#been feeling like a mangy dog lately

[cultspawn]

After all is said and done, you’re just a carnivore.

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

• Cowboy!Steve Harrington x Reader •

• Old West AU •

Summary: You’re a prostitute in a small 1800’s Western town. It’s terribly hot, and ‘business,’ is as dry as the weather. So far, the most interesting part of your day has been the unfortunate discovery of a hole in your boot. But the arrival of a handsome stranger in town shakes things up considerably…and leaves an impression on you that won’t be forgotten anytime soon…

🥀 PART ONE

You sit down heavily on the saloon porch, pushing back sticky strands of hair from your forehead. The heat is sweltering, unseasonably warm for late Spring. Your eyes sweep over the dusty street, assessing the men passing in front of you. Your goal is to make eye contact, and hold it long enough to lure them closer…to notice the way you extend your leg, letting some skin peek out from under your gown, ‘just for them.’ It’s subtle enough that the sheriff can’t accuse you of lewd and unlawful behavior, but suggestive enough to remind the men in town what you have to offer. These men are your potential clients, after all, and it’s never too early to give them a bit of a show.

A hot wind whistles through the buildings lining the road, wooden beams creaking above you. Despite your best efforts at wooing townsmen into the saloon, the street seems to have cleared itself of people. A mangy stray dog picks at a bone outside the inn across the street. A few tumbleweeds roll past you. The breeze kicks bits of dirt onto your boots, and to your dismay, you realize there’s a hole in your right shoe.

You remove it and inspect the damage, running your finger along the tear. The sound of hooves thrumming against the ground grabs your interest. A man approaches on horse, his frame a dark sillouhette against the sun. As he moves closer, you begin to make out his features. He’s handsome, this stranger. You haven’t seen anyone like him in town; you’re sure of it. Having become familiar with the faces (and cocks) of most men in town, you’d have remembered his, if you’d seen him before.

He guides his horse to a stop in front of the saloon, dark hazel eyes raking over you, an approving grin turning his lips. He swings a leg over the saddle, dismounting his horse, securing it to a post with rope. There’s an intensity in his presence you can’t define. He comes across as intimidating, yet down to earth at the same time. You find yourself feeling uncharacteristically shy, bashfully glancing down to avoid his gaze.

“Somethin’ on the ground caught your eye, darlin’?” he asks, through a sleepy Texas drawl. You smile up at the stranger, taking in his handsome features. Chestnut hair lays in a slight wave, tapering at the nape of his neck. His nose and jawline are well defined, sharp in just the right places and soft where they need to be. His hands rest on his hips as he observes you from beneath the brim of a tan cowboy hat.

He points a slender finger at the damaged boot in your hand. “Looks like that boot of yours needs mendin’ ,” he comments. Your cheeks go red, feeling silly for sitting there with a shoe in your hand and your bare, dusty foot on display from under your petticoat.

He senses your embarrassment, and finds it adorable. “Y’don’t have to be nervous, darlin,” he teases. “I don’t bite.” The stranger winks down at you. “Not much, anyway…”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds “Your Ma teach you not to talk to strangers? Well that’s easily fixed, I reckon.” He tips the brim of his hat towards you in a gentlemanly gesture. “Name’s Steve,” he says. “There. Not a stranger anymore. And you are?”

“(Y/N),” you reply, shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Steve shakes his head. “No ma’am,” he replies. “Just passin’ through on my way to the coast. There’s gold out there, I’ve heard.”

You’ve heard similarly, from countless other men spending a single night in town on their way out west. Men who all share the same goal, of reaching California and finding their fortune there. Despite meeting and sleeping with so many men like Steve, there’s something different about him. He’s obviously incredibly attractive; but good looks aside, you feel a sincerity from him that seems…genuine. It will be your pleasure to help this traveler relax and unwind, to allow him the use of your body in exchange for a small fee.

“Are you thirsty, cowboy?” you ask. Steve nods his head, “Yes ma’am,” and follows your lead through the saloon doors, removing his hat as he walks inside. You move toward the bar to fetch Steve a drink. He doesn’t miss the way your ass rubs slightly against his thigh as you slide behind the bar, reaching for a glass. “Whiskey,” Steve says. “And I won’t be needin’ a glass, sweetheart.” He places more than enough money for a shot on the bar, explaining “I’ll take the whole bottle. And the rest is for the uh…” The devilish grin he flashes has you feeling weak. “…For the other services I’m assuming this establishment provides…?”

Steve leans over the bar, watching you reach for a tall brown bottle on the top shelf. His eyes drink in the shape of your body in the dress you’re wearing, the way it clings to the curve of your hips. You turn to face Steve, handing the whiskey over to him; but he stops you. “Just bring the bottle with us, darlin,” Steve says. “You seem like the type who can handle her whiskey-.” He flashes that devastating grin at you once more. “-Among other things…”

🥀 PART TWO

In an upstairs room, the one you use to service clients, Steve is sprawled back on your bed, stripped to his jeans. He’s watching you undress, the way your fingers tease the front laces of your gown undone. He strokes the raised outline of his cock through his jeans, the wet stain of precum darkening the denim. Steve clicks his tongue, calling you over to his lap. You’ve seen a hundred different men in this exact same spot; this should be business as usual for you, but it’s not. You want to fuck Steve; he wouldn’t have needed to pay you a single cent.

He threads his fingers through your hair and guides your mouth to his crotch, grinding against your lips. The scent of Steve fills you, a masculine musk of leather, tobacco and sweat. He lifts your chin to his briefly, seizing you tongue between his lips. Steve’s mouth tastes like whiskey and cigarettes; but he’d prefer his tongue taste like you. With his hand on the back of your neck, Steve guides you to the bed. You’ve traded places now, with you on your back and Steve kneeling in between your thighs. His hands disappear beneath your petticoat, groping his way up to the fattest part of your thighs. Here, he pauses to savor the woman he’s about to taste, the way her flushed skin feels inside his hands.

As his fingertips brush feather-soft against your lips, Steve feels how wet you already are. His cock aches to feel that slickness all over it, to fuck the tight little cunt that’s making such a pretty mess for him. He pushes your petticoat and dress up around your waist, holding the fabric back with one hand while leaving the other free to explore you. The sight of your glistening pussy nearly takes Steve’s breath away. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a prettier one; labia plump with arousal and slippery with cum, the tiny hole between them that puckers like a kiss every time Steve teases his finger around it.

He looks up from between your thighs, his expression hungry. His eyes hold contact with yours as he sinks his lips over your pussy. You instinctively roll your hips, pushing your cunt into Steve’s mouth. He rocks his head slowly side to side, smearing your cum across his lips. The stubble peppering Steve’s face tickles your pussy like delicate kisses, the soft grit perfect for grinding against. He extends his tongue to dip inside your pussy, letting you fuck yourself with it. You roll your hips in a circular motion, coating Steve’s tongue in your creamy arousal. He feels the contractions begin inside you, the way your moist walls flutter around his tongue as your orgasm begins.

