🦊 Fox’s Writing Commissions

• POINT OF VIEW: 3rd Person
• Genre: Romance, slice-of-life, fandom (WWX)
• Note: Characters belong to Jellolas 
• This is an excerpt from the commission If My Words Could Reach You; I'd Tell You I Love You  

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The pond was as beautiful as Cao Zixin said it would be—fluorescent flora, golden koi, and adorable turtles for as far as the eye could see. It was a peaceful little nook in Niujie Village, a magical corner tucked away from the rest of the world and perched on a hilltop away from view. Their own personal hideaway.

Cao Zixin and Wen Ning had been alone when they first arrived. The young lovers spent the first few moments simply sitting side by side (nestled against each other like a pair of lovebirds) as they stared up at the mesmerizing glow of the moon. The wind was chilly, but their proximity to each other allowed them to bask in the other’s warmth. It was innocent yet surprisingly intimate, and as they sat side by side, Cao Zixin took Wen Ning’s hand and intertwined his fingers with his.

It was a quiet moment between two new lovers until the cats came.

And the cats arrived—the cats arrived in droves.

Wen Ning immediately lit up at their arrival, pulling away from his place on the bench to greet them. He stood up (despite Cao Zixin’s hidden frown) and made his way toward the gaggle of cats that now surrounded their bench.

“Little saboteurs,” Cao Zixin huffed playfully as he feigned a sneer underneath his veil. “I swear, this happens every time we decide to go an outdoor date. Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt? Where are your manners?” The young man joked, expertly adopting his father’s stern tone as he comically addressed the cats as if they were a crowd of rude children.

Wen Ning chuckled at Cao Zixin’s response, but even the silly display of feigned disappointment wasn’t enough to keep him by is boyfriend’s side. By the time Cao Zixin was pouting, Wen Ning was already seated on the grassy hill with a cat perched on his lap. Two other cats circled around him watchfully while the majority surrounded the bench Cao Zixin was sitting on.

However, Cao Zixin didn’t pay any attention to the cats. Instead, the entirety of his focus had shifted to Wen Ning and how utterly happy and content his boyfriend looked, as if the young man were a child enraptured by the lotus boats during the Zhongyuan Festival.

There was just something so soft about the way Wen Ning nestled the cat in his arms. He couldn’t put it into words, but the sight before him made Cao Zixin stare with utter adoration.

“You know,” Wen Ning laughed softly, beautiful underneath the luminescent light of the moon. “He k-kind of looks like you!” The young man lifted the black cat on his lap and held it up so Cao Zixin could look at its stoic and almost grumpy expression. The cat even sported a scar across his cheek from an altercation with another feline, and the more Cao Zixin stared, the more he realized his boyfriend was right. The cat did look like him. It looked a LOT like him.

“Surely, I’m cuter than that,” he retorted with a chuckle.

“Hmmm,” Wen Ning genuinely considered his boyfriend’s words. “Come here.” He patted the ground beside him. “I-I need to get a closer look, so I can give you a proper answer.”

Cao Zixin humored his boyfriend’s request and sat down beside Wen Ning on the grassy hilltop. A swarm of cats immediately surrounded them, but it didn’t matter because he was lost in Wen Ning’s cheeky smile, in the gentleness that seemed to radiate from his very being. The young man had always been enamored with Wen Ning, but right now, his boyfriend took his breath away.

There was something different in the air.

Cao Zixin noticed the slight blush that had crept up onto Wen Ning’s cheeks, and he wondered if his boyfriend felt it too—the odd tension that had fallen over them, the electricity in the air.

“I-I swear! You do look like him!” Wen Ning had released the cat, and had turned to face Cao Zixin. The young man spent a moment looking hesitant, before he reached for his boyfriend’s veil and lifted it off his face (unintentionally covering his eyes in the process). They’d always been touchy, but something about this interaction made Cao Zixin’s heart leap into his throat.

The young man who always had a LOT to say was utterly speechless.

Cao Zixin felt Wen Ning’s hand tremble as his boyfriend placed his thumb gently against his scar. Wen Ning traced the remnants of the wound up his cheek, and from behind his upturned veil, Cao Zixin wished he could stare into Wen Ning’s eyes.

