#still obsessed with the flutter of wings melting into skin and coming out to press against hob and his chest hair

[lenreli]

Day 28 - Sex [AU]

[AO3] Finally! :D More werewolf Hob & fairy Dream!

-

Hob groans, body still aching a bit after nights of full-moon transformations, which has finally ended with the new moon appearing. Resting on the sofa, he frowns, and considers if Dream will appear at all, having gotten the other man’s number after their session, and, well― 

There’s a knock at the door, and Hob’s heart goes into his throat as he jumps up, quickly opening the door. “Hi,” he breathes, eyes widening as he sees Dream ― and his lack of wings, which, understandable, though the Dream’s black outfit is more surprising, considering the last time Dream was in only leather pants and harness. Also very chunky black boots, which he remembers taking off. Dream raises an eyebrow, and Hob’s face heats, “um. Come in,” he says, moving so Dream can step inside.

“How was your nights, if I may ask?” Dream asks, voice deep as Dream looks around his plain living room, mainly filled with knick-knacks and books, some essays he has to mark on the table. 

“Exhausting,” he says with a deep sigh, “and also very tense, so it’s good to unwind with,” he stops as Dream looks at him, an eyebrow raised and eventually nodding. “And you?” Hob would love for less awkwardness, but as sexually compatible they are, their conversations are a minefield of awkwardness and trying not to offend each other as they learn. “You can, uh,” he gestures uselessly. 

Dream tilts his head, lips pursing as Dream starts to unbutton his black dress shirt, revealing a simple black vest, “I had to refrain from cursing someone so their drinks always turn out to be unfulfilling,” Dream mutters and Hob laughs, “he was unbearable, but I figured he wasn’t worth the energy.” 

“Naturally,” he responds, distracted as the black vest comes off, and his breath stutters as he sees Dream’s wings. The wings have become a tattoo, filigree black lace a wonderful contrast to Dream’s pale skin as five pairs of wings are underneath Dream’s skin. The back muscles of Dream tense, and Hob realises he’s gravitated close to Dream’s back, watching as the wings move with Dream’s muscles. “Sorry,” he breathes, voice rough as a hand hovers close to the other’s back, “I.” 

“You can touch,” Dream offers, a blue eye peeking at him, “as long as you get undressed too. This won’t be like last time,” Dream says, and Hob nods, taking off his clothes quickly as the fairy watches. Dream hums, eyes stuck on his chest ― and there’s a stutter, lashes fluttering as Hob touches the edge of a wing. 

There’s another stutter of breath as his finger goes down to the centre of the cluster of wings, at the middle of Dream’s back, and he’s amazed to see a flutter of wings, some of them coming out of Dream’s back, then melting back into pale skin. “Holy shit.” 

Dream lets out a sound, thin and high as his fingers press into the pale back, wings twitching out of skin and melting back in, and Hob tries to wrestle his other hand from not touching more of the wings, instead going to Dream’s pants, tugging him close as his hand goes around the front as Dream moans, cock hard and straining as he undoes them. “Is this going to be the scene we were planning?” Dream breathes, head resting against his shoulder. 

“Warm up,” he mutters roughly, pushing the other man down onto the sofa, and Dream hums, looking amused as and flushed as Hob presses him down. There’s a moan as Hob presses him down, feeling twitching wings against his chest, one of Dream’s hands clutching at his shoulder as Dream grinds up into his chest, the fluttering against his chest almost maddening as he tries to rein in his need to be down, nipping lightly close to a wing as Dream procures lube from ― somewhere, as well as a condom. 

Hob prepares Dream in a blur, eyes still focused on the fluttering wings he can still see as Dream whines and writhes, pressing against his chest and his other hand, stretching Dream’s entrance as carefully as he can, blood rushing at the feel of Dream’s wings against his chest, melting back into the pale skin, “are you going to go any quicker?” Dream asks breathlessly. 

Groaning, Hob bites down on Dream’s neck he takes his fingers out, shaking as he puts on the condom, and they moan as he enters Dream, pressing Dream down onto the sofa to stop the way that Dream wants to impale himself right away, which he remembers through a haze of heat and desire that Dream did that last time. 

“More,” Dream whines, a hand going into his hair to tug, and Hob lets out a whimper as he starts up a rough, stuttering rhythm, moans rising as their desire peaks and rushes, Hob coming before Dream as he watches and feels the flutter of wings against his chest. 

Brain scrambled, he lightly kisses the fluttering wings wrapped around Dream’s shoulder and arm as he comes down ― and groans as Dream moves out from under him, “where is your bedroom?” Groaning, he gestures in the general direction, heart skipping as he watches Dream’s naked body walk that way. “Don’t take too long,” Dream offers, giving him a smirk over his shoulder as he enters Hob’s room. 

Taking a deep breath, Hob scrubs his face as he gets up from the sofa, already feeling himself half in love with the fairy already as he ties up the condom and throws it in the bin, resting against the fridge as he takes another deep breath, mind stuttering over their texts for their scene. After such a scorching orgasm, it takes him a bit to get into the right headspace, but he does eventually as he makes his way to his room.

[cerebrumrott]

Obey Me! Shall we Date?

Brothers x MC

Synopsis: Demon Form Head Canons

Lucifer

Is not shy about sharing his demon form in the slightest.

More than happy to show off his wings for you and every compliment and awed look you give him just strokes his pride.

He gets taller in his demon form, not by more than a few inches but its enough to have you craning your neck to look him in the eyes.

His horns are not nearly as sensitive as some of his brothers but he still quite enjoys when you pet them.

Specifically likes it when the base of his horns are scratched, he could just melt into your hands.

His wings are prone to molting when he is stressed and seeing as he is stressed almost all the time. It's fairly common to find black feathers around the house.

When Lucifer later finds out that you had been collecting his discarded feathers in a small vase in your room he can’t help the blush on his cheeks having forgotten the entire reason he went into your room in the first place.

Seeing as you are so entranced by his feathers you might as well help him preen when he is molting.

It is totally cause he wants you to just have a nice collection, not because its a massive boost to his ego to have you doting over him.

Straighten his tie and flatten out his collar. Even if it doesn't need it. These little gestures will leave him flustered and blushing.

Mammon

His horns, due to their peculiar shape, are extremely sensitive. To the point where just blowing on them sends a tremble racing down his spine.

Pressing a finger between the grooves or into the center of the horn's spiral will have him practically howling from the sensation or more accurately leave him a stuttering and flustered mess.

Despite being essentially shirtless in his demon form. Mammon is like a walking heater. Just standing next to him for too long can cause you to break into a sweat.

If you were to ever trace the white lines that cover his torso he would just stop functioning entirely.

He would of course vehemently deny any such claims stating that, he was simply… thinking… about things… shut up.

Mammon is also extremely ticklish and with so much exposed skin from his questionable choice in a shirt. Do with that what you will ;)

His wings are restless, always flickering, fluttering or some variation of the two.

The only time they had ever truly stilled was when Mammon had agreed to let you touch them for the first time. In that moment as you ever so carefully ran your hands over the thin membrane of the wings, they didn't so much as twitch under the touch.

While his wings aren't necessarily sensitive to touch they are slightly delicate, being as they are made from a thin leathery membrane.

Leviathan

He also gets taller in his demon form by a few inches. Though due to his terrible posture you are likely to not notice.

He regularly sheds his antlers each year and grows back new ones.

He used to be extremely self conscious while his antlers regrew due to teasing from his brothers but after hearing how much you liked them they were now a point of pride for him.

I can also totally see an MC who collects his shed antlers like, it's 2 am and Levi texts them like ""Hey normie you want my old antlers I know you asked about them before so...""

Leviathan would get such an ego boost from it though. His face growing reed each time he walks into your room to see his old antlers nestled about the shelves like decor.

His tail also sheds its skin every so often (like a reptile would) another reason as to why he is always showering or taking a bath.

On that same thought, Levi has to take daily soaks in either the shower or tub to keep his skin from drying out or getting irritated. Being in the sun for too long can also irritate his skin.

Uses this as an excuse to not go outside despite there being no sun in the Devildom.

Both his horns and his tail are rather sensitive to touch. Though he loves the idea of you petting them his self consciousness prevents him from ever initiating such a thing.

The markings on the side of his neck are also highly sensitive. Running a hand or dragging your nails over them sends shivers down his spine every time.

Satan

Not only does he get taller but he also physically bulks up in his demon form. Its hardly noticeable under the sweater and boa he wears but on close inspection you can see the defined lines of his muscles straining under the fabric.

Similar to Lucifer, his horns are not all that sensitive. Though the area where they connect to his head are very mush so.

Satan is not shy in the slightest about asking MC to pet his head when he is in a bad mood and needs someone to stop him from doing something potentially stupid.

Satan often subconsciously purrs when he is happy or content.

This habit may have stemmed from his obsession with cats

His tail for the most part is hard and senseless, though the green end is softer and more pliable like cartilage. It is also extremely sensitive to both touch and temperature.

This is why he keeps his tail wrapped around his leg to protect it from being accidentally trampled on or whacked.

Since his tail extends from his lower back rather than the base of his spine the exposed skin surrounding the base of his tail is extremely sensitive and ticklish.

Asmodeus

Asmo of course loves any kind of affection, especially if it is coming from you of all people.

The tips of his horns that are pink in hue are extremely sensitive to touch. He is not shy about asking you to touch him obviously but you would note that he does get extremely flustered when you do so without having to be asked.

Asmo will just melt into your touch if you walk up to him and just randomly cup his face or pet his horns.

When he is especially flustered the pink hue of his horns will even darken

His wings are velvety and soft to the touch. He loves to have kisses pressed to the soft membrane of the wings.

The easiest way to turn him to putty in your hands is to go straight for his wings. They are his weak spot.

It's really little affectionate things that get him going. Adjusting the metal chain of his scorpion brooch, pushing a stray piece of his bangs back into place, even something as simple as picking a piece of lint off of his jacket has him beaming with affection.

I don't see Asmo as getting to experience these little things as often as the more prominent things that come with his sin. So when you go out of your way to make sure he does get to experience these little things he falls hard and fast.

