#lost the plot

Anyways Shen Yuan isn’t too happy about just being thrown into this but he’s going to at least try his best to give his child a good life. It’s nearing spring and the herd SY’s been transmigrated into is preparing to migrate to colder regions, and SY isn’t allowed to come because unicorn babies don’t have a strong enough resistance to the cold to survive the harsh lands they hail from. So he’s going to be separated from his herd for a period of time while he raises the baby.

(Unicorn “mothers” usually lower their body’s temperature to be suitable for the foal, and it usually stays that way until the foal gradually develops the temperature tolerance. Once this happens the Unicorn mother will take the child and return to the herd using the innate locating talent (namely through their horns) and natural affinity that they are born with.)

Anyways Shen Yuan is doing just fine, and he gives birth to a healthy unicorn (in human form, SJ was conceived when the og body was in human form so he’s in human form too). He spends his time recovering from the harsh birth and raising his child with the instincts his body has. He’s recovering steadily until his child disappears one day and he can’t find it anywhere—even with the use of his horn—so he thinks his child is dead and his body gets so extremely mournful and with the hormonal imbalance it pushes his recovery back a long while. Even after he’s recovered he’s not as lively as he was before and roams the forest he’d resided in listlessly. His mind being affected by his body.

Shen Yuan couldn’t find his child (Shen Jiu) because Shen Jiu’s been snatched up and had his horn broken by some old fallen noble couple trying to make a fortune. The couple gets their karma and dies but Shen Jiu’d been raised as a “human” for long enough that he doesn’t really know much about his heritage and isn’t aware of his nature. He only knows that he has a tail and apparently other people knowing about it is very dangerous.

His horn would be broken before he understood what it was, and as a street urchin he was hardly eating enough for his body to grow a new horn and the information about unicorns was limited so he never put the whole “unicorn horn + long tail = I’m a unicorn” thing together.

Right well at the Qiu household he’s obviously nourished and fed well enough because Qiu Jianluo wants to use him as a cauldron and all of the other disgusting things he wants to do to Shen Jiu. Imagine everyone’s surprise when Shen Jiu wakes up with a horn protruding from his forehead? Shen Jiu doesn’t understand it but Qiu Jianluo does and he immediately breaks off Shen Jiu’s horn and starts panicking, wondering if he did it too late.

Spoiler, he did. Shen Yuan’s og body, that was supposed to die of grief, clocks the brief magical signal almost instantly and Shen Yuan goes running immediately. (He’d been in unicorn form in the forest because… why would he be human and living in a forest?) He can’t pinpoint just where the magical signature came from, so he just barges into town with his huge ass Unicorn body and scares the shit out of a lot of people. When he gets to the town he pauses to think, nobody’s going to understand him if he’s a unicorn so he rushes to switch forms and ends up running around in a centaur-like form searching for his child.

He asks everyone he can find questions and eventually some street child points him in the right way by saying he looks almost identical to some boy named Shen Jiu, who’d been sold off to the Qiu household. Shen Yuan latches onto that and books it there. No gates, guards, or half-baked cultivation can stop him. He barges into the manor—which is a surprising feat considering the size of him in his centaur form… that he still hasn’t transformed out of due to how much of a rush he’s been in—and sees Shen Jiu’s broken horn on Qiu Jianluo’s desk (Idiot was planning on using it to refine a body enrichment pill but just left the main ingredient on his desk) and all hell breaks loose.

Shen Yuan is enraged—and not just because his body is willing him to be, but also because of the fact that these guys were abusing a child PERIOD—and he just starts absolutely destroying the manor and trying to rip Qiu Jianluo apart with his bare hands (okay maybe that part comes from his original body).

Anyways so Shen Jiu’s first glimpse of his mama in years is just Shen Yuan raising himself up on his hind legs, a sea of flames behind him—he’d knocked over more than a few lanterns in his blind rage—covered in gore, getting ready to stomp Qiu Jianluo, his abuser, to death while screaming “WHERE THE FUCK IS MY CHILD??”