“See,” Wen Ning whispered. “You’re similar, e-even down to y-your scars.”

Their faces were inches apart, but Cao Zixin didn’t have the brainpower to come up with a witty retort or a long-winded speech to hide how vulnerable he felt at the moment.

And then Wen Ning kissed him.

Wen Ning kissed him and he could have sworn his soul evacuated from its mortal shell and into some other plane of existence. It was a gentle, almost ghostly kiss—the kind young boys often gave to their first crushes underneath the shade of the gingko tree, but all the same, it made Cao Zixin’s heart leap into his throat, made whatever witty remark he wanted to say die on his lips.

It was the first time they’d ever kissed, and Cao Zixin finally understood what people meant when they said it felt like watching fireworks streak across the sky, like a jolt of lightning up one’s spine. He was swept away by the kiss, and in the heat of the moment, Cao Zixin wanted to tell Wen Ning he loved him. However, before he could blurt out such a weighty confession, he reeled in his emotions, pulled away, and hid how he truly felt behind a self-assured smile.

Cao Zixin pulled down his veil and chuckled. “I didn’t know you were this smooth, Wen Ning.”

• POINT OF VIEW: 3rd Person
• Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, vampires
• Note/TW: Characters belong to Revelation, trigger warning blood and implied violence
  This is an excerpt from the commission The Blood That Binds Us 

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Blood tasted disgusting on most days—salty, metallic, the equivalent of watered-down mucus and mushed meat coating his tongue and dribbling down the back of his throat. Oliver had never enjoyed the taste or the texture, but today, the level of disgust he felt was unparalleled, enough to make his insides churn and his stomach heave.

He couldn’t get the taste of Benjamin’s blood off his tongue.

The bathroom had looked like a slaughterhouse as he crawled out of it on his hands and knees, and he was no better, Oliver had scrubbed and scratched at his skin until it started to hurt, until it turned red and blotchy underneath his fingernails. The vampire had changed his clothes twice, and still, he couldn’t get the stench of blood off him, couldn’t wash away his sins no matter how hard he tried, no matter how scalding the water.

So now he was here—sitting on the floor with his back against his bedframe, knees tucked up to his chest—dressed in an old shirt and sweats. He had his sketchbook propped on his knees and was doodling mindless, messy shapes onto the page. Oliver was a jumpy mess, and he flinched when the tip of his pencil broke against the angry, non-sensical spirals he’d etched into his sketch book.

“Oliver.”

The vampire bristled (like his heart was perpetually in his throat) when he heard a soft knocking against the door. A part of him wanted to ignore whoever was on the other side, but when he realized it was Louise, he seemed to soften just a little.

“Oliver,” Louise called out again. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” he exhaled. “You can… come in, Louise.”

Oliver sat up a little straighter, but it wasn’t enough to hide his mental state. The fledgling vampire’s eyes were puffy from crying, and the way his hand trembled as he tightened his grip around his pencil, was enough to show Louise his head was in shambles.

They locked eyes as Louise walked into the room. The woman carried herself with the same effortless poise as she always did—back straight, shoulders relaxed and level—but for the first time, Oliver couldn’t see the familiar spark of confidence in her eyes. The longer his gaze lingered, the more he realized that Louise looked a little lost too.

“Um, what do you want, Louise?”

There was a rare gleam of hesitance in her gaze. “I just wanted to check on you, Oliver.”

“I’m fine.” He lowered his hand to hide the trembling. “Anything else?”

“Listen Oliver,” her tone was soft, gentle. “I want to let you know; it wasn’t your fault.”

Something about that—wasn’t his fault—made anguish unlike anything Louise had ever seen before wash over Oliver’s usually somber features. The fledgling vampire’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he bit down onto his bottom lip until it stung. Suddenly, he threw out his arms (the sketch book falling to the floor). “Wasn’t my fault?” He sounded exasperated. “Louise, in what world is this not my fault?”

Oliver had never been the type to raise his voice (he knew all too well, what it felt like, cowering whenever his father’s deep baritone boomed through their household), but here he was, shouting and practically trembling with unbridled rage.

