đ§Lean's POV:
Rude.
I just came to check on him! Because he ran off like freakin' Cinderella after nibbling my ear and resurrecting my dead vampire heart into full action-and now he has the audacity to say,
"Get out or I'll kill you"?
Not. Happening.
"Puppers, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened!"
"I will eat you!!"
"In a hot way?"
"What-?!" chokes on air "N-No!! I... I-fuck, you're irrelevant and irritating and-irresistible."
BINGO.
I tiptoe dramatically into the corner where the shaking mutt is curled up like a depressed wet towel. Is that my pillow?? Is he SOBBING into my black velvet skull-printed pillow? With Harry Styles? Did he get rabies?! Do werewolves get rabies??
"Puppers, look at me. You know I can yank your scruffy face up. Vampires are stronger than werewolves in human form, you know."
"Did you just threaten me?!"
And that's when he pounces.
No seriously-like full-blown tiger leap.
One second I'm standing, the next second, BAM! I'm on the ground with like seven feet of feral, emotionally-damaged werewolf pinning me down like I'm his prey. His eyes are glowing yellow. He's breathing hard. His nose is brushing mine. He's growling. His tears are dripping on my face-and I'm pretty sure I just sipped one by accident.
Salty. Spicy. 10/10 seasoning.
"Dominant alpha wolf, huh? Hot."
And then-I kissed his nose.
System: Crashed.
He slumps down on me like a tranquilized bear. HE'S. SO. HEAVY.
His tail's wagging (???), he's hugging me like I'm a trauma teddy, and yes-he's sobbing.
"It's okay, boy. I got you," I whisper, rubbing his back gently.
"I'm not your fucking dog," he mumbles into my collar.
"You don't get to bark when I'm giving you emotional support for something I don't even understand."
I start scratching his ears. Yep. Melm. Melm. Melm.
(That's the sound of dignity dying.)
And this man-this beast-just grabs me tighter, snuggles his snout (face) into my shoulder, and goes full-on sleep mode. Right there. On the damn hardwood floor.
A massive werewolf, sobbing and snoozing on top of me like I'm a haunted Build-a-Bear.
And honestly?
Yeah.
This is my life now.
And I'm not complaining.
đșDominic's POV:
I bite his ear one time. Ok few times.
And suddenly I'm Cinderella sprinting away from the ball-except instead of losing a glass slipper, I dropped my dignity somewhere between the kitchen, backyard and a panic attack.
I don't know what came over me. One second I was growling, next second he was there, looking at me like that and smelling like vanilla, cinnamon and grave dirt, and suddenly my instincts went,
"Yeah, you should definitely nibble his ear like a socially stunted golden retriever in heat, who can hump a pillow."
So yeah. I ran.
Like a coward.
And now I'm here, in the corner of my room, curled up like a sad croissant with my face buried in his stupid skull-printed pillow that smells like rosewater and ego. It's embarrassing. I hate this. I hate everything. I want to die. But he smells good
And then he arrives.
Flamboyant. Loud. Dressed like a cursed Victorian chandelier and stomping in like he owns the place.
"Puppers, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened!"
Jesus. Christ.
"I will eat you!!" I bark.
Big mistake.
"In a hot way?"
I choke.
On air.
On my own saliva.
My soul exits my body briefly. Did he really just-?! No. Shut up. Do not process that.
"N-No! I... I-fuck, you're irrelevant and irritating and-irresistible."
God.
Why.
Why did I say that.
Why do I mean that.
I should be committed. I should be euthanized. I should go live in the woods and eat squirrels until I forget what human language is.
He walks up to me slowly like he's trying not to spook a feral cat. I am the feral cat. A huge, seven-foot-something wreck of a cat.
"Puppers, look at me. You know I can yank your scruffy face up. Vampires are stronger than werewolves in human form, you know."
Did he just threaten me???
I black out.
Okay not really-but something snaps, and the next second, I'm on him. Pinning him down. Growling. Eyes glowing. Nose touching his.
And of course.
Of course he's into it.
"Dominant alpha wolf, huh? Hot."
WHAT THE F-
And then.
He kisses my nose.
My. Nose.
I don't know what happens after that because my brain blue-screens and my body just... slumps.
I collapse on him. Fully. Like a malfunctioning Roomba. Just... shut down. System failure.
Tail: Wagging.
Hugging: Activated.
Sobbing: Uncontrollable.
