Fic Summary:Keith was certain of one thing: With his first paycheck, after his rent was paid, he was going to get a tattoo. What he hadn’t counted on was becoming a snack for a vampire only a few days before that day came.
Hey@noartnova I’m your gifter for the @sheithlentines exchange and I am so sorry this is so horribly late. Things have been… Well chaotic is a good short summary for it. Long story short, my house is half demolished at the moment and things have been… a bit difficult to keep track of.
Anyway, enough about me. Long story short, you asked for tattoos and vampires and I’ve had this idea scrapped and rewritten three times so hopefully you like the end result!
Keith had always been fascinated by tattoos and had desperately wanted one. But his adoptive parents, a kind but rather… devout couple, had objected to the idea adamantly. They’d objected to a lot of things about Keith, actually, although the others they were more willing to turn a blind eye to. Not the least of which was how very very gay he was. As long as he didn’t bring any boys home and wasn’t ‘visibly’ gay, they just pretended that it wasn’t as important an aspect of his personality as it was. Whatever, he could deal. Other kids had it worse. That was just life being… different. Everyone else always just seemed… stuck in the past.
But having ink or metal in his skin was the one thing they couldn’t overlook, apparently. They said it was a sign of hooliganism, that people shouldn’t be tattooed like cattle. Keith wasn’t even entirely sure who still used the word 'hooliganism’ outside of his household. Still, he was fascinated by tattoos and body modifications in general.
By the time Keith was ready to move out when he turned 18, he was certain of one thing: With his first paycheck, after his rent was paid, he was going to get a tattoo.
What he hadn’t counted on was becoming a snack for a vampire only a few days before that day came.
Rating:Explicit Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Falling in Love, witch Castiel, hunter Dean, Omega Cas, Alpha Dean Words: 17.000
Summary:
Dean’s dick has been cursed and Castiel, best healer witch this side of the woods, is the only one who can help. Only lifting the curse turns out to be more difficult than expected.
February 22, 2022! I was informed that this is also “Cat Day” in Japan, because of language puns! Write about a Cat today! Which Cat(s) Have you written about? Write a drabble! Write a chapter! Have some fun!
I have a Letho/Gaetan wip from um. Last summer. Was supposed to go for the rarepair bingo but life happened. Snippet below the cut. Also involved: Cutagens, meet ugly, being drugged, exhibitionism. Smutty. Set during TW3.
All those things he’s kept in, pushed aside for years—the inconvenient thoughts and desires and those stupid, ugly needs he repressed again and again—they want out. And he’s exhausted.
The one rising up his windpipe at this moment is harder to push out than it was to get on his knees and suck a dick in the Denny’s bathroom. But it wants out. It wants out now. It’s wrenched away from where it lay quiet all these years, and shoved into his throat. He could swallow it back down, could reach inside himself and press it back where it belongs. But he doesn’t. He stares at the ugly ceiling of this small motel room, and listens to the soft, familiar sound of Patrick in the next bed. Patrick, who had remembered exactly what they had done together that last night. It’s too big. Too big to be crammed into the tight space of his windpipe. So tight, it can’t possibly pass through, can’t possibly fit, a square-peg-round-hole situation. It’s going to get stuck there at the back of his mouth, big and black and bitter like the shameful secret it is.
But Jonny blinks and spreads his hands on the comforter. He runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth like somehow he could catch the end of it and help it along. It knocks against his teeth on the way out and falls heavy, breaks the silence—the fifteen years-long silence between them:
“I wanted it,” he says, surprisingly even. “Back then. Us. Fucking. I wanted it all the time.”
Their flight is called, and it’s not reserved seating, and they kind of hover for a moment, but, honestly, why not sit together? It’s not a long flight. And it’s not like there’s any ‘getting weird’ here. At worst, someone recognises Patrick, but sharing seats on a delayed flight is no one’s idea of incriminating.
So, in total, by the time they get to arrivals at O'Hare, Patrick’s spent twenty hours in Jonny’s company, never more than one room away, and that only briefly. And-
He doesn’t want to lose him.
“Hey,” he says, urgently, as Jonny starts a hand movement that was probably going to be a vague wave of farewell. “Can I get your number?”
Jonny honest-to-God gapes at him. Then says, “Uh, I guess, but-”
“You free tomorrow night? I’ll get you a ticket,” says Patrick, scrambling for cover. Tickets. That’s normal. That’s not vulnerable. “Uh, what’s your last name?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but holds out his cell, open at contacts, and waits anxiously till Jonny saves his number. With massive, incredible uncool, Patrick then calls it, and listens in relief to the ringtone in Jonny’s pocket. “Cool. Now you have my number too.”