He was angry at himself, but Louise had given him an outlet for the outpouring of negative emotions. “I sunk my fangs into his neck.” Oliver paused to take in a shuddery breath, and a part of him thought it was ridiculous that even in the afterlife he knew how to recognize the beginnings of a panic attack. The young man clutched at the front of his shirt, like his heart was tightening in his chest and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. “I can still taste his blood on my tongue, Louise… so don’t—” Oliver looked like he was about to cry. “Don’t tell me it’s not my fault because… because that’s ridiculous!”

Oliver’s face twisted into a mask of pained horror, and while Louise wanted to offer him comfort, she took a step back to give him the space he needed.

“I’ll give you time to yourself, Oliver.”

“Louise,” his voice cracked. Even in his raged stupor, he could tell he’d hurt her feelings and somehow (seeing her face twist into one of subtle hurt) made Oliver feel even shittier. “I didn’t—” he stated. “I didn’t mean it.”

• POINT OF VIEW: 3rd Person
• Genre: Romance, hurt/comfort, fandom (Stardew Valley) 
• Note/TW: Characters belong to Catfights
  This is an excerpt from the commission At the End of Everything; It's Always Been You 

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During the Festival of the Moonlight Jellies, Julia leaned into Shiro’s side; and something about the way he wrapped his arm around Julia’s shoulders made Alex’s blood boil. He’d asked Julia about Shiro at the Flower Dance, and she’d mumbled something about the two of them being “just friends,” but Alex had seen the way Shiro looked at her, had seen the way his usually stoic features lit up the moment Julia held out her hand and asked him to dance with her.

It was the same old song and dance tonight.

Alex could see (plain as day), the way Shiro looked at her, far more enamored with her expression of awe than the otherworldly glow that surrounded the harbor. Alex knew the look of a person in love, and it made his insides churn, made an ugly frown tug on the corners of his lips. He was especially annoyed when Shiro peeled off his jacket and wrapped it around Julia’s shoulders.

And like a dumbass, he spent the rest of the festival staring at them.

Once the festivities ended, Shiro and his younger brother offered to walk Julia home, but she insisted on staying and enjoying the nighttime air; Alex was relieved because it meant he’d have a shot at talking to her in private, and so once most of Pelican Town had returned to the comfort of their homes, he walked up to her until they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the docks.

“So, Shiro? You two are a thing now, huh?” He couldn’t stop the bitterness from creeping into his voice. Ever since the Flower Dance, things between him and Julia had been a little rocky, to say the least. They made up a few weeks later, but it felt like they were treading on unstable ground—felt like he’d lost his footing and was struggling to regain it, failing at every chance he got.

“This again?” Julia sounded exasperated, annoyed. “I told you, we’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex rolled his shoulders. “Because friends look at each other the way he looks at you.”

Honestly, a part of Julia wanted to throttle him. “And how does he look at me?”

“Like you’re the only person in the room.” That was how Alex had looked at her for the past few months, how he’d wanted her to look at him; but maybe he’d always be that dumb jock who was useful for nothing more than a bit of fun and a good time. Sometimes, it felt like Julia saw him for him—imperfections, insecurities, and all—hell, he’d never told anyone else about his mother. Other times, it felt as if she were looking past him, like he’d never be what she actually wanted.

“You know…” Alex let out a soft exhale. “You’re kinda being a dick.”

“Oh, fuck you, Alex.” Julia lashed out, and she would have walked away if he hadn’t continued. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? After all, last she checked, they were just having fun—no strings attached, the type of situationship where they could joke around and just have a good time without worrying about all the extra feelings that could ruin a good friendship.

“I mean it,” Alex’s voice hitched, like he was struggling to stay composed. “So, what if you’ve been burned before? Everyone’s been hurt. I’ve been hurt too. Julia, it doesn’t give you a free pass to be shitty to the people you… to the people you care about.”

“Alex.” Julia couldn’t stop her own voice from rising, couldn’t stop herself from looking like she wanted to shove him off the pier. How many times did she have to say it to get it through his thick skull? “We were just having fun, I thought that was clear, I didn’t want anything serious—”

“Bullshit.” He sounded more crestfallen than angry.