You grip Steve’s hair in your hands, dancing on his mouth as he tastes your release washing over his tongue. After you finish, Steve tosses you back against the bed. He climbs up between your legs and pulls down the waist of his jeans. An impressively thick, ruddy cock and heavy balls hang between Steve’s legs, his wet tip brushing your stomach as he positions himself on top of you. He strokes himself over you a moment, enjoying the way your eyes widen at the sight of his cock standing thick and firm above you. “Don’t be scared, darlin,” Steve murmurs confidently. “It’ll fit; I promise…”

He guides his cock lower, rubbing the plump tip over your clit in circles, making you whimper. Steve chuckles, “Y’want it that bad, do ya?” and slides his tip to your entrance. Spreading you open as he sinks inside you, Steve’s jaw falls slack as the soft, slick walls of your pussy envelop him. He exhales deeply as he fills you up, grunting as your pussy spreads to accommodate him. Steve’s stomach and chest press flush to yours, his coarse body hair tickling your breasts.

You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him even deeper, silently urging Steve to thrust. Instead, he stills his hips and lingers, taking time to explore the texture of your body, to savor the unique feel of your wet velvet hugging his cock. Steve rocks his hips slowly side to side, eyes drifting closed as he basks in the pulpy warmth of your cunt. You need him to thrust, the muscles at your center desperate to be stroked. Wriggling your hips beneath him makes Steve groan, your eyes watering with need as you can’t help but beg. “Please,” you squeak softly, canting your hips up to meet his. “Please fuck me…”

The roguish glimmer in Steve’s eyes is sinful; your pussy clenches around him in response. “What was that, sugar?” he asks, lips curved into a grin. “Couldn’t quite hear you-.” Suddenly, Steve plunges his hips forward in one rough, beautiful thrust. You cry out in a mixture of surprise and pleasure, your fingernails digging crescent shapes into Steve’s back. His breath fans hot against your forehead as he chuckles, teasing you. “D’that feel nice?” he coos, watching your features contort in utter bliss. “Want me to do it again?”

And he does. Once, twice, three times, till he’s drilling your cunt at a brutal pace. Your knees squeeze around Steve’s sides, bearing down as he belts your pussy in a way you’ve never had. The sunlight is starting to fade, thinning the light in the room through a small window. It casts amber on your body and Steve’s as they rut together, two shadows blending into one on the wall behind you. His hands prowl up and down your body, groping the fat of your hips like he’s committing them to memory. Your nipples stiffen against Steve’s palms as he kneads your breasts, manipulating the supple flesh in his hands like dough. He burrows his lips in the curve of your shoulder, sucking light bruises up your neck and finding your lips. The muscles at your center pulse and flutter around Steve, your cunt thirsty for his release. He whimpers against your lips, his painfully-hard cock throbbing as your pussy milks him for every drop he’s worth.

Steve grips you by the hair and tugs your head backward, sweat and spit landing on your face as he watches your features contort in ecstasy, another climax overtaking you. Your whole body convulses beneath his, a heat blooming between your bodies at the place they’re connected, radiating from you to Steve. His lips crash over yours, the taste of whiskey long forgotten, replaced by the headier drug of sex. Steve growls into your mouth, a primal sound of dominance, claiming you. The rhythm of his hips becomes messy, frenetic, as Steve’s orgasm consumes him. His thrusts falter, his body stilling inside yours as his cock pulses streams of semen against your walls. Steve’s seed is warm and abundant, squishing audibly inside your pussy. He’s fucked you so well, every nerve inside you is teeming, buzzing; you can feel Steve’s cum gurgling inside you, a warm, contended hum radiating up to your womb…

🥀 PART THREE

Crickets sing outside your window, moonlight cascading into the room. You watch Steve wetting his hands in a basin under the mirror, splashing water over his face, pulling it through his hair. He’ll be leaving soon, and unlike most of the men you provide services for, you know you’ll miss Steve.

He turns toward you, that damned gorgeous smile on his face even more disarming when he’s naked from the waist up. “Gonna miss me, darlin?” he asks, as if reading your mind. He lifts the whiskey bottle from the dresser and brings it to the bed where you’re still reclining. Swirling the remaining liquid, Steve asks if you’d like to share the last drink. He glances at the window. “Here’s to finding my riches out there-” Steve says, raising the bottle in a toast. His voice softens, his eyes on you. “-And to the riches I leave behind…”

You swallow, a lump of emotion in your throat you’re not accustomed to feeling. Steve puts the bottle to his lips, taking a large sip and holding the liquid on his tongue. His hand finds the back of your neck, guiding you into a kiss. Parting his lips, Steve shares the last of the whiskey between his mouth and yours, a gesture so intimate, you feel your body respond to him again. Steve releases your neck, stroking your hair before rising from the bed. He pulls on his shirt and vest, buckling his belt and holstering his gun. Steve removes more cash from his pocket and places it on the dresser. “Buy somethin’ to remember me by,” he says with a wink, tipping his hat before turning for the stairs.

As the sound of Steve’s footsteps fade, you move to the window to watch him leave. He unties and mounts his horse. Steve rubs the horse’s mane and takes hold of the reigns, before glancing one last time up at the window. He smiles when he sees you; Steve was hoping you’d be there, to see him off. He clicks his tongue and presses a heel against the horse’s side, encouraging it to move. You watch Steve ride down the dusty, deserted street that leads out of town, listening to the sound of his horse’s hooves till they’ve disappeared. You know that with every horse you hear from now on, you’ll wonder if it’s Steve’s. And you’ll never stop hoping that it is. 🥀

[entomolog-t]

INSTAЯ (1)

Kicking off promptober a day late with some new OCs for the prompt Stranger! This is going to be an ongoing series for promptober along with some content of my other OCs 💕

Just a fair warning, this chapter in particular is more horror oriented, while the series itself will be more sci-fi focused in nature. The content warnings are not extreme, but be wary of you're sensitive to any of the topics.

- - - -

Next Chapter: Chapter 2

Word count: 2856

CW: Gore (Blood/viscera, mild body horror) Mentions of firearms, Adult language,

There was someone outside.

The sight of a figure standing in the distance at the edge of my yard made the blood drain from my face. There was a creeping sense of unease that washed over me as I eyed them from the window. What was someone doing out here? The next house was over a kilometer away… just who the Hell was that?? 

I squinted, unable to discern anything other than a vaguely human silhouette near the treeline.

Was someone lost? Maybe a drunk kid stumbled away from a barn party or something? 

A voice at the back of my mind whispered far worse alternatives.

What if they’re here on purpose?

The figure wobbled forwards, just beyond the reach of the porch lights. I felt as the growing sense of unease only worsened. Their gate was lurching and awkward- as if stumbling and catching their fall. 

Had they been in an accident? Oh God, what if they’re hurt?? That paranoid voice in the back of my head interjected, cold and logical, What if they want to hurt you? It’s the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere- Lock. The. Doors. 

As if on cue, the motion lights lit up, casting an artificial glow over the expanse of their yard- the light just barely reaching the … the… what the fuck was that?

Unease turned to horror, and my feet turned to lead. 

Very little of the light had reached the figure, its body still obscured by shadow- but the light had reached its eyes; it reflected off them.

All six of them. 

To my horror, those six eyes turned to look straight at me.

Not human. Oh God, it's not human. 

I stared, unable to pull my eyes from the sight, instinct locking me in place. For a beat we stayed frozen, eyes locked on one another, neither of us moving. I wasn’t sure I was even breathing.

Then it ran.

My heart stopped. It barrelled forwards with jagged motions at wrong angles- its movements far too stiff. I fall back from the window with a choked cry. A singular voice cutting through the panic in my mind.

The door. Lock the door. Get the gun. 