Is this something

Oh bonus thought I had just before getting ready to post this:

“t-this is how you turn the flash off,” jonathan said, his hips bucking up against yours, a loud moan escaping from his mouth. his hands shook as he tried to take a picture, but he couldn’t care less about how perfect the angles were when you’re bouncing on his cock, tits swaying in front of the camera. he couldn’t resist it, he needed to show you how to use a camera one way or another.

click. the camera shuttered as jonathan snapped a picture, your makeups a hot mess, hair falling in your face, and your eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. the sight truly was the most beautiful thing jonathans ever seen. your pussy wrapped around his cock, bottoming him out. “and this is—ohmygod—how you record.” his hands fumbled with the camera as he tried to change the setting, desperate to make sure this moment never ends.

he tried to steady the camera as he zoomed in on your cunt slamming down on his cock, his tip kissing your cervix every time you bottom him out. the sound of a loud guttural moan from jonathan echoed off the walls, temporarily overlapping the obscure squelching coming from between your legs. he threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut, and mouth agape.

he couldn’t focus on filming anything, he was more focused on trying not to cum right then and there. one thing about jonathan was he’s a gentleman, his pleasure shouldn’t come first. you began to slam down harder onto jonathans cock, a familiar heat pooling in your lower stomach as you felt your orgasm approaching. you bit your lip in a poor attempt of muffling your screams, blood trickling down your chin from breaking the skin.

jonathans hand caressed your cheek as he watched the blood roll off your lips, his other hand bringing the camera to your face. “poor baby,” he cooed, wiping the blood from your face. his thumb hovered over your lips, hesitating before sticking his thumb in your mouth, forcing you to suck. “see? all better” he said with a slight smile, cock twitching inside you.

he pulled his thumb from your mouth with a pop, saliva still connecting to your lips. he found an empty spot on the nightstand for his camera, propping it up so it’s pointed at you. the sound of skin slapping mixed with your moans got louder as jonathan gripped your hips, thrusting into you from underneath.

Wemmbu is a weapon: this is a fact he’s long since come to terms with. a guard for a fake vault, a griefer, an assassin. Lord, the second he got out of prison, he was subjected to killing some dude for speaking. For as long as he’s been on the server, he’s been treated like a wither, antsy glances from passing players burrowing into his spine as he’s built up and directed. Guttural screams and wails when he finally blows his own cap off, terrain reduced to rubble and smoke, players to experience, and scattered items. Players mobbing him the second he was low, shooting him to the ground for nothing more than a star, a beacon.

It wasn’t something he minded— honestly, he lived for it. It felt as though the air only filled his lungs with ease when it carried the heavy scent of iron and gunpowder, as though touch only felt right as a strike, when it tore through his skin and left an impression that’d last for decades. He lived for the fight, for the adrenaline coursing through his veins alongside potion buffs. The pain, too, reminded him that despite his constant plight, he was still breathing. The vibration that ran like electrical currents up his arms when he slammed his mace down too carelessly, the small pricks of glass in his skin when he shatters an invis pot too close to himself. It’s one of the reasons he loved fighting Flame, the other man never hesitating to shoot him from the sky and remind him that he was, in fact, not a god. Loved it because it was rough, because it was right— because it hurt.

Maybe he had some issues.

He definitely had some issues.

His evidence for this claim pushed past his previous revelations; this current moment served as further attestation. He and Flame existed together in the basement of the blaze’s mesa base, Flame digging through shulkers for first aid equipment while Wemmbu sat almost anxiously on the torn-up sofa. Three dogs accompanied the pair, two curled at the base of the furniture and one spread out over the entire end cushion. The light was low, comfortable, and the lanterns’ glow scattered throughout the room, dancing languidly. The air was heavy with petrichor seeping through the thick terracotta walls, the long-winded drought flooding the biome and practically locking flame inside of his house— he hated the rain, hated how it weighed down his clothes, ruined his grip on his sword and the ground. Wemmbu loved it, loved the pitter-patter as the droplets knocked against his armor, loved how the rain rolled right off of his wings as he soared through the air, and especially loved the splash of nearby puddles when he came crashing down with his mace. Not to mention, it gave him a tactical advantage: it was harder said than done to stare into a bright gray sky and focus on a soaring purple dot while your eyes were being pelted.