He rubs my back. Tells me it's okay. Like I'm not a whole damn grown man having a breakdown on top of a glitter vampire like I'm some sad, oversized emotional support golden retriever.
"I'm not your fucking dog," I mumble.
"You don't get to bark when I'm giving you emotional support for something I don't even understand."
He got a point though!
And then.
He starts scratching my ears.
Like I'm the pet.
Melm. Melm. Melm. That's what he says.
I don't even have the energy to be mad. And it definitely feels good! I just pull him tighter, bury my face in his shoulder, and-
Sleep.
Right there.
On the floor.
Cuddled up with the infuriating, sparkly chaos goblin who kissed my nose and made my nervous system short-circuit. And my bloody fist? Well you know monster heal quickly!
I hate this.
I hate him.
I want to bite him again.
Maybe his other ear this time. Maybe his coller bone, nibble his nose!
God help me.
*9 hours later*
đ§Lean's POV:
Agh! Ah! Ouch!
Okay-why does my entire undead body feel like it got steamrolled by a werewolf-sized mattress with abandonment issues?
Oh. Right. Because someone decided to fall asleep on top of me like a sedated baby elephant on Nyquil. Looking at you, Dominic "Emotional Baggage" Quinn.
Now I'm alone. Abandoned. Flopped on the hardwood floor like a tragic Victorian poet who died mid-sonnet or a poor toad ran over by a truck. My back is screaming. My neck is weeping. My legs are somewhere in another dimension. Possibly Purgatory.
I groan and flop dramatically. No audience. Tragedy.
Where is that oversized mutt anyway?
What time is it?
7:13 AM.
Excuse me?! Ain't no way he left for college already-he takes longer than I do to get ready, and I'm dead. Literally.
And then-
sniff sniff
Wait.
Hold up.
Is that... pancakes?
PANCAKES.
I sit up like a zombie with a caffeine addiction. My spine cracks like glowsticks. My joints sound like a haunted ship.
HE'S COOKING.
HE'S ACTUALLY COOKING.
MY WOLF IS MAKING ME BREAKFAST.
I clutch my sparkly, torn nightshirt to my chest. A single tear forms in the corner of my eye. This is it. This is domesticity. This is love.
Time to go limp dramatically into the kitchen and emotionally manipulate him into feeding me like the glittering goblin prince I am.
đșDominic's POV:
I don't know what kind of cursed rom-com energy possessed me overnight, but I woke up with a whole vampire wrapped around my arms like a clingy, undead scarf.
And no, I didn't kiss his forehead.
I meanâmaybe I brushed my lips near his forehead. Accidentally. Because he was sleeping. And he looked all small and stupid and weirdly kissable.
That doesn't count.
Shut up.
Anyway. I've got a class to attend and a life to regret, soâtime to untangle the glittering barnacle and escape before he wakes up like Dracula on a Red Bull.
"Vamps?"
No response.
Just a tiny snore and a dramatic flop onto the hardwood like he's starring in some tragic opera. Great. He's out cold. That gives me like⊠twenty minutes before chaos reincarnates.
Cool.
To the kitchen.
The cinnamon rolls are dead. Flatlined. I forgot to feed them to the Bat. Guess I'll revive themâchef necromancer styleâinto the oven for a quick reheat.
Now. Pancakes.
Maple syrup for him. Honey for me.
Absolutely no cornflour, because His Royal Highness the Vampire is allergic to likeâhalf the pantry. Including, apparently, kiwi, artificial vanilla, polyester threads, emotional intimacy, and cornflour.
Why do I remember all of that?
...Whatever.
I pull on my apronâblack with skulls, obviouslyâand tie it around my waist. No shirt, just pajama pants. Because sleeves are a prison and it's my damn house. Apron covers the front. My back's out.
If the vampire sees and walks into a wall from thirst, that's on him.
Batter bowl in hand. Pan hot. I pour. Sizzle. Flip. Perfect landing.
Yeah. I can cook.
Of course I can cook.
Who do you think's been keeping that glittering idiot alive this whole time? Certainly not his diet of six daily lollipops, a bag of stolen gummy bears, and emotional trauma-flavored boba tea.
Another flip. Stack's coming along nicely.
I glance at the door.
Still no vampire.
Good. Maybe I'll actually finish breakfast before he floats in like a feral Disney princess and tries to seduce me for pancakes.
God help me if he sees my back.
I hear a creak.
...Too late.
"PUPPPPPEEEERRRSSSS!!!!"