Frantic, I scramble to my feet, legs feeling numb as I sprint toward the door. As I near the door, i hear a muffled sound that chills me to the bone; 

Barking. 

Honey!

For a brief moment my thoughts feel incomprehensible. Panic scrambling any sort of linear path or cohesion before adrenaline urges me to focus- this is fight or flight, and if Honey is outside I could only ever choose fight. 

Hall closet. Get the bat. 

I rip open the closet door, tossing aside coats and clutter to grab the metal “Unwanted Visitors” bat. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest as I hear the barking outside take on an edge- a growl. 

Fuck. 

I needed to move. Not Honey. Oh God, please not Honey. 

My breathing comes too quickly and too shallow, chest shaking with every breath. My hands tremble as I grip the bat, my knuckles white. Despite it all, my mind remains clear- Frantic, but clear. 

Open the door. Get the dog.

I rip the door open, nearly falling back as the… the thing whips its head around to face me. My stomach drops, weighed down by an overwhelming dread; There was no denial. This was no person in a mask, no deformed and mangy coyote- Hell this was no animal born of this earth. There was no conceivable way to placate my mind by rationalizing that this thing was anything but monstrous. 

It’s too many eyes stayed locked on my own, as it loomed motionless on two legs, almost like a man- only a twisted perversion of what a man should be. Even at a distance it was clear this thing was massive, standing taller than my pickup. An armor like shell covered its form- a deep inky black and with an uncanny sheen, akin to spilled gasoline. Flesh and muscle peaked through the gaps in the armor on limbs that were far too long- and horrifically, two too many. It … this thing had six limbs. 

It stood on two legs, malformed as they were - they looked almost prehistoric. Digitigrade, like that of a dog, but clawed. Not clawed like cats or dogs, but taloned like birds- like… dinosaurs. Four arms jutted from its body, with two remaining curled against its chest, while the other pair rose up in front oof them between itself and Honey. 

Its face- God that face! Bile rose in my throat as the wrongness of its visage settled in my mind. Much of its face was smooth, devoid of any visible ears or nose. There were too many eyes. Each pure black, with no indication of where its gaze landed. Antennae, this thing had fucking antennae, jutted forth from its temples behind what looked like horns in an almost demonic appearance.  

Was… was it a Demon?

An Alien??

As my eyes locked onto its mouth, an icy chill coursed through my spine. The sight of its mouth was beyond horrific- Like a twisted version of an insect or a Hellish spider. Grotesque appendages jutting out from the corners of its mouth, keeping the full view of its maw obscured.

That is… until it screamed. 

It was as if its face was being pulled apart, the mouth appendages spreading far wider than humanly possible to reveal a fanged maw. The sound that spilled from the creature could only be described as unholy. A sound that was both a hissing shriek and a deep bellow echoed through the night, broken and cracking as the howl died in the creature's throat- almost as if it was not meant to be making sound. The silence that followed was deafening. Something stirred in the back of my mind, as if awoken by the creature’s wail- a primal fear, the sensation a mix of desperation and foreboding. It was as if my mind fought against the sight before me, so desperately wishing to unsee something that went against my own established reality. The uncanny wrongness of the creature filled me with a nearly indescribable sense of unease- the primordial fear of the unknown.  

Honey growled. A low warning growl spilled past barred teeth. I heard my voice before I’d even realized I’d spoken.

“Honey. Off.”

Honey doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch at my voice as she refuses to tear her eyes away from that monstrosity for even a second. I take a step forward.

“Honey. Come!” My voice cracks, the fear bleeding into the plea.

Nothing.

A sickening sinking feeling overtakes me as dread settles in my stomach. Thoughts of that .. that thing wormed into my mind- Those grim claws tearing into Honey, that hideous mouth sinking in to her-

“HEY!” I take the first of the steps down the porch and raise the bat, desperately ignoring the shaking in my legs, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER!” 

The creature’s head snaps toward me in an instant. It takes a step back, raising both sets of arms it had extended between itself and Honey. That horrible mouth opens again, a gruesome croaking sound bleeding forth, like a wet clicking. It sounded forced… it sounded almost… pained. 

I blanch. 

Could it- Did it understand me?

Time felt as though it froze- my eyes locked on the creature's face looking for some sign of recognition, some emotion- anything. Its face split again, mouth opening to make a strained croak before it dropped to its knees, as if a weight had suddenly been dropped on it. It shuddered, catching its weight on two of its four arms as it collapsed forward. 

Was it hurt? 

Slowly I move forward down the steps. A sickening smell fills the air. Hot and meaty, like a gutted animal- the smell of ruptured innards. I gag- the smell of roadkill.  In the cool of the night, I watch in terrible fascination as steam rolls off the creature in billowing waves. 

To my relief, Honey takes a step back, ears pulling back flat against her head as she whines in concern. Something was happening, and I did not care to find out what that was. 

The creature shrieks. The sound makes my blood run cold. Raw, and wet, it sounded like two voices screaming in tandem; A cougar's yowl cutting through a bison’s bellow. A sickening crunch cuts the scream short. 

“Honey.” My own voice feels hollow, I barely feel her name form in my mouth as I speak it. “Inside.” She hesitates, head briefly leaving the creature before turning to me. Honey finally relents, tearing off behind me and into the house. Yet the relief that washes over me seems to wash away my nerve as well. My legs feel weak under the weight of my body- plated far too firmly in the ground as if literally and metaphorically petrified- cemented in place by fear. 

Panic swells in my mind, as my heart thunders against my chest. Fuck, fuck fuck. I needed to get to the door? How fast was this thing? Would it try to get inside? Did I have any bullets left? What if- 

No. 

Focus. 

Get inside. 

With no small effort, I will my feet to move. I refuse to take my eyes off that fucking abomination as I take a step back. Its head shoots up, gaze locking onto me. Instinct throws logic to the wind, my brain screaming a single command-

RUN.

I turn to obey, but not before I see it lunge forward, rushing at me as I try to get away. In a split second decision I pivot, swinging the bat with enough adrenaline powered force I was certain I could drop a bear. 

A sickening crunch follows as I make contact. 

To my horror, the noise hadn’t came from me downing the creature, but instead the metal bat crumpling in its grasp. 

I step back, releasing the bat. For a moment, both of us seem frozen in time- each staring at the bat, malformed in its grasp. Some unknowable emotion crosses its face. Its antennae stand straight, and the gruesome oral appendages twitch rapidly. 

I take another step back. 

The thing looks from the bat to me, its horrific mouth opening and closing with a stuttered chittering noise. I take a step back. It hesitates, looking from the bat to me and back again to the bat. Another step, and another, and another. My eyes stay locked on its form, refusing to turn my back to that thing again.

It crumpled my bat… my metal bat... It caught it mid swing… with ease. My brain seemed to struggle for a moment, as if resisting against what I’d just witnessed. I swallowed a lump that formed in my throat. This thing was fast, and horrifically strong. 

Get inside. 

I want to laugh at the thought. Tears sting at my eyes, and dread wells in my gut. What good would being inside do to stop something that crumpled a bat with ease?? The barrier of the door would be just as effective as a blanket over a child's feet at night- only good for placating the mind. 

I take another step back and feel the bottom step of the porch steps press into my calf. 

Almost there. Get inside. Lock the door. Get the gun. 