So here he sat, on Flame’s sofa, hugging himself tighter than necessary to control his slight tremors. He had been chased by a group he didn’t even know, nor cared to, for thousands of blocks. It was agitating, honestly, the way they were a bit too good at pvp— a large gash in his arm and side from a trident being catapulted at him mid-air, a twisted ankle from a fumbled landing, multiple bruises, and probably more he hadn’t checked yet. wemmbu’s eyes flicked back to Flame’s hunched form, leg beginning to bounce anxiously as the man stood up, balancing a near-dozen items in his arms. One roll of bandage rolled over his arm, falling onto the floor in a haste escape. Flame just grumbled something unintelligble beneath his breath whilst Wemmbu laughed at his misery. Which was quickly corrected when Flame ignored it to persue his goal-- building the man in front of him back up.

Wemmbu groaned, leaning back into the sofa and crossing his arms as Flame stood in front of him, looming, a stern expression on his face. Flame pretended not to notice the other’s slight wince as he shifted.

“Dude,” it was a simple word from the blaze hybrid, tone exasperated as Flame knelt between his legs. Nothing more needed to be said; his blindfolded expression was vexed as he ducked his head down and sat back on his heel. He propped Wemmbu’s foot on his thigh just above his knee, rolling up the other man’s pants to about mid-shin. His ankle was swollen, obviously, a darker purple bleeding into a navy blue wrapped around the top of his ankle and back to his heel. Flame just offered up a sigh in response to the sight, reaching toward the table behind him and tossing wemmbu a gapple. Wrapping his ankle didn’t take much time at all, and some sturdy wooden scraps were used for stabilization beneath the black bandaging. He didn’t have anything cold to put on it, so he hoped the gapple would help reduce swelling. Wemmbu, in all of his honesty, hadn't expected the man to work so-- so gingerly. His hold was soft, no matter if he was repositioning or wrapping. He treated the bruised area with the upmost care, as though he were handling a moth's wing, as opposed to Wemmbu. Wemmbu, one of the two strongest on the SMP. Wemmbu, the mace wielder. Wemmbu, an angel bringing Notch's wrath down upon players, casting a shadow upon whoever dared to look up. Wemmbu, the weapon.

As Flame moved on to continue his careful inspection— extra careful, as Wemmbu had a tendency to hide injuries for some reason Flame had yet to dig out of him— the wither hybrid realized he’d been staring. Wemmbu sat back into the sofa. He picked at his nails, tail flicking idly against the spruce couch as he waited to be released. His head lolled to the side, eyes skimming along the other’s bland walls. He couldn’t help but think it suited him: the simplicity at first glance, the depth to be found as he took in smaller details of a home well lived in. Ashen’s fur scattered among different surfaces, cracks in the dried terracotta walls, the scraps half-assedly tossed onto the crafting table, potions scattered around in haste for battle. The flames flickering in their lanterns, painting everything in a much softer light, rounding the corners—

He was pulled from his thoughts at a tug on his shirt, his eyes flicking down to meet where he assumed Flame’s were. Wemmbu let out a strangled, overdramatic and noncompliant whine as he sat up, wincing as he shifted his weight. He began working on the four buttons at the top of the cloth, while Flame’s hands dropped to the hem of his pants, tugging the previously tucked shirt free from its confines. He lifted his arms as Flame tugged it up and over his head, not missing the way his thumb stroked a gentle line up his non-injured side. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional, honestly doubted it was, but he knew Flame saw the slight hitch in his breath. Goosebumps riddled his skin as cool air draped over his body, and he repressed a shiver, brows furrowing in complaint as he stared down at the other.

