the sun was. While they played pretend the bird twittered and hopped from branch to branch, looking over them as they played. It was the tiniest of guardians. 

These were fond memories that faded into the back of Aether’s mind through the years. Tender little treasures he kept to himself for rainy days when the nights were too dark or his loneliness high. He’d set the memories out and reminisce, smiling fondly each time he recalled something new. The days of childhood are short in comparison to adulthood, but that never dulled the sweetness of his memories. Nor did it mute the quiet yearning he felt each time he recalled that luminous bird, shining brightly amidst the foliage of his old home.

A home he was now returning to for the first time in years. 

Once upon a time, its acres were full of life, growing wildflowers and Inteyvats along the border as vegetable stocks grew to heights that towered above him when young. Now, the land was barren, devoid of color, and the house that once held all his happiest memories looked like a sad, decrepit memory. Much like the altar had been.

With the view of his old home full of dust and who knows what else, he wistfully wondered if the bird would still be there. Probably dead,  he thought,  allowing the reality to sink in. It had been far too long since he and Lumine ran through the halls of their old farm, creating stories of wondrous adventures with their shared imaginary friends while exploring every nook and cranny of the family home.   He looked onward, examining the old Ranch Style porch with its chipped paint and rotting wood. Once upon a time it was painted a brilliant white as the smell of the honeysuckles out front surrounded the property. 

Echoes of the past rang in Aether’s ears, a quiet reminder of laughter he once heard in the empty halls and through the open windows. All silent and dark. The nostalgia sank into his bones, begging him to look around in hopes of a familiar glimpse of teal and gold feathers. His shoulders drooped as the memory of laughter and smells of flowers and baked pie from the kitchens faded from his thoughts. 

That part of his life was already gone and to expect a creature from so long ago to still be as they were was ridiculous. 

But the thought didn’t mollify him. Rather it filled him with a disappointment that settled on his tongue like raisins in his chocolate chip cookies. 

“You don’t have to stay here.” 

Aether jumped, startled from his thoughts as he was quickly reminded of his present company. A tall man called Draff, who had kept watch over the grounds since his family left. His breath reeked of beer, but his eyes were clear, examining the grounds with something akin to pity in his eyes. 

“Seriously,” the man reiterated, fixing Aether with a welcoming smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes, “this place doesn’t look too hospitable and Springvale isn’t too far off. I’ve got a spare bedroom you can use while you clean this place up.”

A tempting offer. One that Aether appreciated, but his own smile was distant, closed off as he looked back to the old house. Even the shutters hung off the hinges, looking more fitting of a haunted house than a home. 

That didn’t matter. Not at that moment. While he could accept Draff’s sympathy and run away to enjoy the comforts of a clean house with a warm meal, he grinded his feet into the ground, cemented in place. 

“I can always visit for dinner sometime,” He replied, mischief settling in his smile. “Your treat, obviously.”

“Pfft, if you mean hunted by me, sure.”

“Diona could make the drinks.” Aether joked, recalling the man’s young daughter at home.

Draff chortled, “She’d have both our heads. Besides, aren’t you a little young–”

“I’ve been over the drinking age for five years, Draff.” Aether monotoned, offended.

“Could have fooled me with that baby face.” He boomed a laugh that made Aether’s ears ring. “Did you discover the fountain of youth while you were gone or is it just good genes? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to be more jealous than I already am.”

The laughter was nice. It filled the air with a little more color than the old farm had before, but it settled into a somber silence seconds later. Aether readjusted his travel bag over his shoulder, wondering how soon he could clear a space for sleeping. Beside him, Draff cleared his throat, glancing to his wristwatch as he shuffled quietly back towards his rusted truck.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, his earlier offer still hanging in the air. “No one said you had to do this alone.”

“Don’t worry about me,”  Aether assured him, a smile plastered on his face as he finally took the first steps past the wrought iron gate, ignoring the tickle of grass that brushed along his ankles. “I’m not really alone.”

“Your cell phone doesn’t count.”

“Video calling Lumine will suit me just fine,” Aether cheered, feeling more grounded at the thought of his sister. “I’m serious. Don’t underestimate a twin, Draff!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The older man rolled his eyes, but his expression was a fond one. It had been years since Aether had last seen him, promising his parents to tend the grounds after their departure.. And while he thought meeting face to face would grow awkward after so many years, he’d been just as friendly as he remembered—if a bit less sober.

Now that friendly face was leaving Aether to his own devices, sliding into the driver’s seat from the passenger side. When the truck’s engine rumbled to life, the hunter turned his focus back to Aether, leaning over to wrestle the window down and shouted a final farewell, teasing Aether’s memories with a warning he barely recalled hearing when he was a child.

“Don’t forget to stay out of the woods! It’s only gotten nastier while you were gone!”