I back up the steps, my steps slow as if any sudden movement would prompt it to rush at me. The wood groans under my weight and the creature's head snaps up as if broken out of a trance, bat clattering to the ground. It follows, though it doesn’t rush at me. Instead its movements are slow- like a predator stalking its prey. 

My steps quicken, but my eyes stay locked on the multitude of its own. It matches my pace, clearing the porch steps in a single stride as I back through the door frame. It closes more distance. My mind is screaming- begging me to shut the door, but something much louder and much more ancient bucks against my reason- commanding me to keep distancing myself from it. 

I step back. 

It follows. 

The creature ducks under the doorframe- a hideous and gruesome sight as its massive frame steps into the light. Brutal looking spikes jut out from its shelled exterior, the oily sheen on its segmented armored shell prismatic in the light. Something too fleshy writhes between the gaps, twisting and straining with each motion. It raises a single arm toward me, three brutally clawed fingers, long and unnaturally jointed grasping for me. 

Then, without warning, it crumbles. 

Both figuratively and literally, the creature falls apart. A chunk of its shelled armor falls from its extended arm- a foul viscous ooze dripping from the bare spot. It shudders, a soft gurgling cry slipping out from behind its insectoid mouth. 

It takes a step, wobbling under its own weight before dropping to a knee. One hand reaches to cover its mouth, while the other strings against its thigh, trying to heave itself back to standing. 

It stumbles. More chunks of its exterior fall from its frame. Its raises its head towards me. Despite all reason, the emotion on its face seems all too clear. 

Fear. 

Despair. 

Pleading. 

I choke back tears. What the fuck was happening?

It chitters- sounding almost frantic. In the light of the entryway I can see its mouth more clearly. The way its face splits open, the horrific width of its maw, the way its teeth look more like talons than actual teeth. 

I watch in horror as it begins to heave- dropping to its hands and knees its back arches- more pieces of itself cracking off under the sudden movement. A foul hot liquid spills from its mouth, the creature gagging and jerking as it throws up something thick and…red.  

Blood. 

Was it this thing's blood? My thoughts are drawn back to the strange ooze under its shelled exterior…No…Was this someone else’s blood? Had it-

It heaves again, chunks of tissue and viscera seemingly answering my unspoken question.

I can’t feel my breaths as they pass my lips, but I can feel the way my chest heaves- how hard it contracts, each breath shallow and forced. 

Get away NOW. 

I stumble back. Head swiveling around while it's distracted. Fragmented thoughts coming and going in a frenzy as I feel fear and logic scramble for some sort of plan.

Run. Hide. Kitchen. Garage. Knife. Gun. Phone. Honey.

Honey.

My eyes fall on Honey, standing stiff in the hallway. Her ears pulled back, expression wary as her head looks from me to the thing in the entryway. Without a second thought I rush towards her, grabbing her by the collar and stumbling to the bedroom. The slam of the door behind us seems to break whatever mental dam I had built  in my panic. Hot tears spill down my face as realization dawns on me. 

Trapped…I’d trapped us both. 

The gun was in the garage. I felt a sob escape my lips. The truck keys- in the kitchen beside my phone. 

I shook my head, trying to free myself from the despair pulling on my mind. I had to do something. I refused to sit and wait for that… that … thing to burst through the door. My eyes fell to the dresser, calling forth memories of yelling at Clyde for scratching the hardwood floor as we struggled to move it from the guest room to my own. It was heavy. 

Ramming my shoulder into the side of it, I shoved it in front of the door, the dresser groaning in progress as its legs scraped the once pristine hardwood. My own legs shook. My hands shook. Everything shook. Trembling turned to near convulsions as my back slid against the dresser, knees giving out beneath me. I eyed my bed, considering shoving it against the door as well, but the thought of getting up for a second and leaving the door undefended was too much. 

Crouched against the barricade, I could hardly breathe. The stench of rot choked the air, mixing with the vile sounds of retching that echoed down the hall. I pulled Honey close, clinging to her like a child clutching a treasured stuffed animal. Her tail flopped lazily, like the fearless idiot she was. This couldn’t be real. I was having a break. This was… a prank. A nightmare. This was anything but reality. It couldn’t be- I knew better. This was real. 

I felt my sanity teetering on the edge. Outside the barricaded door, the shuffling and scratching grew, though I couldn’t tell if the creature was moving closer or if my ears were just adjusting to the unnatural silence around me. 

More retching. 

More chittering

Sounds of something heavy falling to the ground. 

Wailing. 

Horrific screeches. 

The sound of a heavy impact rattling the walls. 

My hands flew to my ears, eyes squeezing shut as I begged reality itself to make it stop-

And … it did.

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

The first Christmas “without,” Pt. 1

Hey now, traditionally Christmas was still celebrated until Candlemas, which is February 2nd. Just doing my part to keep the season bright with my lateness!

When - 35ish minutes after A fu---n’ great Christmas. It takes place in between season 2 and 3. That means heck yes, we’re doing a time skip after souls stripped bare

What - the first major holiday without loved ones is hard. The first major holiday without loved ones because one of your loved ones was killed by another loved one is somewhat harder. (for those who are newer Slowpokes, Shane was your older brother. Remember, he was at most your half-brother by blood. Imagine yourself as you are!)

**Note that some plot points haven’t actually been published yet, they are  merely discussed or alluded to because the series is non linear**  

Relationships - slow burn Daryl x Reader always, but this chapter’s Part 1 is focused on the found-family aspect of the TWD, specifically platonic Glenn x Reader. Part 2 will be focused on familial Rick x Reader. You’re still snuggled in the mangy hick’s poncho and wishing he didn’t smell so good, though

Perspective - 2nd person You

Pronouns? - ain’t even needed, y’all, but in Part 2 they/them

TWs? - discussion of respiratory percussion, some foul language, crying, discussion of grieving, and you and Glenn being nerds and quoting LOTR.

Word count - normal, but if you wait for Part 2 (arriving tomorrow), set aside some downtime and get comfy and snuggly in something cozy, dare I say a poncho, perhaps?

What stories to read or reread - “All of them!” the author cackles A fu--in’ great Christmas, The Chicken Swim, Too much thinking before bed, Part 2 and Ain’t nothin... are the ones most pertinent to this chapter.

Check out the Masterlist if you’d like to read all about your Slowpoke self :)

35ish minutes later

Glenn calls out “Time!” and promptly hoists Hershel back up and onto the bench. He starts smacking the pillow the way you’d just been smacking the poor man’s back, then places it behind Hershel so he can relax. “There we go.”

“Thank you, son,” he coughs out. You’re worried that him getting the night off last night in honor of Christmas Eve was the wrong choice, but that’s by the by.

And it should be noted that postural positioning with gentle respiratory percussion isn’t quite ‘smacking’ in the usual sense of the word and isn’t violent in the least, but you still sort of want to cry every time you do it to him.

The last position requires Mr. Greene to angle face-downward with his hips above his lungs; it’s that position that gets people emotional sometimes because y’all achieve this by his laying belly-down with his hips on a couch while the forearms brace against the floor. But you use pillows, and Glenn or T-Dog or Lori or Maggie or Beth or Carol or Rick or you tend to brace him, too.  

Still, it simply feels a little cruel to see a man of his age maintaining such a position, even with support — especially when the whole point is to help him cough, therefore, he ends up coughing a lot.

He’s fully on board, though, you aren’t being a bully, Glenn.  