Flame wasn’t looking at him— at least not his face— much more focused on the furrowed gash on his side. Blood was still gradually oozing from the wound, albeit far less than earlier. Dirt and grit had gotten into the injury from when Wemmbu had stumbled into a bog, dirtying and irritating the skin around and making the entire thing look messier than it was. The inside of his left forearm had a matching rip of skin, smaller, which made it easy to assume it was from one of the external prongs of a trident. Flame reached forward without thinking, an impulsive action that led him to drag his thumb over the raised skin just an inch away from the gash in his side. He watched with some sick sense of infatuation as Wemmbu’s stomach jumped, nearly missing it over the sheer contrast of their colors invading his mind.

Wemmbu stared down at the flame with gritted teeth, eyes flicking to his injury, while the sensation bloomed a warm sting as his torn muscle tightened to protect itself. He would blame it on his pain-riddled thinking, but he didn’t pull away. It was grounding, almost, to have someone touch him so gingerly, as though he wasn’t something made to maim, to hunt. The thought shocked him, the mere concept that he’d let someone get this close. That someone chose to get this close.

Shocked him enough for him to pull his eyes away, head falling back against the top of the couch as he stared at the terracotta ceiling. It was so fucking quiet— the lack of noise was ticking something in his brain that he couldn’t stand. It gave his brain room to wander, for the thoughts he suffocated with layers and layers of blood and grit to push through and scream for attention. It made a dull electric hum virate from beneath his skin, his energy building. He needed to let it out. Some quiet voice from the back of his skull shouted that he needed to get out-- his eyes flicked to the door. Out of habit, he filled the empty space: drumming his fingers lightly against the sofa, tossing mild, nagging complaints into the air every so often. He made no effort to escape, for he had no need. He knew that even if he did try, Flame would just find him again. Would force him to sit his woeful ass down and let him be cared for and considered for longer than a second. Even with his drumming, the damp air grew too heavy.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made outta glass, bro,” he mumbled as Flame carefully swiped around the area with a regen-soaked cotton ball. He scoffed at the very idea of being something so fragile, so disappointing. His words didn’t achieve a response, but the exasperated glance up at him worked just fine. He grinned at the sight, head falling back as he mulled over more ways to be aggravating. His train of thought was cut off—

“You’re bleeding on my couch, dude.” Flame huffed, voice carrying no real anger. He shuffled closer between Wemmbu’s legs, hip pressed against the other’s non-elevated ankle. They both quietly logged the touch away in their memory.

“Not like it could get uglier.” Wemmbu shrugged, snorting at Flame’s off-guard expression and jumping when he pinched the closest expanse of non-injured skin, which happened to be his thigh. “—Doesn’t mean I wanted it decorated. It’s got wabi sabi, man.”

Wemmbu rocked his knee into Flame’s side in retaliation, eyes flicking back down to the man. Flame’s face was graced with a grin— not the usual one he wore with a taunt, or the psyched out yet somehow focused smile he wore when they fought— instead, a humored, light smile. One of his canines had caught on his bottom lip, pulling the dried skin slightly into his mouth. His blindfold was creased where his cheek flexed up against it, nose just barely scrunched. Wemmbu couldn’t help but miss it before it was even gone, eager to extend its longevity.

He then backtracked, evaluating the thought before smothering it beneath a pillow. He distracted Flame from his momentary hesitance by raising his arms slowly, carefully, to stretch them over his own head. He felt his injuries tug and opted to revel in the mild sting, dulled from the previous gapple he chugged, goosebumps racing down his chest and up his arms from the very slight chill. Flame lightly slapped his unharmed side, chiding.

“Stop moving, you’re making it worse.” He grumbled, returning to his work as he raised gauze to it, lightly pressing against it to halt any more bleeding. The blaze hybrid huffed an amused sound as Wemmbu’s breath hitched and he shivered— “Not made outta glass, my ass.”

Wemmbu was quick to protest, inhaling sharply to get his words out faster. “I’m cold,” he would NOT admit to whining. Flame would disagree.

“Dude, it’s almost eighty degrees in here. We’re in a mesa.” He glanced up at Wemmbu from behind his blindfold, hands freezing for less than a second when he caught the other’s gaze already on him.

“Okay, but, like, what if I’m cold-blooded?” Wemmbu countered.