Beelzebub

He physically bulks up when he transforms. If you thought he was shredded normally wait till you see him in demon form.

His horns are extremely sensitive, almost like little antennas. Turns into the biggest puppy when you rubs his horns. Just all smiles and happiness from him.

Sometimes he will even rub your cheeks together so his horns brush against your hair.

He is a bit hesitant when it comes to his wings being touched just because of their nature. It's not that he doesn't trust you it’s just when he gets excited he unconsciously buzzes his wings.

If he were to catch his wing on your hand and rip it he would feel bad for making you think you hurt him. In reality it does not hurt him all that much, akin to like a paper cut or bad scratch.

Beel is really just a big push over for you, scratch him behind the horns and he will just become the biggest lap dog.

Belphegor

His horns and tail are not sensitive but that doesn't mean he doesn't want you to pet him.

After he falls asleep to you petting his horns one afternoon he now demands that you do this at least once a week. If you don't he will bother you until you cave to his wishes.

Also loves to have the fluff of his tail brushed / petted, although he would never admit it outright. His brothers already think he is spoiled so how would they react to knowing he has you pampering him each week? Braiding his tail hair and brushing out the tangles while he snoozes.

On the rare occasions he can’t sleep or when he is awakened from a nightmare he will seek you out and ask you to pet him so he can get to sleep. There are many mornings you will wake up and just find Belphie in bed next to you curled around his pillow with his face buried in your shoulder.

He promises to pay you back later though. Totally...

The cow spots on his neck are extremely ticklish, to the point he borderline passes out from wheezing so hard when Beel tickles him there.

Bonus:

Diavolo

He is much, much larger in his demon form than he is when he appears as human. He is normally tall but like this he is borderline massive.

He tends to keep his wings folded into his sides due to their large span. Though is more than happy to show them off to you when prompted.

They are thick and velvety to the touch, the metallic jewelry that covers the tops of them a cold contrast to the warm skin.

He adores any kind of attention from you, more than content to sit and chatter about whatever comes to his mind as you sit beside him or stop him petting his wings.

He bent down once so you could see his horns and as a joke lifted you off the ground while you were holding onto them. He laughed so hard you thought he was going to drop you on your ass.

His horns are not sensitive in the slightest, hence why he has no problems with decorating them with tight metal pieces akin to a piercing on a person.

Diavolo is a super loving guy normally and this holds true to when he is in his demon form. So whenever he gives you a hug you end up smothered in his pecs. Not that your complaining.

Barbatos

Barbatos would never say it aloud but he very much enjoys when you spend time just running your fingers ever so softly over his horns. Their unique shape and varied textures can leave you entertained for what feels like hours but in reality you love the soft expressions you can pull out of the normally stoic butler.

Loves having soft kisses pressed to the joints of his horns.

His tail is his one weak spot as once one learns what certain movements mean. You can always tell how he is feeling.

The unbridled joy you feel well in your heart when his tail begins to curl up upon seeing you letting you know he is feeling the same way has you biting your lip to hold yourself back from running into his arms.

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic  

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.” 

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze. 

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.”  Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile. 

It’s been a real headache of a night. 

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm. 

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right. 

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County). 

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes. 

“Like-- like-- with a combine?” 

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.” 

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big. 

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold. 

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks. 

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow. 

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole. 

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering. 

“What?” Dean demands. 

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive. 

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?” 

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.” 

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on. 

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks. 

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!” 

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out. 

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth. 

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground. 

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat. 

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming. 

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom. 

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for lanerose23

This is super self-indulgent but hopefully entertaining too. I’ve tried to not stray beyond the cultural lanes established in the drama, but if I’ve erred or overstepped, please let me know so I can be better. Also, I obsessively watched the show on, like, five different platforms with five different sets of subtitles, so this is sort of a medley of names/translations that seemed to flow best in this tale.

For @lanerose23 for the Wangxian Winter Solstice Gift Exchange. I tried to come through on bunnies, fluff, happy endings, and "safe, sane" sexy times! Happy holidays! <3

Read On AO3

*****

The Great Bird's Promise

Inside his shell, he heard the promise. The great bird said that she would deliver them to families who would love them.

Her wings spanned the width of the sky, beak as large as the sun, as she flew with a basket in her talons. Within the woven bamboo jostled the eggs of every living species on Earth—humans, still new and learning to walk upon the soil; fish and lizards and snakes and the old species who had made this world their own.

A heavy wind blew from a mountain that had not been so tall the day before, for they were growing, too. It shook the bird’s massive feathers, shuddering her expansive wings. She dodged the gust, greeted the new mountain, and didn’t notice when a single egg dropped from her basket.

This one lonely egg plummeted through empty sky and landed in the thatch of a pine tree. The branches reached out from the cliff, sparse and cascading. The egg trembled and began to hatch.

The creature inside, naked, blind, heart beating fast with what could be called excitement and what could be called fear, was called a rabbit.

The huge unblinking eyes of a snowy owl watched the eggshell fall away to expose the fragile form inside. The tiny hairless thing that was called rabbit did not, right now, look like one. He shivered in cold mountain breezes. “Will you love me?” the rabbit asked, for he had heard the great bird’s promise.

The snowy owl pondered this. “If you’re silent,” he answered, fluttering on his perch, “and always stand tall and elegant and do just as I do.”

He would, the rabbit vowed inside. He would forever and ever.

___________

The silences of Cloud Recesses were all wrong. Wuxian turned fitfully on the fine bed with its fine pillows and missed the sounds of Lotus Pier, the insects chirping and fishermen casting nets with soft splashes. Plus, he wasn’t tired. It was barely night and already everything had been shut up tight. He was tempted to break out, perhaps sneak to Nie Huaisang’s quarters and invite him into some mischief, but thoughts of Shijie’s disappointment kept him inside this time.

He wondered where Lan Zhan slept; he was probably already deep asleep in twenty layers and rigid from head to toe, pretty and perfect as an ice sculpture. He’d heard that Lan Zhan played guqin and he’d heard Lan Zhan was already one of the best. Wuxian wanted to hear him play and see what he could learn from the methods. Or maybe he just wanted to watch him play, elegant and handsome and stone-faced.

Wuxian turned onto his back with a groan. It was annoying that Lan Zhan was so attractive. It was annoying that Wuxian couldn’t stop thinking about him. Surely, Lan Zhan would be so boring to touch, he thought, surely it would be like kissing a dead fish, but he couldn’t really believe it because he’d seen Lan Zhan fight. He was fierce and intense and intelligent and appealing, so obnoxiously, effortlessly appealing. If they could have fooled around weeks ago like he’d wanted, Wuxian wouldn’t be in this situation. He grumbled and turned onto his stomach again.

“Wei Wuxian! Go to sleep,” Jiang Cheng growled from his bed. “I can’t sleep with you flopping around!”

Wuxian pouted at him in response, but he tried to lay still. He closed his eyes, settled his head on his pillow, and tried to sleep. He tried to not think of Lan Zhan.

Courtyards away and hours later, Wangji sat poised in meditation, incense a lazy curl of smoke around him. Today’s lectures would begin soon. Today, as every other day, Wangji vowed to be the example Uncle expected of him.

Back straight, hands atop his knees, he breathed evenly, a rhythm as familiar as Inquiry. He appeared as placid as a frozen lake in winter.

Inwardly, he thrashed. He tried to focus on the thrum of his golden core, but instead thought of a bright toothy smile and a laugh that echoed off the Cloud Recesses quiet walls. Wei Wuxian, who broke all wards. Wangji wanted to fight him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to silence him. He wanted to hear his every thought. He wanted him to leave and never come back. He wanted him to stay and never go. He wanted to avoid him. He wanted to find him.

He wanted. He wanted. He wanted and he hated wanting. Wanting opened a cavern inside him that he couldn’t fill. Wanting stoked hungers he had no intention of feeding. He would extinguish them forever if he could. He wanted to look upon Wei Wuxian, his smiles, his talents, his body, his brilliance and rebellion, and feel nothing. Instead, the gaping wound of want split open inside him, spilling desire all through him, melting the ice of him. Filling him with want.

Outwardly, Wangji’s little finger tremored on his knee.

___________

The rabbit felt so proud when his fur grew in white and downy as owl feathers. With the owls, the rabbit stood as tall as he could and thought how striking they must look together, though he was still quite small.

But when the owls took to the air, he couldn’t follow. When they returned with beaks full of creatures that were no bigger than he, the rabbit felt queasy. The elegant snowy owl blinked knowing eyes at him and the rabbit understood.

He carefully descended the towering pine tree, the only home he’d known, and began searching for where he belonged.

Soon, the rabbit found a little gathering of field mice. Hope bloomed inside him. They were even smaller than he was! They couldn’t fly through the air and wouldn’t return with beaks full of meat.

“Will you love me?” he asked, gazing into tiny black eyes. The mouse’s nose twitched a little like his, whiskers bouncing as she looked him over.

“If you stay small,” the field mouse answered, “and you never scare us and you never, ever get angry.”

The rabbit eagerly nodded. He never felt anger and he was so little, with no wings or beak, so how could he ever be scary?

___________

Wuxian felt pride and embarrassment in equal measure as he led Lan Zhan around the settlement built by Wen hands and the wards forged with his blood. He’d seen the difficult scrabble of pulling together even these comforts, to make gardens of graveyards and homes among bones. But with Lan Zhan, Hanguang-Jun, beside him so bright and so beautiful, it was impossible not to see it through new eyes. How gray and horrible all this must seem to one raised in the glorious Cloud Recesses. How repulsed Lan Zhan must feel, he thought.

Wangji was not repulsed, but his heart ached, for this did not seem a way for anyone to live. Yet the grayness of the landscape did not scare him like the grayness of Wei Ying’s skin.

“Let’s go,” Wei Ying said, voice on the wind. “I’ll walk you down the mountain.”