In fact, perhaps 10 minutes after you and Daryl settled by the fire following you gifting him the nicotine gum and pickles (those gifts sound so weird when you say them out loud, don’t they?), Hershel had made a particularly wet cough. You, of course, straightened up and turned your head like a ’lil prarie dog and watched as he raised his eyebrows as if considering something.

Then, he gestured to the little water department building and said directly to you: “Shall we?”

It was so scary how sick he’d gotten and how quickly he’d become so a few weeks back, good Moses. All you’d wanted for Christmas had been an expectorant (and that elusive peak-flow meter) because you’d been convinced Hershel was gonna develop pneumonia and slowly suffocate to death. There weren't that many nebulizer doses in the tinfoil packet you and Glenn found a few weeks back, so while it was amazing that you could offer Hershel treatment with a nebulizer (by plugging it into the jack of the crank radio and having someone crank away to power it up), it wasn't enough and wasn't the right medicine to thin and expel the mucus from his lungs. What it did was open up his airways via mild steroids.

Not two hours ago, you were gifted with four boxes of the stuff, plus one, beautiful, unopened peak-flow meter that your sweet Carl had found because this year, he wanted to be Santa. That little punk surprised everyone.

The treatments y’all were able to give Mr. Greene before did help a lot, but that medicine is 100% how he’s improved so fast and so much since yesterday.  

Daryl was spot on when he said it was a fuckin’ great Christmas.

Anyway, Hershel found the fact that most of you got so up-in-arms and oft times emotional about the positioning and percussion somewhat amusing. Quote: “You’d think I truly was a small child, the way you’re all coddling me after a simple pulmonary treatment.”

He said all that while darn near hacking up a lung following his second day of the regimen a couple of weeks ago.

Okey dokey, all that’s left of the regimen for now is the deep breathing, and the last set will be done closer to bedtime.

“We are blessed to have found a place like this —” Mr. Greene cuts off to cough several more times. “It may be smaller than that lovely house we had for the past two weeks, of course, but this feels much safer, in my opinion —” He cuts off with more coughing, but you can hear how much mucus is getting kicked out, it’s great!  

Good Moses, the things you get excited about now that you’re taking on the group’s medic role to a more official extent.

“It’s small, but yeah, we could camp out for a while here,” Glenn hopes.

“The water from the reservoir seems clean enough,” Lori agrees, adding honey to the mug of tea she’s heating up on top of the woodstove. She chuckles to herself and mumbles, “We’re living on waterfront property now.”

Cool story about the tea: Glenn found the exact same tea that his family swore by for lung issues at this crunchy, holistic type of hole-in-the-wall market tucked away in a corner plaza in the middle of nowhere in between Clermont, Cleveland, and Dahlonega. It had this cool ingredient(s?) you’d never heard of called pyungang—no, pyung…tang…shoot, you don’t remember. And Glenn had pronounced it so nicely. 

Hershel now swears by it. He’s big into naturopathic stuff, too, very pro-elderberry (if only it wasn’t December, you’d hunt some down for him). He was pleased to discover that you had a few of those plant books. ‘Backyard Medicine’ was on his bookshelf back at the farm, turns out.  

“I’ve just psyched they’ve got a woodstove here, guys, like, that’s insane! The chimney is so tiny, we can keep the fire going all day and night,” Glenn goes on. “No more building a campfire and hoping it’s not wet outside. No toilet here, granted, but…”

Mr. Greene chuckles. “But there is toilet paper. We’ll have to get started on a good, old-fashioned hole. The ground hasn’t yet froze.”

You groan.  

“Here you go, Hershel.” Lori carefully walks over holding the mug of steaming tea handle-side out, using the ends of her scarf as oven mitts.

“Wanna do your deep breathing exercises now while that cools down, Mr. Greene, or later?” you question.

Uh-oh.

Glenn is doing his jaw clench.

“He needs a break, Y/N.”

“Sorry,” you apologize. You know you tend to go big or go home when it comes to medical stuff, and you’re working on toning things down. He does seem a little off today, but Glenn is your strongest ally in terms of reminding you, but one time, okay, this is gonna sound stupid, but he name-called you “Nurse Ratched” one of the first times you two had a genuine argument about Hershel’s treatment and it was such a slap in the face to the extent that you’d accidentally blurted out “fuck you!” in your shock and had a solid two days of being convinced that everybody secretly hated you because you must’ve been a cruel, nasty person, anyway that’s the story of your first real fight with Glenn.  

So, you defend your question as delicately as you can when you start to reexplain how “All them pulmonary exercises build on one other —”

“— So wouldn’t it be better to wait a few hours so he’s better able to do them?”

Lori places her hand on your elbow and softly voices to the two of you, “It’s up to Hershel.”  

“Seems Lori is still the only one in here with sense,” the man himself grumbles.

Neither you nor your best friend heed any of that.

“After a few hours, a whole ’nother set of all the exercises would need doing, Glenn.”

“Y/N, you’re going too hard on him,” he warns, “that could make him worse.”

“Might could make him tired, sure, but I’m not goin’ too hard — he would speak up if I were. And he had the night off yesterday!”

“Coughing too much can break someone’s ribs, man, he’s old! Too much exertion could, like, give him a heart attack!” He quickly adds, “No offense, Hershel!”

“He ain’t that decrepit yet, Glenn!” You quickly add, “No offense, Mr. Greene!”

“If I, the old but not-quite-yet decrepit patient as well as individual with the most medical training here, may interrupt,” the old but not-that-decrepit-yet Hershel who has the-most-medical-training-here begins with a serious, firm frown at the two of you, “I would like to use my lungs as much —” ohp, and he’s coughing again.  

Lori rubs his back while you and your friend wait like two schoolkids outside the principal’s office.

“Pardon, excuse me.” He clears his throat and continues where he left off. “I would like to use my lungs as much as possible right now, because,” he pauses to look at Glenn in particular, “I don’t know how long until the turkey Y/N and Daryl bought home will be safe to eat, but I do know I intend to enjoy a very large helping or two of it without worrying about a coughing fit emptying the contents of my stomach.”

Oh poop, now you’re welling up.

That happened a few weeks back when you’d first begun the regimen with Hershel. Lesson learned: lung drainage and smacky-smacks should take place either before a meal or well after. Ugh, the poor man had gotten so ill, then he went and coughed so much he couldn’t even keep his tiny meal down…

“You okay?” Glenn whispers.

“M’good.”

“It also is better to let the exercises build upon each other, son, your friend is correct,” Hershel affirms. “Everything’s warmed up, so to say, which makes it the ideal time to continue. The whole purpose, even.”

The door opens and cool air whooshes in.

It’s Maggie, who correctly guesses within a few seconds: “Were they buttin’ heads about you again, Daddy?”

“Only a little. I was referred to as ‘old’ and ‘not that decrepit yet’ this time. But they resisted name-calling each other, so haven’t broken their two-week streak on that yet.”

Back to using those terms likening you and Glenn to schoolchildren, this is the equivalent of the principal calling your grown-ups and telling them you were fighting.

Also, you think you need a nap.

“Allow me to finish scolding these two, sweetheart,” Hershel says to his daughter, coughs twice, then clears his throat.

Looks at you. Here we go… “And Y/N, Glenn was entirely correct in understanding that I do require a break. Doing too much of a good thing can and often does backfire, your shoulder therapy, for example. I know you know this and are working on remembering it.”