Patrick, it turns out, is capable of going through early puberty awkwardness twice in one lifetime. So fuck that noise.
Jonny’s kind of laughing at him. He says, “It’s pronounced Taves,” which Patrick won’t understand till he actually reads the contact entry. And then he follows through on that goodbye wave. “Have a good day, Patrick.”
There’s no accusation in her voice, no pity, no inquiring tone, just a tenderly spoken question and maybe it’s because of that that Jonny freezes only for a second, before his eyes flicker back to Patrick again and he finds himself unable to lie.
“Yes.” Is all he says.
She is quiet for a moment, then: “Does he know?”
For the second time tonight Jonny answers with “Maybe.” It’s the only possible one. There’s nothing between him and Patrick –this Patrick- that he could tell her about, there’s nothing yet and even though Jonny does have feelings for Patrick and he’s pretty sure that at least a part of Patrick has caught up to that, he doesn’t actually know, they haven’t talked about it. There is a something, there is a maybe between Patrick and Jonny. But that’s all it is. All Jonny knows for certain.
““I swear you spend more time on the ice falling than skating.” This is a longstanding joke, that Jonny’s clumsy on the ice, and it may be a little true. Pat thinks it’s more that he just throws himself into everything so completely he sometimes forgets that he has brakes, or he’s usually past the point of them helping.”
“He wishes he could explain that sometimes it seems like the feeling’s going to swallow him whole, like he’ll collapse under the weight of what’s at stake for him if Jon ever decides they’re done. Most people have choices, alternatives, life boats they’ll turn to when something else goes wrong. Patrick has his family, hockey and Jonny. His family can’t give him what hockey does. And hockey can’t give him what Jon does.”
“Hands on the hood,” Jonny mutters, his mouth against the small hollow behind Patrick’s ear. Close like this, he can smell the oil and the gasoline that clings to Patrick’s hair and it makes his spent cock give a twitch in his boxers.
Patrick leans forward, placing his palms on the hood of the car. Jonny stays close, his body tight against Patrick as he keeps jerking him off. He closes his other hand around Patrick’s hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
“Gonna make you come on the car,” he whispers against Patrick’s ear, listening closely to all the little moans and noises that escape Patrick’s lips, “And then we’ll drive to my place, with your come drying on the hood.”
““Scent me,” he says, eyebrows drawn together, legs locked up around Kaner’s thighs. “I’m almost—Patrick—” But Kaner never stopped. He keeps on where he’s laid himself out over Jonny’s body, tongue in Jonny’s mouth and then face in his neck, picking up that close heat smell that won’t go away sometimes even after a shower. He gets a thigh between Jonny’s legs to scent him there too, careful of his knot in slotting them together, slow and smooth in the movement.
“You’re gonna cream up so good,” he says into Jonny’s ear, coating himself in Jonny’s slick, and the pained sincerity of it hits Jonny just right, digs nails into the meat of him and pulls close and close and close and there. God. There. That humid bloom of full heat. The lightheaded, lightning feeling of hot blood and liquid insides. The floating pleasure at being able to reach drop on his alpha.
He goes utterly loose to the bed, limp and blissed out, senseless except for the sensation of the switch, then, just as fast, the entirety of Kaner comes at him like an assault. The full smell of him, the full warmth of him, the full range of how out of his head he is on Jonny’s heat.”
He opens his eyes to find Jonny smiling at him. And his best smile, too. Crooked and red, almost too boyish for a man his age. That’s it. There it is. The smile that got Patrick wondering if Heaven was a feeling, not a place.
“This isn’t about hockey,” Patrick says for the first time in his life. “This is about you and me. Me, for my part? I don’t care about the distance or any of that. I—” Patrick’s mouth has gone dry; his lungs constrict painfully. Has speaking ever been so hard? “I wanna be the person. Your person. Not because it’s convenient, not because I’ll be any good at it, but because I feel like… I already am? I’m asking you, what do you want?” He’s breathless and a little queasy. Say yes. Say. Yes.
It’s that feeling he’s gotten a lot around Jonny this spring, but even stronger. That feeling you get when school is out for the summer and you can just let your brain float free, flush all the excess concentration and trivia out. That sudden high when you don’t have to think so damn hard, when you can just be. And he gets an inkling that that feeling might not actually be his, or not his alone. Patrick doesn’t know if the feeling is his or Jonny’s, but he’s pretty sure that he’d feel this way without any guide shit involved whatsoever. He inhales slowly. Happily. Even breathing feels good.
“You’re like the last day of school,” Patrick slurs sleepily.