“You’re half-fucking-wither.” The shorter raised a brow at him.

“Exactly,” Wemmbu grinned. He knew his response didn’t make sense— that’s why it was funny.

Flame just stared up at him for a second before shaking his head, visibly amused as he removed the gauze and placed a non-stick cloth over the gash. In all honesty, he despised when the other would come home in such a state. Flame hated how untouchable Wemmbu thought he was, hated how hard it was for him to admit he needed to take a break. Hated how much he cared about the other, too. He wrapped it pretty quickly, only interrupted by having to stand and sit next to Wemmbu for easier access. Their thighs were pressed closer than most bees were packed in their hives, the contact warm: settling. The entire time, Wemmbu just continued rattling off about little things. Complaining about the bandits, complaining about Flame’s hand brushing against a bruise on his arm, and then just droning on about some stupid shit egg did earlier in the week.

The same process was rinsed and repeated with the wither’s arm, the limb pulled gently into Flame’s lap for better vantage as he cleaned it up. His hands worked diligently, touch lighter than snow as he worked around the smaller gash, yet grounding with their inhuman warmth. Wemmbu realized, begrudgingly, that it wasn’t all that easy to look away from his hands. The small nicks and scars from previous accidents, the callouses on the tips of his fingers and his palms from Fragger, even the way he kept his nails clean and short. It was hard to look away from Flame in general; the other man was as alluring as the title they’d both decided to share. The thought brought him back to the months and months before, their extended stand-off in the farlands where Wemmbu was still in his orange jumpsuit. The triumphs swapped between their faces as they continuously found themselves at advantages and disadvantages.

The only reason they had stopped fighting in the first place was because of an echo they’d stumbled into, one with ruins and emptied chests and wardens. Shouts and screams as yellow and green sparks flew, chunks of sculk flying with each slam of his mace. An apology, a thank you, a shout, a message— a reset, as Wemmbu stood and watched just as he had in the echo.

He was pulled back from his own head by a light tap against the pulse point in his wrist, eyes blinking back into focus and meeting Flame’s with a slight tilt-jerk of his head. “—huh?”

Flame seemed stunted by something the other hadn’t observed yet, eyes faltering along Wemmbu’s face as the man blinked away the past. Flame swallowed, mouth opening to speak, and it was only then that the taller realized how close they were. Shoulders and legs pressed together, his arm heavy in Flame’s lap, their faces close enough for the blaze’s eyes to angle up and his breath to brush against his chin.

“I asked if you were good?” He hummed in a questioning tone. Wemmbu didn’t know if the other was unsure of his own question or something else. “You zoned out,” he laughed, light in tone and heavy with unspoken emotion, “Thought I’d lost you for a sec,”

Wemmbu hummed, glancing off to the side briefly— even though the other’s eyes were covered, he found himself getting antsy under his inspection. He slipped a grin on his face, voice coming out softer— gentler— than he intended. Low enough to break his voice up into a vocal fry, “You’d notice if I’d dipped,”

And oh, how factual they both know that statement really was. He didn’t even need to get the words from Flame himself; plenty of peers filled him in on how Flame had practically flipped the world on its side to figure out where Wemmbu had run off to. Knew because even after weeks and weeks of nothing but a dwindling trail, the man still looked.

Flame licked his lips, barely beating his own breathless laugh. He didn’t say anything else, only a soft hum of confirmation. The air was thick between them, heavy with something unspoken, something neither dared to give a name. Wemmbu blamed it on the heat of the biome, Flame blamed it on the stupid fuck in front of him. Wemmbu’s eyes flicked back to Flame’s, face heating to a darker shade of purple that rested beautifully over his cheeks, nose, and ears. His eyes lingered on the other man’s lips during their scan, he was too— he didn’t even know what he was too much of. Too entranced, too absorbed, too stunned. With the lantern light gently blasting Flame from behind, he looked near angelic. His colors blended perfectly into the blurred terracotta in his peripheral, Ashen’s ears and snout poking out from behind him with each rise and fall of her soft snores.