They moved side by side back toward the crumbling entry enforced by fearsome power. The infrequent bump of their shoulders reminded Wuxian of happier days spent pretending they were like Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen, bound only by their shared ideals. He wondered, though, if they shared ideals anymore. No regrets, they’d pledged; to live with a clear conscience. Wuxian had no regrets, not really, and he felt cursed by that. He was rigidly ruled by his own unflinching moral compass. He longed sometimes to be someone who could turn away. Life would be simpler, he was sure, if he could only close his eyes and fall into the shared delusion of clear lines, protect our own and only our own, and the black/white thinking of others. Instead, he felt trapped awake, eyes open, poisoned by the horrors hidden within those comforting platitudes. He felt terribly, achingly alone.

“Is there anyone who can give me a bright future path that is easy to go on?” Wei Ying asked and Wangji had no answer. He didn’t understand why Wei Ying had abandoned the sword, but he could recognize now that the power granted him by this disturbing path was immense, more immense than even a prodigious swordsman like Wei Ying could accomplish with Suibian. And immense power was needed to protect the Wen against the clans.

“Let yourself judge what is right and what is wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame, let gains and losses remain uncommented on,” Wei Ying said sadly, certainly. “I know what I should be doing. I also believe I can control it.”

Behind his eyes Wangji felt the press of tears. He wanted to weep in a way he’d not done since he was a child and had never done with any witness but his brother. That radiant, infuriating boy who had lodged himself in Wangji’s heart was bleeding himself dry for others and Wangji could do nothing but admire him for it. It felt thick in his throat, like any word out of his mouth might come carried on a sob.

“Brother, Brother.” A weight, now familiar, crashed against his legs. “Brother, are you not going to stay and eat with us today?”

Wangji looked down at A-Yuan’s bright eyes and soft cheeks. How could he argue with anything Wei Ying did to protect this boy? How could any action to that end be wrong? The questions burnt and knifed inside him against 3,000 rules he knew like his heartbeat. Three thousand rules that conflicted with one another and yet screamed that he should not be here and he should not care for Wei Ying.

Wei Ying lifted the boy into his arms, making Lan Zhan’s excuses for him. “A-Yuan, this brother here already has food waiting for him at home. He won’t be staying.”

“But I heard a secret earlier,” A-Yuan said. “They said that there was lots of good food today.”

“A-Yuan,” Wuxian scolded, but then fell silent. He had never given much thought to being a parent, but the weight of a child in his arms resonated with something primal inside him. It made him feel gentle and fierce. And to see A-Yuan take to Lan Zhan stirred something else inside him, something he was scared to name because he could never deserve it.

Wei Ying turned to him. Wangji expected him to repeat his explanations, give his silence words as he so often did, but instead, Wei Ying looked at him with an expression he’d never seen before. He wasn’t joking, flirting, arguing, or cajoling. He was just...open, holding a child and looking at him, hopeful.

“I’m leaving,” Wangji said and pulled himself away from that look on Wei Ying’s face. He would wonder until the end of his days what might have been different if he’d stayed.

___________

The field mice adored him, for a time. That he was small made them feel safe. That he ate only green things gave them comfort. But not always, and not enough. They were afraid because he was still bigger, mistrustful because he’d lived among owls, and it wore on the rabbit. He tried to never be angry, even when their suspicious looks made him feel that way.

“You have to leave,” the little mouse told him one day, the same one who’d once allowed him to stay. “Your jumping is too scary and we told you not to be scary.”

He only jumped like that when he was happy, but the rabbit didn’t try to explain; he just left.

After days alone, the rabbit awoke to a vibration, like the world might split open beneath him. It came in slow, steady beats—thump...thump...thump. He hopped to investigate and saw enormous grey-bellied elephants with long trunks and huge flapping ears that swatted the flies away.

They’re so big, the rabbit thought with joy. They’d never be frightened of me.

The elephants settled around a watering hole to drink their fill. Some lounged in the water, washing away the dust coating their thick hides, and the littles ones who were still so much larger than the rabbit played silly games that made him smile.

He politely ventured close to an old matriarch with wise eyes. “Will you love me?” he asked.

She turned in his direction, searching the empty air until she found the tiny origin of the tiny voice. She took in his twitching ears and quivering whiskers. “If you don’t get scared,” she said, “and you help us to lift big trees, find tall grasses, and always stay loyal.”

The rabbit nodded because he wanted to be and do all those things.

___________

Uncle saved his life with his punishment.

He was meant to suffer and reflect on his wrongdoings. And Wangji did suffer. He did reflect. But the flayed flesh on his back was nothing compared to the flaying in his heart. In fact, it was comforting, somehow, to hurt as much on the outside as he did inside. It put Wangji’s pain somewhere it could bleed.

The Yiling Laozu fell with only one hand reaching out to him, and that hand reached out too late. Too late. Too late to change anything.

He cared for A-Yuan, but selfishly the boy wasn’t enough. Wen Yuan had a clan now, he would be safe and fed without Wangji around. Wangji didn’t want to be around. He wanted to be free of this hurt, of this loss, of existing in a world without Wei Ying, surrounded only by those who had betrayed him. Including himself, including the beating heart in his chest.

The pain gave him focus. He read the rules and found those he’d violated. He found those he wished he had. He reflected. He reflected. He reflected and accepted that he was in love with Wei Ying, he always would be, and he should have been by his side. The recognition came in a wave, followed by a soul-deep exhale, like the release during meditation or a gasp after almost drowning.

The Cold Pond Cave cooled the fires of him, but not the way Uncle intended. Wangji didn’t regret his misbehavior, only his inaction. He didn’t regret his words, only his silences. And when he accepted these truths, the turbulence in his mind froze clear and solid. He’d loved Wei Ying. He’d failed Wei Ying. He’d wanted to protect Wei Ying. He could protect A-Yuan. He could love A-Yuan.

As the truths solidified in his heart, power thrummed in his core like a yoke had been thrown off. Energy filled him from toes to fingertips to the ends of his hair. The world perceived his affection for Wei Wuxian as his only weakness. Wangji learned in that moment that his love, immortal and infinite, was his strength.

___________

The rabbit had promised to not be scared, but he felt so afraid dodging heavy elephant feet that could crush him. When he rode on their backs, he felt scared to be so high for he remembered the flying things that ate little things like him. He couldn’t help lift big trees, or even the small ones, and they lost him when they strode in tall grasses. The matriarch scooped him up in a mouthful and nearly ate him, even though elephants don’t eat rabbits.

He didn’t stay long with them, though he loved the silly games of the babies and the huge flapping ears of the elders.

He wandered and soon met a tortoise, its thick skin familiar from the elephants, its size just right—not so big as the elephants, not so small as the field mice. “Will you love me?” he asked the tortoise with his hulking shell and narrow eyes.

The tortoise sniffed at him. “If you can keep up,” he said, and continued on his path.

The rabbit happily hopped beside him, only to discover he’d left the tortoise far behind. Oh, dear no, thought the rabbit, this won’t work at all. He thanked the tortoise for his kindness and continued on alone.

___________

When he left the cave, having lost three years with A-Yuan, he let the regret scatter like leaves in the certainty brought by this new, engulfing spiritual power. Three years earlier, he would have met the boy full of ferocity and self-destruction. That was no way to love a child.

Wangji had been raised beside someone’s anger; he would not wish that for A-Yuan, his Sizhui, who looked plump-cheeked and happy in his pale Lan robes. In the mornings, Wangji combed his hair and helped him fasten his ribbon across his smooth forehead. Sometimes, tongue poking out in concentration, Sizhui helped Wangji with his in turn.

Wangji couldn’t decide if it was blessing or curse that Sizhui, Xian-gege’s A-Yuan, had no memories of him. It left Wangji alone to grieve the dreaded, well-dead Yiling Laozu, Wei Wuxian. But left him alone to bear that bittersweet pain, too. To wish memory on a boy who’d already suffered felt selfish. Better that Sizhui start here in the embrace of GusuLan, in Wangji’s embrace.

Sizhui sat on his lap, even when he was too old and too tall for it. Wangji allowed it. The boy tugged on the strings of his guqin and giggled at the trembling twang. It seemed they both needed this, an extended autumn of youth after a parched summer; forging—or perhaps re-forging—a bond made one magical afternoon that only one of them remembered.

At 12, Sizhui was proper, good looking, and hard working. His aptitude with the guqin gave Wangji stirrings of fate—would this talent have been discovered in a Wen? he wondered. Wangji traveled often, on quests he could barely admit to himself, and when he returned, his first visit was always from Sizhui, even before his brother or his uncle. The boy would seek him out, no matter the hour he returned. It was an indulgence Wangji couldn’t deny either of them.

The sun had just crested the horizon, spilling into the rebuilt shadows of Cloud Recesses.

“I don’t know how we’re meant to obey all of them all the time,” Sizhui admitted softly. The steam from the teapot caught the sunlight like smoke around his young face, carefully schooled to hide his agitation. Wangji knew Sizhui’s face better than his own.

He thought of the platitudes he was told when he’d made the same observation as a child. That the conflict was in him, in the human heart; the rules were to tame the conflict. That cultivation means control and great spiritual strength can only be achieved through harnessing one’s nature.

That is not what he told Sizhui. “They conflict with one another because they are not of equal value at all times,” he said, pleased by Sizhui’s steady hands as he prepared their tea. “Like strings on the guqin, from thick to thin, they can be played separately or together, depending on the melody of a moment.”

“So...we learn the rules so that we may know all the principles that should guide our actions.” Sizhui carefully extended his teacup toward him and Wangji felt a rush of affection for his perceptive, soulful boy. “Just as we learn all the notes we can play, even though not every song requires them?”

“Mn.” Wangji gave a slight nod and lifted his tea, breathing in the floral scent. “And indeed, not only do some songs not require them, but the wrong note—even when beautiful in another melody—would ruin the one before you, and to play every note at once would only create discord.” Wangji knew that discord well. He’d grown up in it.

Sizhui let out a relieved sigh that gave Wangji a tremulous feeling of success, like he’d done a bit of good parenting, even when he barely understood what that was. “That makes sense,” his lovely boy said. “Thank you, Hanguang-Jun.”

Wangji didn’t respond. He simply drank the tea prepared by his son, his Lan Sizhui, Wei Ying’s A-Yuan, and let himself feel a rare moment of peace in the sunrise.