LORD HAVE MERCY ON THIS POOR WOLF.
đ§Lean's POV:
Agh! It still aches as I stand up.
Why? Again Because some emotionally-repressed, 6'7 werewolf decided to use me as his personal emotional support mattress last night. Laid on me like I was a goddamn orthopedic pillow dipped in glitter.
And now?
He is cooking for me I can smell pancakes!! And definitely someone cursing me mid cook!
I smell like wolf. My limbs are sore. And I think there's drool on my cheek. Wait that was my part!! I drool!!
I shoot up like a Nosferatu on crack and speed-walk (okay, float) toward the kitchen. And then. And thenâ
I see him.
Pajama pants hanging low on his hips. Skull apron tied tight at the front. Bare muscular back glistening with the faintest sheen of sweat. Muscles flexing as he flips pancakes like some demonic Food Network daddy.
I swear. My knees literally go weak.
What in the name of nocturnal thiccness is this divine sight!?
And you expect me to behave!? After I am witness this Wolf Daddy Back!!
HA. HAHAHA.
NOPE.
I LEAP.
"WOOOOOOOFFFFIIIIIEEE!!!"
I pounce onto him like a horny fruit bat mid-mating season.
"AUGHâLEANâTHE PANâ"
SPLOOSHâSIZZLE
Oops. Pancake just tried to commit arson.
Dom flails, nearly burns his hand, slaps the stove off, and whirls on me like a startled pit bull.
"ARE YOU INSANE!?" he yells. "I almost set myself on fire!"
I'm too busy clinging to him like a starfish on steroids, face buried between his shoulder blades, inhaling every ounce of wolfy spicy sugar.
"Worth it," I whisper into his back. "You smell like syrup and testosterone."
He growls. Actually growls.
"I should throw you out the window."
"You'd miss me before I hit the ground."
His shoulder twitches. "Shut up."
I grin against his skin. "Make me, Puppers."
đșDominic's POV:
I crack eggs one-handed, flip a pancake like a pro, and pretend I'm not imagining vampire fangs sinking into my neck every time I catch a whiff of syrup.
Thenâ
"WOOOOOOOOOFFIIIIEEEE!!"
What theâ
SLAM.
Sudden weight. High-pitched screech. A very dramatic airborne pan.
"LEANâTHE PANâ"
SPLOOSH. SIZZLE.
Fantastic. The pancake just got sacrificed to the breakfast gods.
"ARE YOU INSANE?!" I bark, slamming the stove off before I accidentally flambĂ© the house. I twist aroundâcorrection, I try to twist aroundâbut I've got a damn leech clinging to my back like a sugar-high bat koala.
"I almost set myself on fire, you idiot!"
"Worth it," he mumbles against my spine pressing his cold face between my shoulder blades. "You smell like syrup and testosterone."
Great. That's what I neededâfood kink commentary at 7:30 AM.
âŠI want to throw him out the window.
I growlâactually growlâbut this glitter gremlin just nuzzles into me like I'm a freaking teddy bear.
"I should toss you into the trash."
"Again You'd miss me before the lid closed."
God, he's fast.
I try to peel him off like a sticker from a laptop.
No luck.
Okay. Time for plan B.
How to Remove a Clingy Vampire From Your Back: A Tutorial by Dominic Quinnâą AKA Your Sexy Alpha Wolfie!!
Step One: Curse at it.
"Get the hell off me, you feral decorative fungus."
âŠDoesn't work. He just hums contentedly.
Step Two: Spank it.
âŠI consider it. Briefly. But he's got that dumb adorable face and might enjoy it. Aborted mission.
Step Three: Threaten it.
"I swear, if you don't let go, I'll shave your eyebrows in your sleep or eat you with mustard and mayo."
Nothing. His brain doesn't register threats. It's just sparkles and delusion in there.
Step Four: Desperate times call for garlic.
Reach into the spice jar, pull out a clove, and casually toss it over your shoulder like a ritual offering.
Instant reaction.
"BLLUUUURRGHHH!!"
He detaches with a full-body convulsion and gags like I fed him expired glitter glue.
Emergency damage control: Grab the semi-burnt pancake and shove it into his mouth before he vomits something sparkly and unholy on YOUR kitchen floor.
Mission accomplished.
Vampire detached. Kitchen not on fire. Pancakes⊠kinda edible.
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God. I need a nap. Or a muzzle for him.
...but if I leave him alone for five minutes, he's either gonna set the couch on fire or befriend a raccoon! Again.