He blows lightly on his drink and goes to sip but it’s still too hot. Kinda like how your face feels. “Thus, I am going to sit here, take my time enjoying this very beneficial tea — which will further help my congestion break up — and then, once I’ve finished, I will utilize the new peak-flow meter to do the breathing exercises.”

The door opens again and more cool air whooshes in.

It’s Beth, who almost shuts the door, but first turns around and calls to the group “He’s all done, we can go in!”

After this, yes, she is just as sharp as her sister when she sees you and Glenn.

And you knowwww she doesn’t mean to embarrass the living daylights out of you and him, but as everyone but Rick and Daryl pour into the little building, she innocently guesses: “Daddy, did you scold them about babyin’ you again, going too hard, or about name-callin’ each other this time? Glenn and Y/N look like they just got grounded.”

Was that T-Dog who just snorted?

Hershel seems amused, so you suppose that’s good. “I think it’s remarkable that I have that effect on them. Margaret and Shawn tended to be unperturbed.”

“Mostly Maggie,” his youngest daughter agrees.

“Beth!”

The attention mercifully is now directed at the sisters, so you unplug the mp3 from the crank-radio charging port (poop, only ¼ charged), throw on your new camo scarf and hat, and slip outside.

Carl whispers to you, “You’re taking good care of him.”

You love that kid so much, it hurts.

You give him a peck on his forehead, and before you’re even out the door, you’ve started to fiddle with Shane’s ‘22’ pendant around your neck.

A nap won’t work right now, you’re thinking too much, so you head over to the water to take a quick walk around the small reservoir to shake it off.

When you and Glenn fight, it gets to you. Especially when he’s of the mind that you’re being too hard on Mr. Greene. It frightens you. What if you’re losing your capacity for mercy and compassion like Shane was losing his?

Well, the ground might not be frozen yet, but it sure is nippy out. You snuggle deeper into Daryl’s poncho while you still get to wear it, and try to wish away the stupid, annoying crush you’ve got on your that mangy hick. Why did he always have to be working on bettering himself and smell so darn good to you is all you’re asking.  

From behind, you hear rushed footsteps.

Mid-way through unsheathing your knife and whipping around, you hear, “Hey Y/N.”

You swivel fully, sheathing the knife. “Hiya Glenn.”

“You okay?”

“I’m chill. You okay?”

“I figured we could go on a quick jog.” As he finishes putting his gloves on, he lowers his eyebrows at something on you. “You’ve got the necklace out, are you sure you’re cool?” he hints.

You pause, then sigh. Fiddling with Shane’s old necklace has become something of an unintentional billboard for how you’re feeling. Like how a baby rubbing their eyes a lot is their unintentional signal that they need sleep. Glenn’s worried he’s hurt your feelings or whatever.

“Wanna jog around with me?” he asks.

“Let’s do it. We’ll need go up into the wooded area to get around the far left edge, by the shed and the old boat.”

“There’s a boat? Oh heck yeah, I wanna check that out, c’mon!”

And so, an impromptu run begins (ew). Unusual outfits for it, ordinarily you and him will at least change into sneakers.

He’s thinking the same thing, so you discover, once he cracks up. “Dude, can you imagine seeing people jogging in outfits like this in the before-times?”

You laugh, but it blends in with how heavy you’re already breathing. “How many laps you plannin’ on doing? I’m wasted on cross country.” (Yes, you said that part in the Gimli voice. You couldn’t help it).

But he finishes the quote! “We dwarves are natural sprinters!”

“Very dangerous over short distances.” (Okay, you’re done, you promise.)

Cracking up, he tells you “Just one lap. Wanted to apologize for earlier.”

“So you’re makin’ me exercise?” you play-whine. Move those arms, inhale, exhale, keep that posture upright. Ugh, running is the worst.

Glenn clears his throat. “Wanted to give you a chance to beat me, natural sprinter.”

“Huh?”

“In the race.”

And just like that, he takes off sprinting like—OH, that sneak!  

Go, go, go, go!

“Cheaters never prosper, buttface!” you squeal after him.

“But they win!”

.......................................

     about 18 seconds later

.......................................

The race ended faster than intended when he ran into half of a spiderweb, and you, while razzing him, ran into the other.  

After some wild shaking like y’all were getting electrocuted, as well as repeatedly shouting that you were both fine to the group’s calls of alarm (“Ain’t walkers, we ran into a spiderweb!”) you’re now taking turns brushing each other off and trying not to yelp too loudly whenever you swear there’s one crawling under your clothes.

Speaking of, you grab your scarf, hat, zip-up hoodie, and Daryl’s poncho from where they were unceremoniously strewn about and give them a final shake so you can bundle back up.

“Let’s call it a tie?” Glenn shivers, putting his own coat and gloves back on.

“A tie. And worst-case scenario, we get spider powers.”

“Or gangrene.”

“Glenn,” you giggle. The fear of having spiders nesting in your hair notwithstanding, you’re feeling much better than before. A quick walk to ‘shake things off’ took a very literal turn, you must say.

“Dude, can you, um,” he starts, then stops. Scratches his neck. “Sit with me for a while?”

“Of course.”

In the hopes of avoiding any more spiders, you both hop to a fairly large rock that’s about two feet out on the water from the treeline. It’s a nice spot even thought your butts are gonna freeze on it.

“Y/N? Sorry for picking a fight again.”

“Friends and family fight,” you’re quick to say. “Besides, Mr. Greene is worth it.”

“But I overreacted again, I know I did.” He’s got a stick in his hand, which he’s snapping off tiny piece by tiny piece. “I think T-Dog was right, the day is getting to me, I guess.”

“That thing about the first holiday ‘without?’”

“Yeah.”

A soft, cold breeze rushes through the air and whips up old, dried leaves. Yeah, T-Dog was concerned that the first Christmas without normalcy and loved ones might hit people hard. And because you wear Dale’s watch, Rick wears his, and Hershel has his calendar book, the time and date is something about which your group keeps track. So far, at least.

Speaking of Rick, you notice Daryl and him out on the far side of the small lake. Rick is facing away, to your relief. You just — you don’t want to think about or look at him right now, and you don’t want him to see you, either.

Which isn’t a good sign, you know, because it means you’re sinking into a bad headspace again. Ugh.

...I don’t hate Rick, I don’t hate Rick, I love Rick, he loves me, he is family, he’s not a bad man, you repeat in your head.

Rick still isn’t facing your direction, but Daryl almost is, still filling out Shane’s old coat so nicely.

You give a small wave, and your stomach makes a delicious but very annoying flutter when his hand goes up in return. Is he smiling? you wonder.

The moment passes, and you’re back to fidgeting with the ‘22’ pendant.

“Your baby sister always danced in The Nutcracker this time of year, right, Glenn?” you say to your friend.

That’s when you hear sniffling, and look to see him crying very quietly. Glenn used to go hide to cry. It’s good that he’s comfortable getting his stuff out more openly now.  

The group’s protocol is mainly that when somebody needs a cry, let them get it out without making a big deal.

“I couldn’t stand going to see that dumb ballet, oh my God,” he groans, trying but not really succeeding in not blubbering when he tries speaking. “The plot of that show is just so weird!”

“It is strange.”

He’s gonna need to blow his nose soon. “Last year, I —” he pauses to make a big sniff, “— I had just got back to Michigan, and I snuck in a pocket radio, I —” Again, he cuts off.