Years later, in Yi City, Wangji would see himself in Xiao Xingchen, who died rather than continue in a world where he’d hurt his beloved—and also in Song Lan, who soldiered on, a ghost carrying memories of dead love close to his heart.

___________

In his travels, the rabbit soon came to wide water, so expansive he could not see its end. It rose and fell like great moving mountains. On the gray-sand shore were seals with big limpid eyes and sweet round bellies. “Will you love me?” he asked one, feeling so scared and so hopeful.

“If you stay close and always share your food,” the seal answered.

___________

Wuxian felt the pleading weight of Zewu-Jun’s words.

He walked in to see Lan Zhan with his hair down, sleeves held back gently as he prepared tea and poured wine, and he understood why Zewu-Jun told him more than he’d asked. Lan Zhan was a warrior, Hanguang-Jun, Lan Wangji, a jade of Gusu, and one of the most powerful cultivators of any generation. He was also a man in love. A man so deeply in love it had burned—burned him—for almost two decades.

Wuxian trembled beneath that weight.

“I don’t need anyone to save me,” he’d said years ago in the Burial Mounds. It took dying and coming back to understand that what he’d meant was I’m not worth saving. Lan Zhan had never agreed, no matter how Wuxian tried to convince him.

The plink and shiver of the guqin brought the tingle in his limbs to his awareness, like the growl in his empty stomach breaking through the excitement of an invention. That physical attraction he’d had to Lan Zhan in their youth had never gone away. It had just been papered over by battles, separation and second lifetimes, unworthiness and the paradoxical belief that he could not love someone so profoundly and also desire him. His eyes trailed over Lan Zhan’s long fingers on the strings, his soft mouth; his eyes, those remarkable, unforgettable eyes, and—

“I want to kiss you,” he blurted out.

Lan Zhan’s playing stilled and he looked up. They stared at each other in silence. Lan Zhan’s expression was gentle, accepting, and silent. Wuxian laughed—the silence should be no surprise; this was Lan Zhan, after all, who would answer direct questions with silence, who would offer no information, even when it was demanded. Wuxian had no intention of demanding. “Oh, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he said, entering the room. “I want to kiss you, but do you want to be kissed?”

Lan Zhan simply nodded, as if Wuxian had asked about getting dinner. But the rosy tips of his ears gave him away. “Only by you,” he added. And oh, Lan Zhan’s other great skill: to say so little and still say more than Wuxian knew how to believe.

Wei Ying lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged to Wangji’s left where he still sat rigid, back straight, hands flat to still the long-gone vibration of his guqin. He’d imagined kissing Wei Ying—and more, so much more—for so long. The passion inside him felt always dammed behind an insufficient barrier. So, to release it...he imagined embracing Wei Ying like a tidal wave, overwhelming, undeniable, claiming him with lips, tongue and teeth, smashing their bodies together with the force of his want.

The reality was somewhat different. Wangji’s passion was no less extraordinary, but the dam restraining it now was love, not self-domination. What did Wei Ying want? How much did Wei Ying want? His passion could be like a wave gently lapping shore, if that’s what Wei Ying needed.

Slowly, Lan Zhan turned to face him, fingers moving to rest in his lap. Their knees touched as Wuxian scooted just that small bit closer, movements young and eager. Lan Zhan looked up to meet his eyes and once he’d done that, Wuxian could almost never look away. He reached out to close a hand over Lan Zhan’s, heart thumping and feeling 16 years old with his mind full to brimming with the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen.

For once, he did look away from Lan Zhan’s eyes. Away from his eyes to his mouth, lips plump-pink and tempting. As soon as he looked, he touched, before the courage left him. The tension melted from Wuxian’s shoulders at a kiss returned.

Their hands bumped when they both reached for each other at the same time. Wuxian laughingly yielded, letting Lan Zhan cup his jaw and direct the kiss. It was honey on his tongue, a mouth moving against his, a pleasant buzz through his body. He let his own hand drop to Lan Zhan’s knee, the curve firm and intimate through layers of linens.

Hai hour settled heavily on Wangji’s shoulders. Childhood routine made his mind shift into a quieter state, lending a dreamy mist to the minutes spent blissfully kissing as the snow blanketed the world outside. “It’s time to sleep,” he said. He didn’t much care for himself, but Wei Ying was wounded, and battles loomed still to be fought. Wei Ying needed his rest.

Wuxian wanted to tease Lan Zhan like he used to, mock those rigid GusuLan traditions—if they weren’t going to defy them for this, then for what!? But Lan Zhan, his Lan Zhan; he’d spent so much time worrying and caring for him, he had to be exhausted. “Okay,” he relented.

But neither of them moved to stand or stop. They just kept trading kisses.

Wuxian laughed against Lan Zhan’s mouth and felt an answering smile that made his heart throb. He decided a few moments more couldn’t hurt. For a few moments more, they could be the lusty, carefree boys they could have been 20 years ago, if war had not arrived so early and maturity so late.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispered against his lips after several molten minutes more. He felt hot all over, from his knees tight against Lan Zhan’s to his throat where guqin-skilled hands stroked his skin and caressed his jaw. “We should sleep.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agreed, but only kissed him again.

Wei Ying laughed and Wangji loved the sound. Loved the sound of him, loved the feel of him, loved the life in him. Wanted him endlessly.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pouted sweetly, “who’s been taking care of me, hm? Who will take care of me if Hanguang-Jun is asleep on his feet?”

When Wangji opened them, his eyes were unfocused. He felt drunk, though he’d had no wine but what he could taste on Wei Ying’s lips and tongue. “Sleep with me,” he said.

Blushed cheeks and well-used lips complemented Wei Ying’s features well. He looked young and healthy. “Yes,” he answered, adding sternly, “but we have to sleep.”

Wangji nodded his agreement, amused to have Wei Ying making rules now.

They stripped to their underrobes and climbed into the bed, each fully intending to sleep as agreed, but the room had grown cold with the frost outside and there was so much warm skin, so many hot kisses still to give, so much uncharted territory on this path they’d just begun to walk together and now single layers that could be opened to allow palms to feel the firm planes of stomach and the exquisitely narrow rise of hip.

But they each had secrets, too: a boy asleep not far from where they lay and a golden core warming someone else in Yunmeng.

Lan Zhan felt so good and Wuxian didn’t want to stop even as his heart thumped for the wrong reasons when Lan Zhan’s fingers grazed his wrists. If they were to do the things he’d seen in Nie-xiong’s books, then surely Lan Zhan, the great Hanguang-Jun, would sense what he was missing. He wanted it as much as he feared it.

“Lan Zhan, is it okay – if we – if we don’t go any further – tonight – just not tonight,” Wuxian gasped, each phrase punctuated with more kissing, his hand tangling in Lan Zhan’s hair, his knee sliding over Lan Zhan’s hip.

Wangji gripped the knee curving around him to bring their bodies closer. He wanted to pull it firm against him and take this pleasure he’d been dreaming of for decades. But Wei Ying’s words. He was forever reckless with himself and he would keep going if Wangji pushed it because they wanted each other. Even that thought was a thrill. Wei Ying wanted him, and Wangji wanted to tell him.

But if Wei Ying approached Sizhui with the familiarity and fondness he almost certainly would if he knew, what terrible memories might that disinter? For as much love as had surrounded little Wen Yuan, he’d been living on a mountain of the dead and all his family had been slaughtered. Would returning those memories to his sensitive, happy boy be a kindness or a cruelty?

Wangji still wanted. He wanted to tell Wei Ying the one good thing he’d done, kiss him, hold him, cry with him, make love in a happy haze as though all the painful years had never happened, but no. No, the note he must play strongest now was for Sizhui, and he did not want his first joining with Wei Ying to be shrouded in secrets.

He called upon his Lan reserve to drag himself away from the delicious warmth of Wei Ying’s mouth. “We can stop,” he said, startled by the lust-roughness of his voice.

Wei Ying’s eyes drifted away from his lips. Wangji felt his steadying exhale against his skin. “You’re right, Lan Zhan, you’re right,” he said. “We should stop.”

“You said it first.”

Wei Ying let out a loud laugh, rolling away to throw his head back. Wangji wanted to cover that smooth neck with bites and kisses. When Wei Ying curled toward him again, his eyes shown with fondness and he reached between them to link their hands together, bodies at a safer, less enticing distance.

They talked, then, how they did any other night they’d shared a room in their travels. They compared thoughts about what they had discovered, expectations for what lay ahead, but it felt so new, whispering face to face, lips kiss-tender, voices crossing not an empty room but only the small expanse of the bed.

Wuxian wasn’t sure when they finally fell asleep. He remembered dawn peeking through the screens at the window and it seemed only seconds later that they had to wake and get dressed. He wanted to curl up and sleep for a day, but a wicked, immovable deadline hung over them for soon a murderer would come to Cloud Recesses.

___________

The rabbit had a delightful afternoon in the seals’ company. Their bodies bounced like his and they had whiskers like him and they bounce-bounce-bounced together, but then all the seals bounce-bounce-bounced into the waves where the rabbit couldn’t follow because he didn’t have flippers and his feet were not shaped like a paddles for pushing through water.

He stood alone on the beach for a long, stunned moment, then he turned and began searching again.

In the silent grasses, the rabbit came upon a leopard, its sleek, spotted body low to the ground, eyes peering straight ahead. Its backside wiggled the way the rabbit’s did sometimes. “Will you love me?” the rabbit asked.

“If you can keep up!” the leopard replied, bounding off on strong back legs after a sprinting deer.

The rabbit tried to keep up, but he lost her before the leopard’s voice had even faded from his ears. He continued on alone.

___________

The moment he saw that broken look on his brother’s face at the Guanyin Temple, Wangji knew his daydream of traveling by Wei Ying’s side had died.

To live with a clear conscience, without regret. An easy phrase that provided no guidance in how to weigh regrets against one another. He would regret watching Wei Ying walk away again. He would regret leaving GusuLan with one leader heartbroken and another too unyielding for the complex days ahead. He would regret forsaking a generation of Lan juniors to that unsteady guidance. He would regret abandoning the cultivation world to a power vacuum where evil and self-interest could so easily gain dominance. He wanted to be Lan Zhan. He wanted to be Wei Ying’s. But the world, for now, needed Hanguang-Jun.