“Go to sleep,” Jonny condescends with gentle laughter in his voice. He combs a fond hand through Patrick’s hair.
“Are you starting to like me back?” Jonny asks quietly, fiddling with the hem of Patrick’s hoodie. “You know… present you?”
Patrick pulls back a little, expression thoughtful. “Do you think I am?”
“I think,” Jonny pauses, “I think if I kissed you… you might kiss me back.”
Patrick licks his lips, tilting his head. “So, are you going to kiss me?”
Jonny cups his jaw and kisses him. Patrick indulges him for a second smiling into the kiss then as they part he rolls his eyes fondly. “Dork. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I also know you already know anyway. If I’m going to do it,” Jonny replies, “Even if I don’t know it myself yet. So why ask?”
And that’s the thing. Patrick knows. He knows if his younger self likes Jonny back, knows what he would do if Jonny leaned in for a kiss next time they are sprawled across Jonny’s couch, playing xbox. He knows what’s going on in present Patrick’s head when he looks at Jonny in that way, that makes Jonny feel strangely fuzzy inside. He knows and Jonny doesn’t. It’s been almost seven years since Jonny has been in this position, thinking about kissing his crush, unsure of his reaction. Future Patrick is a safe harbor, Jonny can trust in him and his love for Jonny. Present Patrick is more… fickle, less predictable. Still. Jonny thinks he might.
“Jonny loves Patrick like this: happy, teasing, eyes bright, a little handsy, and just this side of drunk. It reminds him of being young college kids pressed together in the dark corners of frat house parties, trading punch flavored kisses. It reminds him of being in their first apartment, burning dinner, when the cheap bottles of wine they’d drink would convince them they would rule the world. It reminds him of toasting birthdays, holidays, new jobs, new babies.”
“On my own.” He moves his jaw from side to side and presses his lips together, but then adds, louder, “Who the fuck knows how long it’ll take me, too. Roads jammed, gas stations closed, crazy fucking restaurants on benders. What do I do once I’m finally there? Drive through the whole state trying to find some fucking plane? Someone to take me?”
“Pat.”
“What happens, Jonny? What happens when the world ends and I’m stuck there alone?” The last word cracks, resonates ugly and pained.
Jonny’s never spent a heat with another guy, alpha or no. Never had an honest-to-god-dick-attached-knot inside him. Never been with someone he used to daydream about lifting his ass up for, even on suppressants.
He wants it to be good.
A few months now of fucking around and he’s pretty sure it will be—Kaner takes cock better than bottom alphas on pornhub, which…Jonny hadn’t known he was into at all. He gives head like a maniac and spent an ill-advised straight twenty minutes eating Jonny out on their last trip to Dallas.
But heat’s different. It’s different when it’s with someone you like. The idea of washing Kaner’s claim off him when they’re done—Kaner washing off Jonny’s—he already hates it. He already hates it and he’s never even had it.
Jonny’s eyes snap up to his, astonished for a fast second, then flat, his forehead smoothing out as he drops his things again, lets his arms go loose. “That what we’re calling it now?” he says.
They don’t call it anything. Patrick can’t even remember the last time it was more than a look, a jerk of the head, a soft tug of fingers at the hem of a pair of shorts.
Patrick isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. He may have stopped completely.
“What about your coaching job? You were really happy there?”
Jonny shrugs. “I was. But I can find another coaching position in Chicago. And if not, I’ll find some other job. There will always be another job. But if I stay here there won’t be a YOU. So I’m coming.”
Patrick means to fight him on the issue more, intends to be strong and selfless, but what comes out is, “Promise?”
He’ll be able to tell Patrick he wants to write on him. They do that, tell each other things, at least things like “I want to blow you” and “I want you to fuck me” and “I don’t want to go home, let me crash here”. So Johnny could say something like “I want to write on you” and it would be okay. It’s only a little weirder than anything else they’ve told each other, and probably less weird than the first time Johnny said, “I want you to fuck me”, and his face went all red and his stomach was flipping over and his throat was tight until Patrick said “Yeah, Johnny, I want that too.”
When he looks back, Jonny is no longer actively pressing in, just running his fingertips up and down the side of his throat. Patrick follows his motions with his eyes for a long second before looking back at Jonny’s face, to find that Jonny is already looking at him. Patrick can feel heat flushing through his entire body at Jonny’s steady, dark-eyed gaze. Jonny’s leaning in toward him a little, one arm up on the back of the booth. He brings the other arm down to brace his hand on the table. Patrick’s eyes follow his hand helplessly like Jonny’s got his attention on a leash.
“I thought I might be making this up,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s eyes shoot up to his face. His expression is unreadable to Patrick, but not hostile.
