#viper-seven

[luninosity]

Also, you should really see the discussion I’m having  with @viper-seven about the shapeshifter!kitten!Seb and white witch!Chris unwritten sequel, in which the warlock who’d once captured Seb is mysteriously found dead, and Sebastian’s the prime suspect...

[carpebucky]

@viper-seven if you ever came to San Diego I'd let u crash at my place too ❤️

[spacebuck]

@viper-seven replied to your post “alrightalrightalrightalright”

ALL OF THESE asdghdfjfgkhkghk <333

:DDDDD i’m very excited

[spacebuck]

@viper-seven replied to your post “@ ppl who are saying my t’chalcon post is “great apart from the...”

OMFG

like fam .... i’m not sure what to tell u ..... u probably followed the wrong blog my guy

[gay-zing]

@viper-seven listen im not gonna call myself anything that reminds me of this shit bcz once its been addressed i intend on forgetting it ever existed (ง  •̀_•́)ง

[luninosity]

if you thought I was joking when I said I'll bug you until you shared those amazing magical!sex headcanons with the general public, this is your friendly reminder that I absolutely wasn't

See, everyone? See why so much of what I write is @viper-seven‘s fault? <33

Okay, so, I’ve been told to share, so as per our conversation…

ALSO FUCKING TUMBLR ATE THIS POST THIS FIRST TIME I TYPED IT OUT I AM SO ANGRY BUT ANYWAY LET ME TRY TO RECONSTRUCT IT…

About the were-kitten Seb  and witch Chris fic:

–Chris’s suggestion about spanking totally happens. With those magical hands. Strength, heat, electricity…sensation…Sebastian thoroughly enjoys being a brat.

–imagine Chris’s fingers - or a hand, if you like - inside Seb. Right there. That spot. Imagine tiny magic crackles, over and over, right there, ceaselessly…

–imagine this happening just after Seb’s shifted shapes, while he’s extra-sensitive and tingling with sensation

–also Seb definitely enjoys leaping up onto Chris’s lap and THEN transforming, so that Chris ends up with a lapful of naked fizzy-with-sensation Sebastian

ALSO have some non-magical-sex-related head-canon:

–Sebastian does need to go home and hug his mother and breathe deeply for a while, but he also can’t stay away from Chris for long, so he comes back after about a week, and they meet in the doorway and start kissing and don’t even make it to the bedroom (again)

–Sebastian, rather to his own surprise, is actually really good with Chris’s clients, especially when in cat-form; he can be a sort of therapy-cat for kids or nervous visitors

–Chris worries a bit about using Seb for power, especially in light of what he’s been through; Seb rolls eyes and says, “I offered, witch, I love you.”

–Chris does panic, though, the time that…something big happens, like, oh, a major fire attacking a house on their street, and he’s leaning on Seb’s strength to get people out and so on, and after everyone’s a hundred percent safe, Sebastian quietly collapses in a corner, no fuss, not even a sound; Chris is absolutely sure he’s just killed his beloved kitten, and Sebastian wakes up a minute later and is very confused to find Chris sobbing over him and begging him to wake up, he’s so sorry, he’ll never use Seb’s magic again…

–of course they do, though, slowly and carefully; Chris fusses, but Sebastian just sighs and curls up in Chris’s lap and purrs if he’s a cat or works on another short story if he’s human, and they help people, and life is good. :-)

[luninosity]

Okay! The adventures of were-kitten Sebastian and white witch Chris (and Chris’s magic hands) are up on AO3 now! Contains a lot of hurt/comfort (after seb’s escape from prior captivity), kitten!Seb, modern-day magic, and porn with emotions!

Read at AO3 here! Teaser below.

##

He’s not certain who Chris is calling, but it doesn’t matter. Choices: down to pretty much one. Chris says, “Hey, Scott? I know you know more coven gossip than I do, yeah I admitted that, yes I know you’re never gonna let me forget saying you know more about anything, but shut up about it for now, listen, have you heard about anyone missing a—” and proceeds to wander around the living room, out to the kitchen, around the sofa: Chris Evans paces when he talks, Sebastian observes. In motion. Like the rain: constantly pouring, chattering, drenching the world in cool silken patter. Chris meanders back to the kitchen again. Sebastian gathers kitten-legs, and bolts. Soundless. Down the hall to the open door which leads to—he’s guessing but he’s right—Chris’s bedroom.