“So what?” Julia snapped. “You think we were in love? Is that it?” The last time she thought she’d loved anyone was when she was seeing Sandy, and look where that got her—a broken heart and dreams of a future that would never happen. She’d been so ready, so willing to give her all, to dive headfirst into whatever awaited them. Turns out, she wasn’t even a priority on Sandy’s list. It was the most devastated and hurt she’d felt in a while, and even though Julia never dared to speak about the details of that heartbreak aloud, she felt like Alex knew enough. Talk traveled fast in Pelican Town. “What part of no strings attached didn’t you get?”

Alex stood his ground, and it was the most serious she’d ever seen him. “You do care about me.” He said it with a confidence that was very Alex. “Why else would you listen to me blabber on and on about books and my mom. Hey, maybe I’m not as smart as I think—” and knowing his insecurities, that little comment broke Julia’s heart. “Maybe I’m wrong and you don’t, but I think you do care. I think you care a lot, and you’re just scared of getting burned again.”

His perceptiveness surprised her.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Alex closed the gap between them, and it was clearly a challenge. “Tell me I’m wrong; tell me you don’t care and I…” his voice shook. “I’ll stop bothering you—"

Before Alex could say anything else, Julia grabbed him by the collar of his letterman jacket (noticed the momentary surprise on his face followed by smug triumph), and too proud to tell him he was right or allow him to dwell on his victory for more than a fraction of a second, she crushed her lips against his and kissed him like his lungs had the only air around.

• POINT OF VIEW: 3rd Person
• Genre: Horror, angst, hurt/comfort
• NOTE/TW: Characters belong to dogstarlite, trigger warning gore 
• This is an excerpt from the commission Dreams of Disaster

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Eddie could feel the bastard’s hands inside his chest cavity—could see his noodle-like insides spilling from the hollow tear in his abdomen as he bled crimson onto the makeshift gurney beneath him. The entire room smelled of iron and rotting meat that had been left under the sun for far too long, and for a terrifying moment, Eddie the Nail wondered if he’d died and found himself in hell.

The edges of reality blurred and folded inward, a blood-red moon peeking from behind the curtains. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. Every limb felt as heavy as lead, and the more Eddie struggled, the more aware he became of the sensation of a gloved hand caressing his internal organs. The motherfucker was inside him; the man’s scalpel grazing gently against the delicate twist and turns of Eddie’s intestines—fingers playing absentmindedly, almost tenderly, with the ridges of Eddie’s ribcage.

Eddie was going to break that motherfucker’s face.

Eddie was going to beat him black and blue until he was nothing more than a bloody smear on the pavement, until he was riddled with nails and gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

He was going to…

The realization hit him like a kick in the teeth. He wasn’t going to do shit, was he? He wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing because he was dying, wasn’t he? Eddie’s gaze followed the gloved hand. He couldn’t see jack shit from where he was lying, but he could make out the bastard’s hand as it moved within his chest—could feel it as the man traced along the vulnerable surface of his internal organs as if he were, as disturbing as it sounded, caressing a lover.

Eddie saw a glint of steel as the scalpel was raised above him—felt a searing, tearing pain spread across his chest like wildfire as the sharp end dug deep into his still-beating heart.

It was supposed to be a simple rescue mission. In and out. They were going to collect their guy, barge in guns blazing, scare their rivals shitless, then make it home in time to watch the game on TV over a couple of beers and microwavable pizza. The good shit. Simple shit.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Fuck.

Eddie was screaming—hand to his chest, all out screaming like he was going to die of a heart attack. He was in the safety of his room, in bed with Adam. However, for a terrifying moment of unfiltered panic, Eddie believed he was going to die in a godforsaken shithole, unable to save not only himself but his own men as well. His breathing hitched in his throat, and as his heart pummeled away inside his chest, he sputtered and coughed like a drowning man.

“Baby,” Adam had dropped his usual accent, was shaking him gently by the shoulders. “Baby what’s wrong? Does your chest hurt? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Eddie took one look at Adam—heart still hammering in his chest like a spooked bird, hands tingling, chest stinging with the phantom pain of a botched flaying that had happened years ago.

