what about my wings, what about wendy?

I'm setting the price for now at £1 per 100 words, so 500 words is £5, 1700 words is £17 etc and breaking them up into three categories:

drabbles, up to 500 words (typically a very small scene or interaction between characters)

flashfic, up to 1000 words

full fic, up to 2500 words

It would be a great help if you specified what type of fic you wanted at first so I can charge you fairly.

The fandoms I most often write for are:

heathers the musical (this includes my not beyond repair universe)

next to normal (natalie-centric)

epic the musical (athena-centric/odypen/telemachus-centric/ithaca royal family centric)

mean girls the musical (cadnis/damian+janis/janis-centric)

six of crows (kanej/wesper/helnik/any crow dynamic)

heartstopper/osemanverse

heated rivalry

but if you know we share a fandom and you'd like to request it, feel free to ask me for it. I just wouldn't write for a show I've never watched or book I've never read.

I take payments through ko-fi, and take requests through dm or asks. I might want to have a bit more of a conversation about your prompt so you get your absolute money's worth. I also won't charge over £25 even if I go over a bit on the word count because times are hard. I do price in GBP but I will work out the conversion rate for whatever our currency is and try to come to an arrangement that works for both of us because conversion rates are a nightmare.

The name leaves his mouth in a terrified whisper before he rushes back, rain splashing as his knees hit the ground. It’s no wonder he almost missed him; he’s lying crumpled against a wall, in an alleyway so dark that Shane can barely see in front of him. His curls are plastered to his face and so badly soaked they appear brown, his usually proud form limp and though Shane knows better, he searches for signs of life, checks his chest, searches for a pulse with trembling hands. It’s pointless, but Shane is only human.

“Ilya.” He taps his cheek, worry turning to dread as he shines his torch on him. 

Scorch marks mar his face, angry red burns across his cheekbone and forehead and down his neck. His grey and ashen, purple shadows beneath his eyes. As Shane looks down, he finds blue veins showing beneath the skin. Worst of all, his lips are so pale they’re almost white.

Sick with knowing what he’ll find, Shane presses his pinky to Ilya’s lip and pulls. Sure enough, his fangs are out.

He’s seen enough dead vamps to know the signs. 

“Ilya,” he says again, more forceful this time. He taps him again, harder, pulls him against his shoulder like he can keep him here out of sheer will. “Listen, you fucking asshole, you’ve survived worse than this, okay? You don’t get to die on me now, Rozanov, so wake up.”

Rain runs down his face. It’s only when he blinks that Shane realises he’s crying.

“Please,” he whispers. “Ilya, please.”

It feels like an eternity he’s sat there. An entire lifetime holding Ilya’s body, until his eyes flutter and Shane’s heart nearly stops.

“Sh-Shane,” he wheezes.

“I’m here.” He cups his cheek.

Ilya lets out a low groan, so guttural and broken it doesn’t sound human. With more effort than it should, he forces his eyes open, his usual ice-blue pupils are black as ink. Shane bites his tongue, forces himself not to react.

“What happened?” he asks. Ilya stiffens, swallows, winces against a pain Shane can’t see.

When he speaks, it’s with a voice scraped thin.

“Nest was raided,” he manages. “I don’t-I don’t know who. Not, none of you. I don’t- I think they were rogue. They-they followed Lila home.”

He gasps, and Shane doesn’t need to wonder. Lila, a kid turned just a month ago who Ilya took in without question. Lila, a sweet girl just trying to adjust and maybe a little too trusting. 

“They just went for it,” he whispers. “They had-they had everything. I tried to stop them.”

“It’s okay.” His free hand comes up to his face and he tries to find any part of him that isn’t burned. Holy water. Of course. 

He strokes Ilya’s hair, kisses his forehead, tries to be steady and soothing as if his mind isn’t racing. Rogue hunters breaking into nests. Slaughtering vampires without mercy. This isn’t right, this isn’t how they operate. 

Something is changing, their world is tilting on a knife’s edge.

Ilya sinks into him, his body growing heavier, and Shane is snapped back. Whatever is happening can wait.

“I-I love you,” he whispers.

“Don’t.” Shane presses his lips to his hair. “Don’t tell me now. Don’t make it goodbye.” 

Ilya whimpers, his body growing heavy against Shane’s shoulder. Shane’s whispers grow more frantically as he tries to think of something. He’s watched Ilya heal himself before, but that was smaller, the odd broken rib or flesh wound, and that was when he was full.

Shane can’t even think of how long Ilya’s gone without feeding. He seemed fine when he saw him this morning, but he was meant to call hours ago and-

His stomach drops. 