But like so many deaths around the Yiling Laozu, Wei Wuxian, this death was not forever. One day, Wangji sat reading in the jingshi when a flute’s notes drifted in with the breeze. He heard a song he knew well and knew Wei Ying had come home.

It was strange to walk the paths of Cloud Recesses and realize it had started to feel like home. Wuxian found comfort in the routine, and could maybe—maybe—understand the appeal of a clearly defined schedule, up to a point. His 16-year-old self would never have believed it, but his 16-year-old self hadn’t yet had to survive in the Burial Mounds. His 16-year-old self hadn’t yet died for his convictions and mistakes.

Wuxian let out a breath as the sorrow passed through him, a familiar companion after all these years. Even that felt at home in Cloud Recesses with its stillness and meditative spaces. Here, Wuxian could grieve and find solace. He’d found love here. He’d found purpose and family. Even Lan Qiren surrendered some of his vitriol when he’d realized that Wuxian would not steal Lan Zhan away. At last, the old man recognized that Lan Zhan was the wise and filial leader he’d been trying to raise all along, even if they disagreed on the details.

Lan Zhan looked as beautiful as an art print among the rabbits in the back hills. The pure white fur and Lan Zhan’s robes, the earthy brown and green—it made Wuxian’s fingers itch for brush and parchment. Perhaps he’d do that tonight...or maybe tomorrow because he’d learned the expressions on the face so many others thought immobile. All morning, Lan Zhan’s eyes had been lingering on Wuxian’s throat, his lips. Their few touches outside the jingshi had been lingering.

The first night Wuxian returned to Cloud Recesses they’d had no early appointments and no deliberate secrets between them, only stories not yet told and endless days to tell them. That night, they discovered new things they could do together that were even more satisfying than fighting side by side.

“Lan Zhan,” he said casually, scratching a rabbit between its velvet-soft ears. “What do you want to do tonight?”

The rabbits on Lan Zhan’s lap were calmer, almost sedated by his familiar and predictable stillness. But then, rabbits couldn’t really read the way his eyelashes slowly lifted over a heated gaze.

Wuxian grinned as a lovely anticipation started to pool in his limbs. He’d always been attractive, but it wasn’t until all this started with Lan Zhan that he’d felt desired, even seduced. “Ah,” he said, and stretched out on his back, hands folded beneath his head. Leaves and sticks crunched beneath him and a few rabbits darted away, but Lan Zhan’s eyes traveled the length of him, just as he’d wanted. One day, perhaps, Wuxian would try to tempt Lan Zhan into kissing him here the way he did in the jingshi, all devouring and unrestrained.

“I want—” Wangji began, then silenced abruptly. He found himself disinclined to speak most of the time, but rarely did he want to express himself more than in these moments with Wei Ying, these rare moments when the intimacy of their relationship was in the fore and not buried beneath life-or-death politics and layers of the mundane. Wei Ying had gotten so good at reading him, but sometimes Wangji wished he didn’t have to.

“Yes?” Wei Ying curved toward him, head propped up on his bent arm. “What do you want, Lan Zhan?

In that eagerness, Wangji saw that sometimes Wei Ying didn’t want to have to read him either. He swallowed and tried. “The book you had.”

“Which book?”

“During the lectures. In the library.”

Confusion clouded Wei Ying’s handsome face and Wangji worried this would fall prey to his poor memory, but after a few seconds, clarity spread like a sunrise. “In the library. When I was having to copy all those rules and you were being so mean and ignoring me.”

“Mn.”

Wuxian smiled brightly. Funny how those days had a rosy shine to them now. Lan Zhan, his beloved Lan Zhan, his sweet stick in the mud who defied nearly every one of those rules for him. He’d been unimaginably attractive in that library, so cold and untouchable. How badly he’d wanted to touch. “What about it?”

Wangji swallowed. He turned his attention to the rabbits in his lap. They dozed, their red eyes closed into gentle lines on their white faces, noses twitching with dreams. They clearly didn’t sense the rapid heartbeat in the body beneath them. “The picture. I would do that with you.”

Wuxian’s mouth twisted. “Which picture?”

Lan Zhan looked up at him, exasperated.

“Ah-ah, Lan Zhan,” he sighed, one hand lifted in defense. “That book was full of pictures. I don’t know which one you saw. I gave it to you to tease you and you ripped it apart so quickly.”

Wangji looked back to his rabbits. One blinked awake and he slid a finger along its forehead as it yawned, cute big teeth on display. He let the subject drop. He would not be able to find the words.

But Wei Ying sat up, excitedly crossing his legs beneath him. “Could you describe it to me?” he asked.

Wangji didn’t reply, neither by words nor a shake of his head. The tightness in his throat frustrated him. The sentence wouldn’t form in his mind, his tongue wouldn’t lift in his mouth, his lips wouldn’t part. That he had these desires, he had accepted. That they were not shameful, he had learned. But to speak them was still beyond his strength.

Wuxian scooted closer until his knees touched Lan Zhan’s. He loved the warm-pink of his ears, but not the storm clouding the features beneath his pale blue ribbon. He reached forward to join Lan Zhan’s hands in petting the rabbits in his lap. “Maybe you could show me,” he said, letting his fingers glide over Lan Zhan’s in a way he was certain could be called shameless. “Tonight, Lan Zhan. You could show me what they did in the picture. You know how smart I am; I’ll figure it out.” Lan Zhan didn’t answer, but the pink of his ears deepened to red, the storm cleared in his expression, and Wuxian grinned. His clever mind liked a mystery and the rest of him liked touching Lan Zhan, so these evening plans were very welcome indeed.

But being Wei Wuxian they also slipped his mind. That Cloud Recesses felt like an embrace would have shocked his 16-year-old self. That he’d become a teacher would not have. Oh, he dreamed of being a rogue cultivator, and that lifestyle suited him quite well on his not infrequent night hunts, but Wuxian had always been someone who loved being surrounded by youth and happiness, laughter on lotus lakes and meals made by someone who adored him.

Those days couldn’t be recreated, not after so much damage, but with the Lan juniors, with Lan Zhan, and A-Yuan, visits with Wen Ning and even slowly, slowly something better with Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng... It suited Wuxian quite well to be Wei-laoshi. He liked guiding disciples in archery and sword forms. He liked the spark of delight in their eyes when they first mastered a talisman.

Wangji liked that others saw His Excellency in the company of the Yiling Laozu. It killed off the rumors explaining Wei Ying’s absence and their hopes that Wangji had “come to his senses.” He preferred when they could tell by sight that the cultivation world was now guided by a mind that had not been tamed. If they felt fear, Wangji assumed they were right to do so. Those who gave him small, secret smiles—they were right, too.

That evening, Wuxian sat on the edge of their bed and barely seconds later found himself with a lapful of Lan Zhan. He instinctively gripped him and blinked, confused, at the broad expanse of a silk-covered back before his eyes.

“It was like this,” Lan Zhan said, a low whisper.

Wuxian blinked once, and then once more. “Ohhh,” he breathed, as every piece of their earlier conversation came back in a rush. “Oh. Yes, Lan Zhan, we can do that.” And really, they’d already started. Lan Zhan’s hips circled in a way that made Wuxian shiver and forget everything else. He swept Lan Zhan’s hair over his shoulder to bare his neck to his kisses and reached around to start pulling the robes from Lan Zhan’s body, sliding his hands up the strong thighs parted atop his. “Did you want to do this that day in the library?” he asked.

“No... and yes.”

“Yeah,” Wuxian agreed. He remembered the messy jumble of yearnings back then. If they’d kissed as boys, Wuxian was sure he would have ruined it, laughing, callous and too scared to wade into the depths of his feelings for the boy who was everything he was not.

They kept small pot of gel by the bed next to a stack of bathing linens. Wangji still felt a bit embarrassed by the obviousness of these supplies, but it was worth it when he didn’t have to leave Wei Ying’s arms when the mood struck them.

When he was young and his body was rocked by desires he didn’t understand, he’d done what he always did: he studied, like curse victim seeking the counter-curse. And indeed, he’d felt cursed, the way his mind refused to stay on any topic but Wei Ying and his antics. He discreetly researched how men fit together, how they touched and satisfied each other. He believed knowledge would bring the counter-curse for surely he would see these acts were foul and undesirable. Instead, he learned, in detail, all the ways he could give pleasure to the vexing boy who had disrupted the peace of him.

The worst times were the fits of grief that took hold during those long years existing in a world without him. Even gone, his thoughts still turned to him. Even gone, he still wanted to touch him. In those dark hours, with smooth gel on his fingers, he’d give his body what it needed. He pictured the beaming smile that died long before the man, those clever eyes and slender hands full of power and strength. After the crest of climax, the tears would swallow him. He would cry into bed linens that would never carry Wei Ying’s scent, and search for the reasons to go on when all he wanted was to fall into darkness with him.

But his linens did smell of Wei Ying now, of his hair oils and the natural tang of him. His linens were their linens because his bed was not his alone anymore, would never be again, and that beautiful boy who had once vexed him let out a tense, blissful sigh when their bodies joined at last.

Wuxian touched his forehead to Lan Zhan’s warm back and tried not to move, though the pleasure made him want to. He kissed the juncture of neck and shoulder blade, gave a light scrape of teeth. “Is it good, Lan Zhan?” he asked. His voice and his legs trembled.

He didn’t immediately receive a response, not a verbal one anyway, but Lan Zhan shifted, adjusting angle and depth and clinging to Wuxian’s hands on his hips.