He swallows, tugs his hat down, and admits as if he were confessing to murder, “I listened to the Wolverine post-game with earbuds during the show, I w-was such an asshole!”  

“Don’t name-call my best friend,” you murmur.

“And Bri, she snuck in a three pound bag of M&Ms, so we —” he pauses to cry heavier remembering his middle sister. He blows his nose. That he took to carrying a handkerchief like Hershel does is convenient at the moment. “We had a contest to see how many w-we could fit in our mouths.” He laughs for a second as he remembers it, then stares down at his feet dangling off the rock. His tears seem to have slowed.

After a several moments pass and his breaths even out, you ask “How many did you fit?”

“51.”

“And Briana?”

Rubbing his face, he sighs, “49. And Umma got to —” a quick inhaled shudder as he talks about his mom, “— She noticed the candy and made it to like 30 before my baby sister finally got onstage. She l-loved watching her dance, we all stopped what we were doing to watch her.” His tears are back to streaming. “She’d gotten so skilled, Y/N.”

“What was your Dad up to in all this?”

Glenn starts to smile again through his tears. “He would watch ballet like it was a basketball game, so he was eating the M&Ms like popcorn with his eyes glued to the stage. He’d do this whenever one of the students aced a move.” Your friend demonstrates a subtle victory pump with his fist.

He snaps the stick in his hand into smaller and smaller pieces.

Once he’s breathing normally again, you offer, “My eldest sister put The Nutcracker on her mp3. Wanna borrow it for a while?”

First, he blows his nose again with what space on the handkerchief is left, then nods in agreement. “She put everything on there, didn’t she?”

She really did, though. You pull the music player out of your pocket and head to the T section to find ‘Tchaikovsky.’  

“My baby sister was in so many of the dances last year. Ever since she was old enough, she was put in the Chinese dance, obviously,” he grumbles with a slight eye roll. “So last year, she’d practiced and auditioned for the dude’s role. You know, the guy with the hat who comes out of a box and does all the jumping up and down?” Wiping away more tears, he smiles through it and declares, “She kicked ass.”

“Heck yeah, she did.”

“And th-this—” his voice hitches, rises, and he’s back to heavy crying. “This is the first Christmas without, a-and—”

Oh man, he’s holding it back best he can, but it’s rough.

“— I can’t go see that weird, boring show with them anymore! I-I’d pay attention to every dumb plié and be so,” more sobs, “so f-fucking happy to just be with them again, I just wanna see them again! I don’t h-have any photos or-or—” another sob interrupts and he stops trying to speak.

Even with the sobs, still, he’s somehow a very quiet crier.

He lets it all out. You wait with him.

The tink, tink, tink of the pendant rubbing against the chain as you pull and tug, pull and tug your necklace mixes in with the soft sounds of the breeze, what few birds are still chirping, and the occasional hint of conversation from way over around the fire.

After maybe three or so minutes, Glenn’s calm. He tosses the mini bits of broken stick that he snapped into oblivion into the water. “I wanna chuck rocks in here like we did at the douche car.”

“Me, too.”

“Let’s do that in a while, I think I’ll need to sleep for a bit. I’m just thinking too much right now to want to do that.”

True that, too much thinking before bed doesn’t often result in peaceful dreams.

He seems up for a dumb joke, and he’ll get the reference, so when he goes to toss more of his itty bitty stick nubs, you grab a hold of his wrist and hush in your (it’s not good) best Aragorn impression. “Dew not dis-terb the woh-terr.”

It has the intended effect, his neck relaxes and he grins. “When we find a place with a generator, we’re wasting all the power on the TV so we can watch the extended editions. I don’t care what the dick-tator or anybody else says, we find that house with a gennie, we’re watching Lord of the Rings.”

“Maggie almost grabbed the One Ring replica at the GameStop for you for Christmas, actually, but she settled on the Portal book.”

“And after we’ve watched all like, 12 hours of the movies and the special features, we’re gonna find a PS3 watch you play that cowboy game.”

“Yes! I just wanna rescue that guy’s family and ride my horse.”

While you were there with Maggie, you’d grabbed a copy of this new game you’d been excited for, it had just come out like one week before the world started going downhill. You’d barely gotten passed the first few missions when SHTF. (You two also grabbed a copy of the actual Portal game, but that’s being saved for Glenn’s birthday, so shh!)

Imagining finding an empty place with a generator is a silly way to keep positive, but sometimes silly is best for keeping positive, right?

Glenn’s looking like he’s on the up. Tired, but he seems like he’s gotten most of his tears out. You hand him the earbuds, then show him The Nutcracker score so he can choose which of the 24 songs he wants to remember his family with.

“Want me to get Mags?”

“Yeah. Wait, no, I just need some time alone for a while, I think. When I get some sleep, I’ll see if she’s cool with me holding her.” He cleans off and positions the earbuds. “Thanks for doing this, dude. And hey, I won’t drop it in the water,” he promises, wiping his eyes again. Then they grow big.

He bumps your arm with his knuckles. He gestures to the lake and to the rowboat by the run-down shed next.

Then, he says two terrifying words you hoped you wouldn’t hear again:

“Chicken swim.”

................................

> Part 2 here <

> Masterlist link here <

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[maverick-werewolf]

Werewolves: Not Zombies, Not Dogs

I’m gonna get flamed into the next century for this one, I know. Not really looking forward to it. Anyway, here we go:

I was sent a message while I was on vacation asking me about what I mean by werewolves as zombies and werewolves as dogs and why I cannot stand either option. This person did not want to be identified, so I won’t refer to them - and I disabled anon asks on my blog due to getting too many hate messages over the years. Anyway, I never got around to answering the message (not been doing well at all lately; sorry about that), but I feel like maybe it’s something I should answer in a post, so here we go.

Here is a quick and dirty guide to how to tell if your werewolf might just be a zombie or might just be a dog.

Please note these are not complete lists. These are things that irk me on a deep and profound level, so I could go on about them for quite some time. But this is the short version.

Your Werewolf is a Zombie

Your werewolf is probably just a hairy zombie if...

They are only remotely powerful/intimidating in groups of 3-10+ and/or massive hordes of 10-80+, and they generally move in groups of these sizes

A single werewolf is not even a threat at all

The ONLY thing that makes them scary is they might infect you

They are extremely easily dispatched

They turn into a werewolf and never turn human again, and/or the transformation process “could kill them”

They are an “infestation” or a “plague”

There are literally entire villages and cities of nothing but werewolves (and all they want to do is kill people)

They are crazed, extremely stupid, and have not even the remotest vestige of human intelligence at all, they just want to essentially eat brains like a zombie

They were created by a virus/fungus/some other form of infection, and that is their centerpiece

They are ugly, mangy things that don’t even remotely resemble wolves. They have no actual wolfish features at all and are largely just mangy/hairy people with gross teeth, or else some kind of big mangy monster with large teeth and generic, gross semi-animal features

They have no fur or even hair at all and are just slick muscle zombies

They are all mindless and pure evil/insane and/or becoming one makes you evil and insane

Being turned into a werewolf is a death sentence

Characters are relieved to know it’s “just a werewolf” instead of something actually bad

They look and behave more like zombies than werewolves in general

They are essentially the first random effortless lowbie encounter/group fight in a video game (or a video game trailer...), often literally

Your Werewolf is Just a Dog

Your werewolf is just a walking dog joke and should just be a “weredog” instead (it’d honestly be infinitely better) if...