Chris’s bedroom’s a mess, in the way created by someone raised with good tidiness habits but single thirty-something male artist tendencies. Navy-plaid sheets dangle from a half-made bed; some socks and a pair of jeans haven’t made their way fully into the hamper; a stack of books has overflowed from the nightstand to the floor; but on the whole, not bad. Sebastian notices the authors. Tolle, Hawking, Kerouac. Neil deGrasse Tyson. Chris likes space exploration and philosophy and the outdoors. Something tugs at his heart, unfamiliar and fond. Trading shapes feels like the combination of a full-body sneeze and the exhilaration of an intense brief workout and the release right after a good orgasm: he’s never been able to properly describe it. A ripple and a switch and a snap into another shape that feels right, and a quick shudder of pleasure as sensations ebb and spill and rush in. He moans in ecstasy, but only quietly. He’s in a hurry. He’s decidedly naked. Chris is an inch or so taller and a tiny bit broader in the shoulders but not much. Sebastian grabs a soft-looking long-sleeved blue shirt—sensation does matter; he’s disconcertingly sensitive everywhere for about an hour after shapeshifting either direction—and manages to discover clean boxer-briefs in the top drawer, but apparently Chris owns no clean pants or keeps them somewhere else, and he’s not going to rummage through all of Chris’s clothes, and he’s running out of time. Fuck it. He can seduce Chris if he needs to. Then he can stay here, at least for tonight, safe behind these intricately built artistic wards. He throws on the shirt, nearly trips himself pulling on boxer-briefs—heather-grey and simple, bought by someone who likes comfort and a lack of bulky fabric but isn’t dressing to show off, and Sebastian briefly misses his one-time collection of decadent scarlet and sapphire and ivory scraps—and rumples up his hair and checks himself in the tall freestanding mirror. Long bare legs, bare feet, shirt with marginally too-long sleeves over underwear, big eyes, slightly cold. Harmless. Not any kind of threat. Hopefully appealing to Chris’s kindness. Maybe appealing to Chris’s interest, assuming Chris likes guys. Sebastian’s been known to coax a few supposedly straight warlocks and witches across that line, too. He runs out of Chris’s bedroom and down the hall right as Chris bends back up from quizzically peering under the coffee table. Chris turns. Lightning flashes dramatically outside. Sebastian strikes a nonchalant kitten-pose, leaning against the wall, framed by Chris’s hallway, playing up coltish legs and sweetness. “Hi,” he says. “For the record, not Oliver. Berlioz might work. I like musicians. But it’s Sebastian, actually, so, yes, hi.” “Um,” Chris says into the speaker, “Scott, I’m gonna…call you back…” and drops his phone, thankfully on the couch and not the floorboards. “I’m sorry I ate all your pastrami,” Sebastian offers helpfully. “What the fuck,” Chris says. “And I borrowed your clothes. I don’t have any. And I’m a little cold.” Chris stares at him. Makes an absentminded gesture. The room gets warmer. “Thank you.” “No problem…that was you. Fixing my headache.” “Yes. I thought—you were so kind and I—” He fumbles, slips over words, finds himself at a loss. He’s better than this, he’s good at being precocious and charming, dammit. Somehow he can’t be anything other than honest. “I wanted to help.” “You’re a…you actually are a…you’re not just a…” “Not an enchanted familiar, or a witch who fucked up a temporary borrowing spell and got stuck? No and no.” “Wait.” Chris has carried on staring at him. “I know you.” “No you don’t.” As much as he wants that, and doesn’t want that: twin arrows of mortification and excitement thump goldenly into his heart. “You wouldn’t.” He hasn’t slept with Chris Evans, has he? No. No, he’d remember. He’s ninety-nine percent confident about this. “I totally fuckin’ do. I mean, we never formally met. But you were at the last…no, not the last coven gathering, the one before that…you’re Sebastian Stan.” Chris is blushing furiously. “You, um…you were a little bit, okay, a lot drunk and kinda…preoccupied with the warlock twins…and their hands…I knew you were one of the only natural therianthropes around, of course, and I’d heard…” “Whatever you heard was likely true. By the way, I was at the last gathering too. You just didn’t recognize me.” “Cat-form,” Chris says, catching up. “Right. But…what happened? There were rumors, there’re always rumors, and people said they’d seen you, but no one ever knew for sure…some people thought you just got tired of everyone using you and said fuck it and quit going out, and some people said you ran off with a billionaire Italian sorcerer, and some people even said you’d let someone use you up, bleed you dry, and you were dead, and I thought, no, that couldn’t be right…” “I rather like the billionaire Italian sorcerer one. Which one did you like?” He doesn’t know why he wants to know so badly. But he does. Standing in Chris Evans’ living room, they gaze at each other. The moment extends, tremulous and newborn and poised amid all sorts of possibilities. Sebastian shivers. Again. Because his legs’re naked and his skin’s prickling from the storm and even the softness of Chris’s shirt combined with the hardness of the wall is making his body wobble, processing through aftermath. “Oh, fuck,” Chris says, grabbing a blanket, running over. In motion again. Instinctive. Running to help. “Are you all right? Jesus, come here, sit down, I can—I don’t know anything about what you need—would, like, tea or something be—or food—or sugar, I might have orange juice—” “I’m fine, it’s only the reaction, everything’s sort of magnified for a while—” “—god, and I keep it cold in here.” Chris grabs a pen. Scribbles. The fireplace leaps to roaring life. Chris shakes out fingertips; sparks scatter. “Better?” “Was that regular ink? You used your own power? Not anything pre-infused?” “You’re cold!” “Well, yes, but I could’ve waited two minutes!” “Maybe I couldn’t!” They gaze at each other some more. Chris is wearing jeans and a vintage-style green-and-blue plaid shirt—he must like plaid and blue, Sebastian concludes—and looks like the definition of cuddly, which Sebastian knows for a fact to be true, having been on that lap earlier. Chris Evans is blushing more, being looked at. They sit on the sofa together under the clamor of ceaseless rain and start and stop sentences at the same time, awkward; Chris laughs and glances away, and Sebastian breathes out and tugs his blanket more closely around himself and says, “You first.” “What did happen?” Chris asks, tone cautious as if comprehending potential minefields. “If you want.” “Short version, I got impressively drunk at a party, slept with the most wrong person in the history of ever, and woke up naked, sore, hungover, and wearing a warlock’s collar.” He waves a hand. Maybe they can move past this quickly. “So that’s my last eight months. How was yours?” “You were wearing a collar.” Trust Chris Evans to jump right past the preamble and to the spot that hurts the most, a dull throb of cold fright even now. “Compulsion, binding-spells—are you in danger? Are you hurt?”

[relenafanel]

viper-seven replied to your post “So a fic where Steve owns a tattoo parlor named PUNK and Bucky has a...”

I might accidentally spill it out if someone writes the thing though

yes it’s such a magical secret that i bow to your secret abilities

to click into the stucky fic idea tag that I should be better about using.