Soon enough Wuxian didn’t need his words. Soft sounds rumbled in Lan Zhan’s throat, small gasps of satisfaction that would, in anyone else, be loud wanton moans. Like the sort Wuxian muffled against Lan Zhan’s scarred skin, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses as they found their rhythm with one another. It felt so good, always felt so good to touch Lan Zhan, to have this closeness, this way to show with bodies the intensity of his feelings inside. Sometimes he felt obsessed; he wanted to breathe in Lan Zhan, drink him in, become one person and be done with this false separation, this ridiculous idea that there was a Wei Ying and there was a Lan Zhan when they were so clearly one soul, one heart, one person. Maybe if they had a hundred lifetimes together, they could cultivate a way to join their spirits and become one. But—gasping deep and human against sweat-damp shoulder blades as Lan Zhan rode him—Wuxian couldn’t complain about this method for now.

Finished, they collapsed to their sides on the bed, letting bodies cool and heart rates settle. Wuxian dropped kisses on Lan Zhan’s naked shoulders because the affection still bubbling from his climax needed somewhere to go.

After a few moments’ rest, Lan Zhan turned to him. Those who thought him beautiful had no idea, Wuxian thought. They’d never seen him flushed with color, limb-loose and sated, eyes cloudy with peaked pleasure.

Their couplings usually ended with whispered conversations and Wei Ying’s happy laughter, so Wangji didn’t expect the emotion clogging his throat. He didn’t realize tears had followed until Wei Ying’s thumb slid beneath his eyes wipe them away.

“Lan Zhan?” he asked, concerned. “Why are you crying?”

The cavern of want that once terrified him had expanded and burst, filled now with a shameful fantasy made joyful flesh; filled to brimming with a partner, a son, a healthy clan, a life he felt so grateful to be living.

“Thank you,” was all Wangji managed to say.

Wei Ying smiled, that achingly gorgeous smile that Wangji wanted forever. “For what?”

For killing my shame, he thought. For making Cloud Recesses feel like home again. For embracing my silences. For coming back. For staying. For—

“I love you,” Wei Ying said, when he didn’t get an answer, at least not one Wangji had consciously given.

For that, Wangji thought and welcomed his kiss.

___________

The rabbit traveled on, alone and desperately lonely, until he came upon a stranger munching green, green leaves. Hunger twisted in his tiny rabbit belly, but the ache in his heart was more.

“Will you love me?” The rabbit asked, but before the stranger could answer, he went on, “I may be too scary or too big or too small. I may not be elegant and I can’t help lift big trees, or even little ones. I may go too fast or I may go too slow, and I cannot bounce-bounce-bounce into the water. I jump when I’m excited, I sometimes get scared, and I may not be perfect at giving love back,” the rabbit said in a rush. “But will you love me?”

The stranger blinked with red eyes just like the rabbit’s after listening with long ears just like the rabbit’s. A whiskered nose twitched.

“I do,” said the stranger, for he’d been searching a long time, too.

___________

They stood together, watching the swirl of pale fabric as two juniors sparred. Blades glinted as they caught the afternoon sun. Wuxian couldn’t help smiling, feeling like a grandpa remembering his good old days. “Ah, Lan Zhan,” he said wistfully. “Do you think we’d still be equals if I had my core?” It wasn’t as hard to talk about now, between the two of them. It was a fact of Wuxian’s new body and his health; they had to talk about it to navigate a life lived together.

“We are equals.”

“Tsk. I mean with swords.”

“Still equals.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, you know what I mean.”

Wangji did and he didn’t. “Wei Ying survived the Burial Mounds.”

Wuxian shrugged, feeling that ancient shadow whisper in his heart. “That’s just survival. If you’d been thrown there, Hanguang-Jun would have survived too.”

Wangji didn’t reply, but he also didn’t agree. He suspected that his unwillingness to use resentful energy—his fear of the discord already living inside him—would have meant his death. His spiritual power would simply have bled into the earth, more foul power leeching into the dirt. No, he was certain that none but Wei Ying would have emerged at all, let alone emerged more powerful than when he fell. “Wei Ying is gifted,” he said finally.

Wei Ying spun Chenqing in his hand. These days, it played music more than puppets. “Gifted in something evil.”

“That he uses for good.”

Wuxian snorted. “You have an answer for all of it, don’t you, Lan Zhan? You can’t clean me of all my mistakes.”

“I’m not trying to.” Lan Zhan turned to meet his eyes, countenance both stern and sweet in that way of his. “A golden core can be used for evil deeds,” he said. “You’ve demonstrated that resentful energy can be used for good ones. That is innovation. You saw what others could not. That is a gift. Core or no, you have always been my equal.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wuxian pouted. He’d wanted to flirt and reminisce about the days when an incredibly pretty fuddy-duddy had broken his bottle of Emperor’s Smile. Instead, Lan Zhan had cut at something naked and fragile inside him.

His eyes drifted from Lan Zhan’s, but he bumped their shoulders together to tell him that he wasn’t upset, not really. “Maybe,” he said. “But I want to know if I could’ve ever bested you and Bichen.”

Lan Zhan’s lips lifted in a sad, tiny smile. “Me too,” he agreed softly.

Wuxian wanted to kiss him. Instead—for the sake of the juniors—he just pushed their shoulders together more firmly, removing any lingering space between them. That sorrow could visit them, he decided, the sorrow of what could-have-been. It could visit, but not stay.

Wangji had more he wanted to say. Wei Ying was brilliant. The sort of brilliant that, at most, emerged once in a generation and sometimes not at all. Wangji felt gratitude to have met him, to have gotten him back after everything. But he could sense when Wei Ying wasn’t ready to hear such words. He would let his praise and admiration out in bits and pieces for the rest of their lives. He was okay with that, he decided, and let his weight lean just as firmly against Wei Ying’s as they watched the next generation fly.

[diningpageantry]

Don’t Worry

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909690/chapters/37085310

Chapter 1/16 of Love You All, Die For This

Word Count: 3393

Fic Summary: Simon and Baz have been married for a good couple years and made the decision to have child. Life has other plans for them, though.

Notes: thank you to my betas @ravenclawbaz and @jessethejoyful for helping me out! to let y’all know, i’m not quite sure how regularly i’ll update, but hopefully it’ll be at least once a week.

SIMON

I don’t tell him enough, but I love him more than he can imagine.

Granted, we’ve been together for seven years and married for three, but sometimes, I still look at Baz and remind myself to tell him how I feel. Tell him he’s my world. After everything. After uni, after my breakdown following graduation. He picked up the pieces; he believed in me. He still does. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but Baz is there.

Beautiful, brilliant Baz Pitch is still somehow here with his magick-less husband whose wings take up half the bed and still has nightmares and nonverbal days. And, Merlin, I love him for that.

I remind myself to say it again. “I love you,” I whisper into his ear, bending over him as he tries to fit a plastic cover onto an electrical outlet. We contemplated for at least 10 minutes in the shop whether or not it was the right one. It was.

Baz lets out a breathy laugh, rolling his eyes and replying. “I love you too, Snow. Now, will you cover the rest instead of just standing there?”

A smile presses through my lips. I haven’t really been ‘Snow’ legally for years. Suppose I have been, since I just opted for a double last name. Tacked on that Pitch to the end while Baz dropped his Grimm. Although, nobody calls me Snow anymore, except Baz. I’m only Snow to him, which makes me melt a little now. I’m a Pitch, but I’m his Snow.

My hands dig around the bag, looking away towards Baz as I push the contents around and find more outlet covers. Carefully, one by one, I set them throughout the house, reminding me of the meticulous baby proofing Baz insists on, despite the fact that the surrogate has only just been picked. I can’t blame him for his eagerness, though; he is the one who brought the baby thing up first.

It isn’t that I don’t want a child; he doesn’t seem to understand that because he keeps asking if I am sure. I am sure . I am absolutely sure, and I want a child more than anything at this point in life. I’ve always wanted a child, in the respect of a “typical life”. The ideal normalcy that I craved for so long. Married life, a kid or two, and the bliss of not constantly running after some monster.

I’m just not sure if I can give him what he wants out of a child; magick.

Of course I can’t physically give him a child (I think that’s a tad important to this relationship), but I can’t be the father either way. I know he wants a magickal child. I want a magickal child for him. I just… can’t give that.

He says he loves me either way. Sometimes, I worry that isn’t true. I can only hope it is true.

I can only hope, as he wraps his arms around me and kisses my temple, that it’s genuine. And as I kiss him back, I hope that he can feel how much I want him to be happy.

Can someone feel that?

I hope so.

“Do we really have to put up a baby gate this early?” I mumble against his lips, feeling his curl up into a smile.

“Don’t you fancy tripping over knee-high walkway blockers? I thought that it’d be a lovely exercise of looking-where-you’re-walking,” he quips, fingers lacing closer around the small of my back.

I roll my eyes, pinching his arm before planting a kiss on his cheek. “Surprisingly not what I’d want to have in the way at 3 am.”

“Hm. Pity.” His arms drop, hand flying to catch mine and eyes meeting. He gives me one of his beautiful, just-for-Snow smiles. “Better to be ready than rushing.”

“ At least t en months early?”

His lips press to my knuckles before he drops them too, swiftly strolling off to the living room, shifting through the bags of baby proofing latches and the like. “ Never too early, Snow.”

A chuckle slips through my throat as I lean against the wall, eyes drifting over his hunched figure as he rifles through the bag for a cover here or a cabinet lock there. I suppose it’s my fault that he bought everything that various Mummy Blogs I’d found (and he obsessed over) suggested as “Mum Certified” objects; I enable him, but I can’t help it. The last time I saw him this excited was when we got referred to as “Mr. and Mr. Pitch” for the first time (and that was at the bank of all places).

And now here he is, listing off our plans until we have a squirming real-life child of our own; a possibility that hadn’t even been a real thought for us until about a year and a half ago when Penny had her second.

In the airport rush, getting to our gate with carry-ons in hand and Baz’s hair pulled back into what I like to call the “onion sprout” ponytail, he looked at me and asked “Why don’t we have a kid already?”

And I didn’t have an answer for him.

Because, frankly, I wasn’t sure either. Sure, we’d mentioned it a couple times, but never in the respect of having one in the foreseeable, plannablefuture. It was always “Yeah, a baby sounds nice” or “When we get old, our kids will have to wheel our bitter arses around”. But it was never the question of why we didn’t have one yet .

Then Penny made it worse.