He blinked, unsure of when he had leaned in so close. He could feel Flame’s breath once more, far more present as it brushed over his lips— he licked his own, trying to shove down the self-consciousness that threatened to ruin whatever this was.

Bold, irrational, and manic.

Those were Wemmbu’s most notable characteristics to people he wasn’t close with— to people he was, too. So when he leaned forward, stopped, hovered with their lips about an inch apart, and finally pressed their lips together, Flame was far from surprised. Obviously, he was shocked that Wemmbu was kissing him, but he wasn’t shocked that it was Wemmbu who made the first move.

His lips didn’t feel like anything special, just barely chapped, soft at the same time. He tasted like golden apples and rays of light, looked like the split second between flying and falling, like a brace for impact long since expected, long since yearned for. He felt like hope, a stubborn light refusing to be snuffed out despite the seemingly never-ending attempts. He kissed like he wasn’t sure, like he himself had already prepared for the world to crash and burn around him. Flame realized he had yet to actually kiss back a moment too late, the wither pulling away and swallowing thickly. Wemmbu’s face was flushed, his lips slick as he licked them again. He looked guilty, as though he’d just torn an angel’s wings from its back, and as his mouth opened and frantic apologies tumbled out in a jumbled haze, Flame came back down to earth. A smile tugged at his lips, canines flashing and cheeks curving as he giggled to himself— what an actual fucking bot. He leaned forward, hand shaking (which neither of them mentioned) as it slowly cupped the side of Wemmbu’s neck. He leaned forward, reveling in the other’s awe-stricken expression, lips just barely parted, and kissed him back.

Wemmbu’s sigh was audible through his nose as Flame kissed him, a small noise escaping the back of his throat as the air carried past his vocal cords from his lungs. He leaned back, quickly grasping Flame’s sweatshirt as though the man would disappear; Flame followed, his other hand slipping to gently cup the skin above Wemmbu’s wound. Flame kissed him the same way he handled his injuries, which made Wemmbu feel as though he'd been dunked into an ice lake. He was severely out of his element, his hold on the other unsure and lose. And for once, he felt something dangerously close to safe. He wasn't being hunted, wasn't being hurt or imprisoned for past acts he barely had a say in-- he was being held, being cherished. This moment is everything he wasn't. It was too soft, too tender, too vulnerable. He couldn't help but get embarassed at the idea of being seen like this by anyone, including Flame-- all of the mysterious aura he'd spent years between server hops and long-winded battles would dwindle to nothing within seconds had he been seen in such a state. Once again, he was a weapon. A live gun, with no care to who or what he was aimed at as he fired off shot after shot, slam after slam. He was born from void and wither remnants, objects without a soul, their only emotion being to break and blunder anything in their way. But as the warmth of Flame's hand gradually seeped into his side, relaxing the muscle beneath his skin, he came to a horrifying conclusion.

Much to his chagrin, he realized:

He was Wemmbu, the man. A living, breathing, bleeding, feeling soul. No matter how much he would deny and fight it, at the end of the day, it's all he ever was. At the end of the day, when he would return home to Flame, bruised and angry, the man would serve as a constant yet gentle reminder that a man is all he was ever supposed to be.

Goosebumps chased trails on his skin again— he’d forgotten he was shirtless, with how hot it was in here (and definitely not how Flame made him feel) and he grinned into the kiss, reminded of their banter from earlier. After a few more languid moments of taking turns breathing one another’s air, Wemmbu had to pull away for air. A black smoke slowly seeped from his horns and the corners of his mouth as he panted, eyes nearly white with how blown his pupils were as he stared down at Flame.

The other wasn’t much better off, blindfold beginning to loosen around his head, his lips wet, bitten, and parted as he panted. His face was red, the crack of blaze that had seeped from his left eye up into his eyebrow glowing bright— his eyes matching. He looked heaven-sent. And neither, maybe Wemmbu had actually been killed by those bandits, because he wasn’t sure if this was even real. It felt too good to be true, too lucky an idea for him to grasp at. He’s beautiful.