He accepted the warning, coughing as the spinning tires kicked up gravel and dirt into the air. As his one and only friend in the vast radius of his family home disappeared into the distance, his bravado equally faded away. If he were honest with himself, being alone was going to fray at his nerves before the night was over. That he was certain of, but…

Closing the gate behind him, Aether side. It was better not to fall into his doubts.  No matter what, he had chosen to do this. The urge to return before the property was sold was too strong to ignore. Like a compulsion that yanked at his heart and urged him to explore the home his parents had taken him from so long ago. He couldn’t remember why they had left, and all attempts to learn the truth were met with dismissal from his parents. With them now passed, his questions remained unanswered. At some point, he’d accepted he’d never know the full truth and moved on with his life alongside his twin and youngest sibling. They were all they had and what good did dwelling on a home he’d never see again really do? These had been his thoughts right up until they hired a realtor and put the property up for sale. The money they could make off the acreage would be more than enough to cover their student loans and Paimon’s Private School for years. The choice made sense. Right until they began receiving advertisement postcards in the mail, mixed in with shopping ads and bills. He’d almost tossed them out, until the top images caught his attention: a familiar expanse of woods with rolling hills, overlooking the small town of Springvale. ‘A Small Town Riddled in Mystery and Comfort.  Come visit today!’ it read. More had followed, each covering a different aspect of the town: hunting seasons, a local fair coming to town, new shops opening. The reasons were numerous, but not one explained why they were sent in the first place. 

But it was just enough to rekindle the old curiosity Aether long thought dead.  Before he knew it, he was planning his trip and requesting Lumine to hold off on fishing the recent sale. “Just until I get back, then we can sign those papers and sign Paimon up for The Sumeru Akademiya!”  It had taken days of stubborn debates for either of his sisters to agree, but in the end, he proved himself the more stubborn of the three. 

Draff’s warning whirled in his mind. A simple reminder of a well-known myth from his and Lumine’s younger days. Despite the strange foreboding that came with it, Aether couldn’t resist shaking his head dubiously. Did folks out here really still try to scare others with that?

Back then, the rumors of the woods were just that: Rumors. Tall tales to scare the local children into coming home before nightfall. The old town whispers of a cursed fog surrounding the forest were nothing more than stories. 

Hunters came in and out of those woods yearly. Aether remembered their orange vests as they parked on the roadside and ventured through the thicket, guns in hand.  Even he had stepped over the threshold, curious in his boyhood to see the supposed murk the parents feared. And while the hint of a memory he couldn’t quite recall tickled the edge of his senses, Aether knew better than to humor it. His being here today, alive and well, was proof enough the old stories were false; and Draff’s rumor was nothing more than a nod to the past.

“It’s not as if the woods will still be here next year,” he murmured, closing the gate behind him as he withdrew the keys. He looked at the for sale sign plastered against the living room window and sighed. How could he run and hide in Springvale when this was his last chance to say goodbye to the only real home he’d ever had?  

It was better not to fall into his doubts.

Stepping into the dark house, Aether failed to notice the teal feathers of a bird watching from the branches of the nearest tree. Its eyes never wavered as it observed through the windows  the lights flickering on and off Aether’s slumped shoulders. 

[davinawritings]

Warning NSFW

Telling werewolf boyfriend that you aren’t ready for kids just yet but wished you could feel his knot. Obviously he takes that to mean you want him to knot your virgin little asshole… I mean what else could you be implying.

Spending hours locked on his cock daily, your cunt feeling empty and leaking while your ass is stuffed with his cock. Sometimes he likes to make you fuck your fingers into your pussy while he knots your ass. He likes feeling them press against his knot from the inside.

Werewolf boyfriend also likes to have you sit on his lap as he gives your pussy little spanks while waiting for his knot to deflate, just so he can feel your ass clench around him again.

He spends three days teasing you when the feeling of you ass being stretched on his knot and two little pussy spanks made you squirt. He wasn’t even thrusting, just playing with you while waiting for his knot to go down. Both of you were shocked as your juices gushed from your cunt, landing halfway across the room as a huge grin appeared on his face. He obviously tries to do that every time now 😈

[wet-toast-slime]

Fandom: Original Work

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: 

Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character Characters: Original Characters, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Human/Monster Romance, Blood and Violence, Slice of Life, Historical Fantasy, sorta more fantasy than historical, has 1800s vibes, Disabled Character, no beta we just perish

Summary:

Centuries ago, a contagion broke out mutating humans into beasts-- monsters by all definitions. Surviving humans isolated themselves behind walled bastions, while monsters seized territory outside. Those immune to the disease is shunned. Seen as the traitors who caused the outbreak to begin with, those immune are given the choice to either hunt the beasts or be killed.

Fesa, whose bloodline is immune to the contagion seeks, risks her life to live outside the walled city. She seeks the freedom to live without the heavy burden of hiding away in society.

Octaius, a monster of shadows, stalks the forest outside one of the last human civilizations. When he smells a human trespass into his territory, he seeks to chase them out.