With one arm supporting Ilya, Shane pulls the knife out of his pocket, flicks it open, and digs it into the side of his palm. Blood spurts out in thick droplets, and he presses it against Ilya’s mouth, prying his lips open.

“Come on, Ilya, come on,” he mutters. There’s a small grunt as he swallows reflexively, his eyes fluttering. Shane’s own eyes prickle, his breath shakes as Ilya comes back to him.

It takes him a second to realise what’s happening.

Then the light comes back to his eyes and he shoves Shane’s hand like it’s a crucifix.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Saving your life,” he says flatly. He pulls his sleeve up and holds his wrist out. Ilya shakes his head, scrambles to his feet only to hit the ground again. His breaths are ragged, uneven, desperate gulps of air from a dying man. Shane tries to be gentle, easing him into a sitting position while Ilya struggles against him. 

“Don’t argue with me, Ilya. You need to feed. Here-”

“No!” Ilya looks up, his eyes practically black. His whole body is shaking from the effort of staying conscious. 

Without meaning to, Shane holds him tighter. Ilya shakes his head, even as his tongue darts out to his lips. Even as his fangs stand like ivory daggers.

“We agreed, Hollander. Not on you. Never on you.”

“You agreed. I didn’t. Come on, Rozanov.”

“We don’t know what will happen if I do.”

“We know what will happen if you don’t,” he says. He tilts his chin so that Ilya is looking straight at him. Even in the weak torchlight, he can see how sunken his cheeks are, his eyes glazing over. 

“Ilya, please,” he whispers as he runs his hand through his curls. “I’m letting you, okay. I’ll be fine.”

Ilya whimpers. His eyes dart to Shane’s exposed wrist, and Shane can see his pupils dilate, can see him move forward and then hold back. Shane pushes his wrist forwards, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Please.”

Ilya gulps, coughs, then takes Shane’s wrist in his. He breathes out, looks up at him with tears gleaming in his dull eyes.

“Forgive me,” he whispers.

Shane goes to reply, to tell him he doesn’t have to ask because he already is forgiven. But then Ilya sinks his teeth into his skin and-

Fuck.

To be clear, Ilya has bitten Shane before. Little nips on his ear when he was being playful, teeth tugging on his lower lip when Ilya wanted to make him moan. Always careful and deliberate, never with fangs, never leaving a mark Shane couldn’t hide.

This is nothing like that.

It’s painful, beyond painful. His skin caught fire the minute Ilya’s fangs came into contact with it, now the heat sinks down into his veins, molten and blazing. Shane though he knew pain; he’s spent years getting knocked on his ass and getting back up again, being thrown to the left and right and flat on his back. He’s been shot, stabbed, too many times to count. So he thought he knew pain. 

This, having his flesh and his veins ripped open and the blood pulled out of them, leaves all of it behind. 

A ragged gasp escapes his lips before he can stop, his back arching as he instinctively tries to move away. Breathless words trip over themselves, half-formed “shit” and “fuck” squeezing from his tight throat.

There’s something messy in the way Ilya’s feeding now. Shane has watched him before; he usually put whoever it was in a trance so they don’t remember, then bit their wrist and drank slowly, calmly, the way Shane drinks his morning coffee. Ilya didn’t want him to watch but Shane almost couldn’t help it. It was fascinating, in a deeply morbid way. How Ilya remained so contained and calm, even when he stood up and wiped the blood from his chin.

Nothing of that exists here. Weak and battered as he is, Ilya dug his fangs into Shane with animalistic frenzy; his mouth slips and he has to re-adjust his position on Shane’s wrist, he gulps blood down without stopping for breath. His hands stumble and struggle to hold on, pulling Shane tighter.

Beneath it all, Shane can hear Ilya mutter “I’m sorry, moya lyubov, I’m sorry”. Salt stings the open wound, and it takes him a second to realise Ilya is crying. Oh god, he’s crying, and it burns his wrist and Shane swallows a cry. 

His breaths come frantic, ragged and weak, broken shards of glass. He coughs, gasps, bites his tongue to distract himself.

Yet, beneath it all, he somehow feels all right. The pain falls into a rhythm, pulsing in time with Shane’s heart and the movement of Ilya’s jaw. He learns to breathe through it rather than around it. It’ll be okay, it will.

That’s what he whispers to Ilya, while his free hand runs weakly through his curls. He keeps whispering it, even when his head hurts and his vision starts to swim. He keeps whispering it, even when his eyes flutter and he falls forward without meaning to. He whispers around Ilya’s bites and apologies.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay.”