“Charlie! Charlie! Bolt the doors,” he practically snarled. “Bar the windows, quick!”

It felt like he was having a heart attack, the way Eddie’s chest tightened with each breath, the way his vision blurred, and the way the room seemed to spin as an ungodly rush of panic washed over him like a wave. Eddie was a stoic man, but ever since that fateful night (flayed open and left to die on a gurney) he’d wrestled with night terrors and his own slew of inner demons.

He detested how vulnerable it made him feel, and on more than one occasion, he’d woken up out of breath and clutching helplessly at the air as he struggled to root himself in reality.

The panic would always pass, but in those brief moments where he was lost between the waking world and sleep, everything felt real—as if scalpels were digging into his organs, as if his chest was being carved open like a pumpkin during goddamn Halloween.

• POINT OF VIEW: 3rd Person 
• Genre: Slice-of-life, romance, fluff
• Note: Characters belong to saintlapin
• This is an excerpt from the commission Wintertime Woes 

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If anyone else had said the same thing, Baptiste would have scowled.

But he couldn’t, not at her. Étude was, to put it lightly, his compass. She gave him a direction and fished him out of the depths of despair when he felt like he was drowning. She had shown him kindness and patience, much more than he felt he deserved.

Étude was…

Baptiste always had a way with the written word. In fact, he used to be known for eliciting emotions with both his songs and lyrics. But when it came to Étude, he didn’t know how to describe the way he felt for her - all he knew was that she made him feel seen and appreciated, and vulnerable in a way that wasn’t bad. She made him feel as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of butterflies, but it wasn’t a feeling he hated.

Baptiste was unsure about many things in his life, but he was sure of one thing, he wanted to make Étude happy.

“What?” Etude was smiling at him. “Cat got your tongue, mon loup? Don’t you want your nails to look as pretty as mine?” Daintily, she lifted a hand to show him her work. Her nails were a light purple with delicate streaks of yellow added in to represent shooting stars across the sky.

“Fine, for you.” Baptiste’s answer might have seemed terse to an outsider, but the moment he sat down on the floor beside her, his shoulders slackened and his perpetual frown turned into something gentler. He was at peace when he was with her and he loved her for it.

Oh no. 

Love. The word was foreign and out of the equation for someone like him. His more cynical side told him that Étude was too good for him, that he’d only weigh her down if something more than a friendship blossomed. Yet, another part of him wanted more.

He deserved to be happy too didn’t he? He deserved something more than strife and self-pity.

Baptiste’s eyes clouded over as he fought away the strange storm of emotions he felt in his chest. Étude was good at making him feel things he usually didn’t, and he didn’t know if he was terrified or thrilled. Ever since she appeared, he felt alive, more than he had in years.

Étude took him by the hand and it was nice. He didn’t crave human contact until she came waltzing in, and now a part of him wanted to just hold her hand. It made him sad that he couldn’t, not while she was painting his nails at least.

“You’re so serious, mon loup,” Etude’s voice was soft and exuded a quiet sort of concern.

“Hah, I’m always quiet.” It was an attempt to be cheeky and lessen the strange feeling he felt in his chest. “Haven’t you gotten used to it yet, ma belle?”

“I know when something’s on your mind, you can’t fool me.”

And she was right, Étude could read him like an open book. At first, the idea of someone delving deeper into his head upset Baptiste. Now though, it was comforting to know that someone understood - that he didn’t have to explain himself when the weight of the world felt exceptionally heavy on his shoulders.

“Come on, out with it, Baptiste.”

He really wanted to kiss her.

Perhaps he would regret it, but he already regretted so many things in life. What was there to lose really? Slowly, as Etude ran the cool brush over his nails, Baptiste shifted in place. His movements were stiff and awkward, but there was a rare glint of decisiveness in his eyes.

“Baptiste?”

He didn’t wait a second longer. Carefully, he leaned over and gave Etude a chaste kiss on the cheek. It was the kind of kiss young boys gave to their childhood crushes beneath the shadow of the playground slide, but Baptiste’s heart thudded in his chest all the same.

“Thank you,” his voice was soft and strained. “For everything.”

Nothing else needed to be said.