As Baz held Rosemary (whose name was given because Penny joked that there needed to be another herb name in the family), Penny looked at him, then me, and said “What’s taking you two so long?”

So, of course, we talked about a baby on the flight home.

It started as an “Adopt or surrogate?” This lead to Baz tiptoeing around the fact that I was orphaned (“Those kids need homes…” “I know, Baz, I was one of those kids .” “I meant… oh you know.” “Yes, but what do you want?”). Then we settled on surrogate, eventually, because we both agreed that it would be best because magickal children are almost never orphaned (which, I suppose, I’m the only known abnormality to cause that almost ).

Afterall, we can’t have a normal kid. Not when one of us is a vampire and the other has wings and a tail, for crying out loud.

And now here we are, shuffling around no more than a week after the surrogate was confirmed,  getting everything ready for a baby we weren’t even planning on two years ago.

And I couldn’t be happier. Granted, Baz is a complete and utter git and at least a tad dramatic when it comes to baby supplies, but that’s how he is, and I love that.

I love watching him huff over the door hatches, looking at me as he tries it out, pouting when it falls off with one too-hard nudge. “That’s utter shit,” he curses under his breath, glaring at the latch. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

I laugh under my breath, going over to examine it. I feel Baz’s hand press to the bottom of my back, my wing extending out around his shoulder as I read the instructions. “Did you hold the glue for 20 seconds?”

“I counted to ten,” Baz snaps impatiently, sticking the plastic stopper to the door of the cabinet and stubbornly holding it once more. “I’ll spell it on if I have to.”

I give a quick nudge into his side and look at him pointedly, clearing my throat. “If I have to do it one way, you have to do it one way. Even-even.”

He pouts and says “Even-even” with me, knowing too well about the house rule.

It isn’t a threat, per-say, but something we settled on once we moved back in together post-uni. It was frustrating to watch him wave his wand for something that would take me longer to do, or something worth equal effort if he did it the Normal way, so now he can’t waste magick for everyday things, so long as he could do it without. It solves an awful lot of fights, an awful lot of discomfort and memories.

Solves a fight here—even-even—as he holds it for 20 seconds, my head sneaking up and diving into the crook of his neck. I hum as I hear his faint, rhythmic counting off until he hits 20 and drops his hand. “There.” He closes the gate again. This time, it doesn’t fall off. I feel him roll his eyes, and I tuck my nose deeper into his skin as I grin. He must feel it, because in seconds he’s turned around to press a forceful kiss to my forehead. “It only worked because I let it work.”

“Mmhm. Whatever gets you through the night, love.”

I hear the soft, lighthearted scoff against me as arms drape over my shoulders. “Wow, endless support. I love my husband.”

The word husband makes my heart flutter every time. Damn, he has me for life like that. “You love me more than life itself.”

“You could say that.”

“I am.”

He snorts shortly again. “Sure,” his words rattle against me, hands meeting behind my back as he leans his head down and swiftly presses a kiss to my lips. I beckon him to stay, hands resting against his lapels and giving them a quick yank to keep him in place as I sweetly twist his body towards mine.

Just after he stoops down to meet me, I let back and give him a wink, loving the way his breath hitches. “Don’t you wanna finish putting all the hooks and everything away?”

His eyes roll, still hunched down to trail his lips to my neck. I shoot my chin up in the air with a breathless laugh. “That can wait for later,” he mumbles against my skin, fingers locking tighter onto me, finding belt loops and pulling my hips against his thighs (lanky bastard). “I’ve got something better to do, now.”

I let him have his fun, cold lips pressing delicate along the slopes of my neck and collar as my tail trails along his calf before I abruptly snap back, smile drawn up. “Unless that something is dinner or working on finishing up the baby-proofing, I’m quite sure it can wait.”

A soft huff passes through Baz’s nose as he stands upright, cocking a brow. “Alright. Fair.” After a quick clearing of his throat and a dance around the kitchen, he stops and glances at me. “Am I cooking?”

I click my tongue teasingly. “You’ve got it, Pitch.”

A smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he throws back a glance at my moving figure, making my way out to the dining table. “Well, Pitch , you have breakfast duty in the morning.”

“Fair.” I shrug, clearing off the bags of hooks and latches and whatnot. “You’re shit at pancakes anyway,” I whisper under my breath.

“Hm? What was that?”

“What? Oh, nothing, love.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Baz calls out over my stifled snickers as I set places for dinner. I trail into the kitchen and lift myself up onto my tiptoes to sneak a kiss onto Baz’s cheek before going off with a bottle of wine from the fridge.

I brace myself before popping it, pouring two glasses, and swirling my own for the effect. “Oh no, my dearest husband can hear me mock his pancake skills. Whatever shall I do?”

“Hm. I don’t know. I’m quite hurt.” His smile is so evident that I can hear it turn his voice. I grin back. “I suppose the only way to fix it is to kiss it better.”

I chuckle, setting my glass down with a soft clink, and reach over over to trail my fingertips along the underside of his chin. He lifts it, glancing over to meet my eyes as he draws his attention from the pan.

After all these years, his breath still catches when I go for a kiss.

And, still , after all these years, he gets caught up too quickly and I have to swat him away before the food burns. This gets followed by pouts and protests, then I have to stand next to him until he finishes cooking, my tail lightly wound around his leg for comfort as my head perches on his shoulder. I listen to him ramble on about whatever’s on his mind at the moment (right now, it’s baby names).

I unwind myself once he’s dished out everything and take back up my glass, finding my seat at the table. In moments, he joins me, pressing a prolonged kiss to my cared-for curls (something I started doing a couple years back; actually taking care of myself for the sake of others. Others meaning Baz). My eyes drag to his body, watching him take his usual seat across from me as he serves me then himself. We clink glasses, a soft murmur of “Cheers” from each of us before we sip and dig in.

My eyes raise to Baz’s face as we eat, my elbow resting against the wood of the table and my chin fitting snugly in my palm. He quirks a brow even before I speak, a smile playing at his lips.

That’s something else to add to the list of things that amazes me after all these years; he’s grown so comfortable.

At first, he was so reserved; changed in a different room, would awkwardly excuse himself before slipping out to hunt and refer to it as “doing thatthing… oh, Snow, you know what I mean”. Even when we first started messing around, he’d get all flustered and go off to the bathroom despite me being more undressed than he was (under his own doing, might I add).

But now, he’s just Baz. He eats without covering his mouth, he actually laughs (sometimes snorts, which is one of my favorite sounds), and he always says what he’s thinking. He exists unapologetically, and just for me.

He breaks my mental diverge, clearing his throat. “What’s on your mind, love?”

I shake out the words tumbling around in my head, blinking. “Oh, yes. I was… thinking something…” I gather my thoughts, taking a deep breath and catching his eyes. Yet another addition to the list. He’s so remarkably patient. That took a little while too, but he grew to it. “It’s just the egg. I… I hope we made the right pick, that’s all.”

His hand lays across the table, to which I drop the one propping my chin and meet his in the middle. “I’m positive we have,” he reassures, fingertips dancing over my pulse. I shiver, a smile pressing across my concerned expression. He drags on. “The donor’s lovely, and I don’t see a flaw in her, besides her haircut judgement.” I give him a playful kick under the table, to which he returns with a grin and a scrunch of the nose. “She’s intelligent, comes from strong magick, and she’s a mother on her own. It’ll be fine, my love.”

Realistically, yes, I know it’ll be fine. I know it’s fine right now . But the lump settling in my throat says to keep pushing. To say how I feel.

The lump bubbles up, pressing out in a blurb. “I’m sorry I couldn’t provide.” While my voice is weak, my words carry and hit a pained expression on Baz’s face. I pause, holding my breath and wanting to fix what I said, but I’m not sure if I can. I don’t want to lie to him.

Slowly, Baz exhales, hand still holding mine. “I love you. I have no reason to blame you for something you can’t control.” He holds eye contact with me, and I know what he’s really saying. It’s harder like this, Simon. Biology is a bitch and we can only hope this works with me because nobody knows fuck-all about vampire reproduction.

I nod wordlessly. Enough has been said with very few words, but the ones being spoken out still sink to my stomach like a stone in a river, kicking up debris and sending ripples through my consciousness. Fuck . I sip my wine, hand curling tighter around Baz’s. He gives a kind squeeze in return, the pad of his thumb dragging across the calloused and scarred back of mine. I breathe in, and out, finding what I want to say. “I love you too,” I utter.

He nods knowingly. We both know I mean a lot more than what I said. I’m saying that I know the consequences. I know what will happen, and I can’t say more because I can barely speak on good days. Merlin, I just love him, and it’s so much easier to say it because he knows and he’s not going to push more out.

We finish off the rest of dinner in silence, our hands locked together until I break them apart to clean, trying so hard to repress the numbness building in my chest. It’s familiar--almost welcoming, to an extent--because once it takes over, it’ll explode.

It feels friendly to me, but my therapist reminds me that it’s not a friend, but rather a roadblock that I have to step around.

“Baz,” I call, resting the dish I’m holding in the sink and leaving the water running. I look up, forward, straight ahead and swallow my mind. He steps in quickly, concern flooding over him.

Or maybe it’s been there, and it’s just hitting me now, pressing against me as his hand rests on my lower back. “Yes, love?” He asks, turning off the water swiftly and grabbing the dish towel to dry my hands.

“That... feeling is there.”

He nods as if he already knew. Again, maybe he did, and he was just waiting. He’s doing everything as if he rehearsed it: bringing me upstairs, helping me out of my shirt and trousers as he undoes his own and lays them aside (he needs to hunt later; we won’t talk about it now). We tuck in together, and he turns on the bedroom telly to some cooking show before muting it, just filtering in the bright white lights of the kitchen and the moderately paced speaking of whoever the hell this is trying to teach me how to chop an onion properly.

And there Baz is, holding me, tucking his face into my neck and slotting in front of me. A finger traces curved lines and ovals around my back, his hair tickling my nose as he whispers to me, trying so hard to ground me, to find me again.