Ilya lets go. Shane’s wrist falls like it’s made of lead, barely cushioned by Ilya’s hands. Through the haze and the illuminated street lights, Shane sees the stains around his mouth, the scarlet against his pale face. Ilya wipes his mouth, his hand still shaking. Dried tear tracks run down his cheek and though he turns his face away, Shane can still see the gleam of his fangs. His skin is almost silver in this light.

Shane has only seen Ilya once like this; hard lines and angles, looking like an angel and acting like anything but. He should have been terrified that day. 

“You need to keep going,” Shane murmurs. 

“No.” Ilya shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

“Ilya-”

“Shane,” he says, a little harder this time. Even with the small rasp, Shane can hear the strength in it. Ilya turns to look at him, cups his face after a moment’s hesitation. The rain falls harder, blurring Shane’s vision even more. 

His wrist is still bleeding. He turns his hand and slides his palm into Ilya’s. It’s cold, but Ilya squeezes. 

“Shane,” he says again. “I’m okay.”

A long, long pause, a held breath. Shane nods, then in a small whisper manages “okay”.

Then he presses his face into Ilya’s shoulder and lets himself fall.

The sun is probably rising now. Ilya’s blackout curtains make knowing for certain tricky, but Shane has a feeling. 

He doesn’t remember too much after last night. He remembers the makeshift bandage Ilya tied around his wrist, remembers Ilya lifting him with more strain than usual. Remembers saying that he could walk and Ilya’s empty laugh.

He guesses at some point, Ilya deposited Shane fully-clothed on his bed and bandaged his arm properly, but Shane can’t remember that.

Ilya also must have changed at some point, because he’s now in low-slung pyjama pants and a black tank top, chugging blood from one of the bottles he keeps in his room while talking in agitated Russian over the phone. Shane is still catching up on his Russian, but he recognises Svetlana’s name, plus a few others. He hears the phrase “I don’t know”. He also hears “not now”.

He also notices that Ilya looks at him when he says it. 

Shane can’t say how long the conversation has been going on for. Judging by Ilya’s expression and the way his pacing has left footprints in the carpet, it’s been a while. 

Eventually, the conversation dwindles. Ilya responds more with “da” and “da” and when he runs his hand through his hair and gives an exasperated “ya ne znayu”, Shane knows it’s wrapping up. 

He pulls his legs up as Ilya sinks heavily onto the bed. He buries his face in his hand before dragging it down his face. 

He looks so… worn. Not like yesterday, when his body was fighting to stay alive. This is something different, something ripping at his soul. 

Shane doesn’t have to ask. 

“Da, Sveta,” he sighs. “Ya tebya tozhe lyublyu. Da, obyazatel'no. Poka.”

Yes, Sveta. I love you too. Yeah, I know. Bye. 

He hangs up the call and chucks the phone to the other side of the room. 

The silence lingers like smoke. Ilya stares at the wall, unmoving and unblinking. Shane tries not to press, just runs his finger down his spine, pressing at the bumps and ridges. 

God, he never knows if he’s doing this right.

Ilya lies down next to him, bed springs sagging beneath his weight. He takes Shane’s hand and holds it to his chest, then presses a small kiss to his fingers, then knuckles, then palm.

He stops short of his wrist. Shame clouds his face, enough to swallow him whole.

“You shouldn’t have let me do it.”

“I wouldn’t let you die,” is all Shane replies. 

He snuck a peek when Ilya wasn’t looking. Four dark puncture wounds, perfectly positioned in equal distance. There’s no mistaking what they are. If his mother ever finds out, she’ll be out for blood. She will roam the woods with a crucifix and every one of her daggers strapped to her legs. Shane can see her face, the horror, followed by the eerie calm as she lifts her weapon. And he knows no amount of explaining or lying from him will change her mind. 

For the first time, regret creeps into Shane’s mind. Not enough, he could never fully regret it when Ilya is lying next to him. 

But they’ve been playing a dangerous game since the start. What if last night they tipped the balance?

“Is Svetlana-”

“She’s alive. She got out.” Ilya sighs. “Marlaeu is still MIA.”

Shane nods. Now that last night is coming back to him, the weight feels unbearable. Rogue hunters. Nests raided. One of the most well-respected vampire clans attacked with no prior warning. 

Something has definitely changed; it’s all too much to fit in one room. 

Suddenly, he finds himself moving, pulled onto Ilya’s chest. Tender hands thread through his hair, thankfully still after the shaking of last night. His leg slides between Ilya’s, his knee bent just a little. There’s no heartbeat for him to listen to, so Shane contents himself with sliding his hand beneath Ilya’s shirt and tracing circles on his torso.