đ§Lean's POV
HE THREW GARLIC AT ME.
Not a metaphor. Not an accident. He literally tossed that unholy, cursed, demon-repelling clove at my face like I'm some kind of gothic vampire boss fight.
I shrieked. I gagged. I performed a full-body exorcism mid-air before peeling off him like a dramatic wet sticker. I was THIS close to projectile vomiting directly on his very punchable alpha faceâsparkles and all.
And THENâget thisâhe has the audacity, the absolute balls, to cup my face.
For a second, I melted. Obviously. My knees went jelly, my eyes fluttered shut. I was ready for a tender apology kiss. Maybe a bite. Something romantic. Something worthy of my pain.
And thenâ
BAM.
A half-burnt pancake gets shoved into my mouth like I'm a malfunctioning toaster.
What.
The.
Heaven.
Okay, yes, it still tastes good. Damn him and his cinnamon-maple-syrup sorcery. But I am MAD. I puff up my cheeks, cross my arms, and glare at him with all the fury of a jilted Victorian widow.
Okay, maybe I sobbed a little. Still coughing!
I pout. With my mouth full of dead breakfast. A few chunks of betrayal-flavored pancake go splat onto his face.
He doesn't even flinch.
Because, and I quote him:
"I've cleaned your pee, poop, blood, drool, and possibly your soul. This is nothing."
âŠFair.
BUT STILL.
He once told me I peed on his face when he first rescued me and I was unconscious for like three days.
That's not the point. The point isâ
"Yug are Tho Moem Puppors! How Kud Yug Du TaT ta Mah! AUM Nol Gobna Tak Tw Yug!"
(Translation: YOU ARE TOO MEAN, PUPPERS!! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?! I'M NOT GONNA TALK TO YOU!!!)
I turn my back on him dramatically, arms still folded, cheeks still stuffed, and stomp exactly three steps away before stopping to chew.
Okay. I need more of that.
I swear, if I wasn't starving and they didn't taste like soft golden hell, I would've stayed mad at him for, like, an entire day.
...Okay, at least for a full minute.
Because dramatic silence is really hard when there's pancake in your mouth.
đșDominic's POV
Agh. Great. The glittery mosquito is mad again. Buzzing around like a drama-infested wasp with fangs.
And now? He's launched a drool-coated pancake at my face.
Do I care? No. I've probably tasted worse. I've tasted his pee, for god's sake. This? This is foreplay.
He's puffed up like a cursed pufferfish right nowâarms crossed, cheeks full, sparkles of betrayal in his eyes. Too cute. TOO CUTE.
Do not smile, Puppers. You are a big bad werewolf. You don't melt over angry pocket vampires.
...I'm smiling.
Crap.
AND DID I JUST CALLED MYSELF PUPPERS. OUT LOUD.
WHAT IS THIS BRAINROT.
He's rambling again in his emotionally-unstable-toddler language. I've gotten fluent in it by now. It's a mix of melodrama, sobs, and vowels.
Translation: He's mad. Again.
Oh? Turning your back on me now?
Challenge accepted.
Let's see how long you last ignoring me, sparkles.
I do a full alpha pivotâstraight-face mode activated. Pancakes plated. Cinnamon rolls rescued from the oven. Skull apron? Flour-splattered perfection. Back muscles? On display. (Not on purpose. Totally. Shut up.)
And just when I think peace has returnedâ
THUD.
He collapses onto the kitchen floor behind me, clutching my legs like a soap opera widow.
"Oh my Satan, how could you?! You ignored me!! I know I burned you a little but PLEASE talk to me or I'll DROOL on your BED!"
Theatrical sniffle.
Snort.
I Can't With This Kid!
A laugh snorts out of me. Like, actually snorts. What the hell is wrong with me.
I reach down, ruffle the mop of golden curls squished against my hoodie(which he is wearing).
"Go to the table, my meloqueen. Breakfast's ready."
He leaps up, wipes his entire snot-slobber-tragedy nose on MY hoodieâwhich he's apparently stolenâand prances off like he didn't just fake-die ten seconds ago.
I watch him hop into his chair like a five-year-old gremlin who lives on sparkles and threats.
"This monster will be the death of me," I mutter, shaking my head, still smiling like an idiot.
Deep breath. Serious face. Handsome Squidward mode: ENGAGED.
I grab the plates, straighten my spine like I'm walking into war, and join him at the table.
Ready to feed the chaos I somehow love.