“You wouldn’t believe the conversation I overheard today,” He says. I hear it more as echo-y vibrations than audio itself. My hands press to his back, feeling more and more of him talk rather than listening. “People are clueless, can’t even figure out 2+2 if they didn’t have a calculator next to them and someone to double check it later. Someone genuinely asked if the other person knew the time, then the person replied, while wearing a watch, ‘ I don’t know ’. Either avoidance has hit a new low and morons are on the rise, or I’m going mad. All three, though, may be true.”

He keeps talking, my hands smoothing over his chilled skin and fingers taking in every rumble of words until I feel present enough to even be tired, to which he responds by pecking my cheek and pulling back. I don’t protest, knowing full well he’ll be back soon.

I flicker my tongue over my lips, parting them to speak but leaving my eyes closed. “Biology is an arsehole.”

I feel his chuckle ripple through the air as the sound of him shuffling his clothes back on simultaneously. “I know, my love, but we’re going to make that arsehole our bitch.”

I can’t help to giggle at that, even if it is a bit childish. “Mm. I can only hope,” I whisper, body growing heavier and heavier with each word.

Lips press into my hair and I hear Baz tell me “I’ll be back soon, love” before falling asleep.

[its-poetikz-blog]

DIALOGUE OF LOVE... DESIRE!!!

“Don’t hate me because you are beautiful.”

“And why would I do that? Hate you,”

“I see the look you gift me.’

“And what look would that be.”

“The slight sneer of your voluptuously succulent lips, the frosty look in your deeply mesmerizing eyes,”

“And what would you do if my… sneer, was in fact a smile of welcome?”

“Why, I would caress your senses with the slow blush of pleasure, a sultry breath of bliss kissing you with the heat of my regard.”

“Can you blame me then when you look upon me with such naked lust within your eyes?’

“Do you deny your beauty? I but wish to savour your loveliness -your beauty- without the cloak of disillusionment to mar its sweet perfection.”

“And that which close my heart?”

“But awaits the kiss of my love to part the veils of your pain and so lay bare the wonder of your soul.”

“Yet still your eyes, they hunger. They blind me, this look of salubrious licentious darkness.”

“Then let my caress be as a blaze of light, which kindles a rage of fire within the dark, to wreathe your heart in shadows… For does not love oftimes follows hard on the heels of lust?”

“You speak of shadows…”

“And you speak of lust as if that is all which beats within my breast  -within my heart.  Even within the darkness, love exists.  Within the heart of the dark, lives the possibility of light.”

“You speak of the heart…”

“Yes, sound its depths and read the truth of which I speak.”

“Lies cannot abide the light…”

“Yet light but bleeds more shadows.”

“I am lost, bereft… without neither hearth nor home to give me succour.”

“Then let my embrace be the home which you crave, which you long for.”

“I fear you.”

“Yet within that fear lays a promise as sweet as a lovers kiss.”

“That way leads to anguish unbearable…”

“Does it?”

“Yes!”

“You allow your fear to master you, because in truth you fear what the darkness reveals.  For is not the communion between the darkness and the night, a dialogue of love?”

“Your words find fertile soil within my mind, yet…  I fear -your intent- this deep-seated hunger I sense within you…”

“… Not that which pulses -grows- within your womb? The slow flush of arousal which shivers your skin.”

“You unbound me.”

“And so set you free… Is it freedom you fear then, or the darkness which lives within you?”

“A darkness which has brought me nothing but pain.”

“Annealed to my desire, it might bring you the pleasure you yearn.”

“You think much of yourself!”

“No, I but have faith in this bond being drawn between us as we speak.”

“Faith? Of what good is faith when it can be so easily corrupted?”

“Perhaps it is but the longing of your own heart you fear.  That which gives a face to your beauty, and set flame to my desire.”

“And faith?”

“The lament of a broken heart.”

“Your thoughts, holds the taste of seduction.”

“Delicious? If so, allow it then to flower within your breast?”

“Clever words, ever so… sultry.”

“As the curve of your lips…”

“You visit upon me sweet anguish.”

“I gift you a balm for your soul.”

“And my heart?”

“A shoulder upon which to shed the tears it harbours.”

“I have no wish to drown you with my sorrows.”

“You would deny me your pain? For within that would be the gift of my love.”

“I but guard myself against the falseness of your… compassion.”

“Because you dare not accept the healing embrace of my passion.”

“I but guard myself from your salacious intent.  Like a scent drifting on the air, I can smell its musky aroma.”

“And I, I can taste the bitterness of your sorrow… of your pain”

“Then you know, in this I will not bend but stand firm.”

“We all must bend under the gentle wind of compassion, if not our souls would surely grow cold and so die.”

“Well then, my soul is as a wasteland of vast mountainous ice.”

“Then I will be as the sun, to melt this cage of ice which has imprisoned your heart, enslaved your soul and made a ghost of your spirit.”

���Ghost?”

“Surely that, for I am done for… haunted by your beauty?”

“Enslaved?”

“By the burdens of heartbreak and pain.”

“And if I was not as you see me now? I can see your image of me as a reflection in your eyes, the pupil dilation which speaks of the stunning swell of my breast.  Your sharp indrawn breath, kissing the luscious curves I possess.  The predatory smile which shapes your lips… Yes your hunger is so palpable, that I can actually reach out and touch it; if I so desired.”

“A journey once began, cannot so easily be diverted -evaded.”

“And your desire shapes the path you wish that I should follow.”

(rueful laughter)

“No, the heart my dear, it all begins with the heart, and one must walk the path which it has laid.  A vision once beheld is forever and irrevocably changed; never to remain the same.  If you were not as I see you now, still my soul would know you.  Reaching out with wings dappled by the shadows of desire to cup you within my embrace, and soar upon the wings of the love which blossoms within my heart. As for my hunger… Does not a man starved, savour and appreciates more the delicate delights of which he hungers for? Such it is that mine eyes have supped, and become filled with the breathtaking wonder which is you. Blinded, I would know you yet, for truly my feet have been set on this path since first my eyes were blessed with sight of you.”

“Yet we have only just this moment met.”

“Nay… Say instead, we are past lovers meeting again for the first time.  For surely my soul has been wedded to yours in another life… Time itself holding no meaning, no power to keep us apart.”

“You speak with a silvered tongue.”

“I but voice the reasons of my heart.”

“I am beset, assailed by doubts.  This plaintive hurt even now stretching wide its maw to feed upon my bruised and battered heart.”

“That is because you revel; take solace from your pain.”

“I but bear it, these rending talons of doubt…”

“How could you not… But the sins of others need not be passed unto me.”

“Perhaps…(sighs) Yet… I hurt!?“

“And I, I weep for you.”

“Can you then feel the tenor of my pain?”

“Like a blade of sharpened edges, it has pierced and ravaged my heart.”

“For everything breaks in the end.”

“No… Not everything.  Not if it is true.  Let me show you… Come into my embrace.  Allow me to paint the canvas of your heart with the passion of my soul.”

“And then?”

“Your heart will give answer to the spirit of my regard  -of my love.”

“We will see…”

“Allow me to lay the heartbeat of my desire upon the altar of your pain.  Shackle you with the chains of my compassion and of my love…’

“Chains? So like all else, you seek only to imprison me.”

“Chains yes, but as insubstantial as the kiss of the wind leaving you yet unfettered, as free as the fluttering roar of butterfly wings.”

“Yet bound to you.”

“As I would be bound to you… To my love…Listen...

Allow me to weave the soul of my regard into the rhythm of your heart,

The end of all roads for me lies within the fragrant rose of your heart,

Each unfolding petal like a warm caress against my soul,

Telling the story -a song sung of voluptuous grace- of your beauty...

Each beat of your heart,

Sending a glimmering ripple like the starlit gleam of the sun through space and time,

To rest as a blanket of warmth about my soul...

Wrapped within the essence of your soul,

I come into you,

Come into radiance as soft as the fleecy down of a cloud; a pillow,

upon which I lay my head,

Where you will possess me with a kiss,

Seduce me with your bright laughter,

and enchant me with the wondrous sensuality of your smile,

Of elegance and charm,

Laid like a necklace of moonlight against the soft creamy curve of your neck,

Where the pulsing beat of your desire,

Is as a heated torch of passion pressed against the hunger of my lips,

The breath of my dreams taking root and flowering to life within the lush breast of your embrace,

The smoldering promise of your touch,

Giving shape and certainty to the breathless longing of my heart,

To caress with trembling intensity the culminations of my dreams...

Feel the effervescent wonder of your body laid like an offering upon the alter of my aspiration,

My ardour a kiss of sublime pleasure caressing your flesh with the appetite of my faith,

For you are my every desire,

The flavour of my hunger,

The scent of my obsession,

and I thrill to the sweet taste of your savoury touch,

The magic of your embrace like a massage of deep enchantment worked into the very heart of my soul...

Feel then the knife edge of my passion,

The wild cry of the primal beast bubbling up from my breast,

Howling at the fey light of the moon, yet caught; stunned by a sultry goddess,

Whose beauty is as deep as the spell-wrought touch of the Infinite...

A sweet caress; a velvet kiss of voluptuous grace,

Which parts the dream-shrouded shadows of the night,

To bind me in the silken enchantment of your sensuous touch,

A touch which fires the blood with the certainty of your regard,

The raw liquid heat of desire flowing through me in an exquisite wave of rapture,

Of emotions lying naked to the slow sensual stroke of your appetites,

The taste of your delectable allure, fragrant upon my flesh,

Hardening the tumescent core of my hunger,

Held tight within the sweet flower of your savoury womb,

Tensions dissolving on the drawn breath of ecstasy,

Euphoria a stew of contentment on which we dine,

Unwinding,

Mind loosing focus,

Intent only on the delight of your touch,

The mesmerizing rhythm of your movements,merging with and matching the slow beat of my heart...

But pleasure given is also pleasure received,

So too my hands explore the alluring promise of your body,

Questing for the nub of your sensitivity,

The core of your pleasure

,As our bodies lock tight as a closed fist,

The heat of your flesh mingling with the heat of my desire,

As I rise above you,

Move within you,

Encompassing you completely,

The consummate artistry of our bodies,

Mirroring the wedded spirit of our soul!!!

Richard ‘Poetikz’ Burton

07/10/2012