Flame’s grin grew, the flush on his cheeks following directly after. “—You’re corny.” He mumbled, leaning back in for thirds. It wasn’t much more than a press of lips at first, and then Wemmbu decided to get back at the other for his comment by nipping his bottom lip with his canine. The way he bit down harder than he originally meant was unintentional, but the small, low noise that pushed from the back of Flame’s throat and the almost starved look that flickered in his eyes made him wish it wasn’t. Flame pushed him back against the couch, his hand bracing some of his weight on Wemmbu’s thigh with a grip that left the other breathless. His head raised and tilted to kiss the wither at a better angle, a desperate noise freeing itself from Wemmbu’s throat as he locked his fingers in the other’s dreads. After a few moments, Flame finally pulled away. Wemmbu’s head hit the back of the couch for what felt like the thousandth time, his eyes lidded and blown completely white.

Flame took this chance to lower himself to his neck, kissing a line up the purple skin. And then he nipped, a light tug of his skin between his teeth, resting. Wemmbu’s tail twitched, an odd little trill rumbling from his chest. His face heated as Flame faltered in his ministrations, a shuddering breath warm against his neck. The blaze seemed to think for a moment, the hands on wemmbu’s hips tightening, relaxing, and then tightening again as he took a questioning bite. It wasn’t anything damaging, instead a testing drag of his teeth over the other’s pulse point. Wemmbu shuddered, hands falling from their perch in Flame’s hair, coincidentally tugging off that damned blindfold, to dig his nails into his shoulder blades. Flame didn’t fix the fabric, nor make any move to prevent it, so he assumed it was fine. His wings had puffed up, twitching slightly as he nodded and craned his neck further to the side. With this newfound permission, Flame sank his teeth into the lavender skin. They both made a noise, Wemmbu’s in response to the sharp sting of teeth breaching his skin, and Flame to the small hint of iron now coating his lips. He licked over the wound, soothing, and Wemmbu repositioned by pulling his non-injured leg up onto the couch and bending it to get closer to the other. His knee pushed itself into the nearest empty space, that being the gap between Flame’s spread legs as he readjusted to get closer to Wemmbu.

He pulled back from his neck, eyes burning a bright clementine and pupils blown from their usual slits— it looked like an eclipse, the orange peeling from behind the black, the cracks around his eyes glowing bright and serving as beams of light. Wemmbu wasn’t better off— honestly, worse, with the way his coal-black eyes were half lidded, his face flushed a darker purple that pushed a magenta-pink. His lips were spit-slick and bitten, parted in small pants as he stared up at Flame. His eyes dragged down to the bite mark, red with blood beading leisurely at the surface. The wither’s hands moved to slide up under his sweatshirt, eager and urging as his hands rested on the hot skin of his waist. Flame moved to take it off, barely getting it up over his head before—

A rapid knock on the door interrupted them, Wemmbu nearly jumping out of his skin, eyes going pure white as he whipped his head in the direction of the door, a few rooms and a hallway away. Recognition then washed over his face—

“Fuck, bro— I called Egg when I was getting jumped,” He huffed, Flame just groaned in agitation, head dropping forward to rest on Wemmbu’s shoulder as his sweatshirt fell back down his torso. Neither moved at the sound of the door creaking open, or shutting, or the hurried footsteps to the back room. The door opened, and Wemmbu turned to look over his shoulder as he worked up a half-assed explanation. Eggchan’s eye darted from Flame, still leaning over Wemmbu with his head ducked to hide his face– the man was so flustered steam was genuinely rising from his head. He then looked at the shirtless Wemmbu, confused, until he saw the bandages around his arm, a propped up foot, and hickeys with a bitemark in a thin trail up his neck and– oh, oh my GOD Egg whipped back around, chucking a pearl back at the front door as he slammed the door behind him, shouting an apology as he fled. Wemmbu cackled, Flame groaned.

Gregor: Shoot

Wolffe, pulling his gun out: Shoot what?

Gregor, deranged from lack of sleep: Uh… the tv?

Wolffe: On it

(Later)

Alpha-17: What happened to the tv?