They bark

They exhibit domesticated behavior (fetching things, easily distracted by things, etc.)

They are a walking dog joke (bark at mailmen, pee on hydrants, shedding jokes, humping jokes, and whatnot) and other people also make dog jokes about them

They lack intelligence and revert to simplistic animal behavior, especially silly/harmless animalistic behavior, at the drop of a hat and they might be embarrassed by it in comically endearing fashion (howling at sirens, chasing things, etc., also see above)

Being a werewolf is just some kind of embarrassment (”I shed and bark at things and scratch and lick my balls :(”) instead of something scary, powerful, and/or potentially a real problem or hardship

They are just a “good boi” and want “head pats” etc.

They’re basically just big friendly dog-people

They resemble a dog instead of a wolf (they have dog fur patterns [spots, merle, brindle...], dog ears [floppy or cut], jowls, pink nose/pink spots on nose, etc.) [this is such a big problem lately and it drives me insane]

They are largely comedy and played as such

They aren’t even scary at all, nor are they remotely vicious, and if they tried to be everyone would see it as a joke and have to be forced to take it seriously under extreme duress (and then the viewers/readers still wouldn’t be able to because the werewolf is still just a dog joke)

They are, in fact, so ultimately harmless that other characters refer to them as the walking dog jokes that they are (Fido, Fluffy, etc., tell them to fetch things, the whole nine yards)

They are literally just someone’s dog on a chain and wear a collar and refer to themselves as someone’s dog

They may not even be a character at all but are literally just a humanoid dog who never turns human, and/or the human also behaves exactly like the dog-werewolf

If any of these things and especially multiple apply to the werewolf, please just let them be called a weredog instead. I could tolerate that. I’d vastly prefer it. More weredogs. Weredogs for everyone. Let’s do it. I’m not kidding! I’m fine with weredogs! I just don’t want werewolves to be weredogs. Let’s keep them different, please. Wolves are not domestic dogs! They are very different, especially in that wolves are not and cannot be domesticated! There are tons of scientific articles and studies, and more releasing every day, that serve to highlight this!

...

And if your werewolf/werewolves meet these criteria, that is fine for you, but I’m really sorry, but they are not for me and I would much prefer to not even know they exist. No hard feelings.

I like werewolves to be werewolves. To me:

Your Werewolf is a Werewolf

Your werewolf is probably a werewolf of some form if...

They are powerful and terrifying as individuals and only that much moreso in groups. Taking down one werewolf is literally the final bossfight and will take all of one’s willpower, intelligence, and abilities; taking down several at once is basically impossible

What I’m saying is I like them to be among the very scariest of monsters in a setting

They may be able to curse/infect others, but that is not the centerpiece of their entire being

Being part of a group/pack and identifying solely as “a werewolf” is also not their entire being (they’re still people, and people have histories and cultures and identities, too! They’re not some alien hive-mind or something!)

They are still human individuals; being a werewolf is not the entirety of their character or their most important aspect (related to that previous one but also in general)

They retain intelligence (but perhaps not necessarily the ability to speak) in werewolf form; they will not bash their brains against walls in a fit of rage or go after the mailman or howl at sirens

They have poise and pride instead of licking their balls or “scritching” or whatever

They can be vicious, they can be noble, but they are always predatory and scary

They are taken seriously

They do not bark or otherwise exhibit domesticated behavior of any kind

They do not have any obviously non-wolf features (spots, stripes, slit pupils [WHY are slit pupils such a thing now!?], merle, jowls, floppy ears, curly fur, pink nose or paw pads [if they have paw pads], etc.). Weird eye colors are fine and great. A few stranger fur patterns might be fun and interesting (like maybe just a few stripes or something), but anything that makes them too obviously look like just a dog or even a cat really throws me off. My favorite werewolves will always look like wolves above anything else, no matter how odd or stylized or supernatural of wolves they might be. Wolves have their own distinguishing, incredible features and werewolves should have those too; save the rest for other shapeshifters and creatures.

If they have animalistic behavior, it’s predatory and wolfish, not domesticated

Being a werewolf is not a convenient button one can push*

They don’t just walk around, talk, and interact like humans while they are werewolves; they are more animal than human, while retaining their intelligence (they are more likely to go hunt and kill in terrifyingly intelligent ways than play a game of poker, even if they might be capable of the latter)

They turn into a werewolf and turn human again; they are not always one or the other

They actually resemble a wolf in at least some fashion (they are not just a bland horror creature with big teeth and mangy hair)

*: Some werewolves in stories are less cursed than others. That’s fine. I do like my cursed werewolves; to me, that’s part of what makes a werewolf a werewolf instead of just a shapeshifter, but I know that not all werewolves in legend were that way (obviously). That’s a personal preference storytelling thing.

Again, as I am fully aware, this is just my opinion. But I was asked, so there it is. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but hopefully this clarifies what I’m talking about.

You can, of course, consult my werewolf facts and related ask responses for more on my opinions and why I hold these opinions.

Another helpful list can be found here and also here, for potential clarification on werewolf tropes I like and dislike, especially in regard to the dog joke things. And here is more on what people call “werewolf angst” (I call it werewolf anxiety), and here is some more on my personal preferences and advice on writing werewolves and werecreatures.

AND! One more thing! This doesn’t necessarily condemn the werewolf product for me. It just has a 99.99% chance of doing so. Execution is everything. I love Resident Evil: Village/Resident Evil 8 because the hairy zombies are referred to as “lycans” like twice and are just hairy zombies that never resemble wolves or behave as wolves and I can just completely ignore that they’re supposed to be werewolves and overlook that. I love that game. But if there’s this emphasis on big wolfish werewolves being zombies, it honestly makes it worse for me. For instance, I cannot even look at ESO anymore (and that makes me really sad).

And as for the dog jokes... I’ve only ever enjoyed the original Teen Wolf movie insofar as that goes, and some of the things in there still make me groan. But I did enjoy the movie and story enough that I still like it a lot. But will you ever see me watching that Goosebumps movie again? No. I’d sooner hang myself up on meathooks.

I just... would very much love to see werewolves be their own thing instead of zombies or dogs, and if they are just zombies or dogs in a thing, chances are incredibly high that, no, I won’t like it, and I may even have extreme dislike for it.

So let’s let werewolves be werewolves.

P.S.: Another pet peeve is referring to werewolves as just “wolves.” Why? They’re not wolves, they’re werewolves. That’s like calling them “weres.” Don’t dilute them to being one or the other - what makes them so great and so interesting is that they are both and neither at the same time!

[ljandersen]

Sideways Part 4

------------------------------------

Chapter 10:

Miss You

Fandom: Mass Effect Trilogy, post-war

Pairing: FemShep/Kaidan Alenko

Rating: Mature

Available: AO3 (beginning, new chapter)

Summary:

Shepard, a paragon for galactic peace and devoted family woman, wakes up in another timeline. War-torn, brutal, and hurting toward destruction, it’s a timeline formed by renegade decisions.

To see her family again, she’ll need to do the impossible before time runs out. Powerful enemies and dangerous secrets stand in her way, but the alternative is worse than death.

“Do you work every night?  All night?”  It’s all he seemed to do. 

Shepard followed him through the elevator doorway.  The air expanded in her lungs again.  Solid ground.  Thank God.

“Sometimes,” Kaidan said.

“Since Liara?”

“Before then.  Eithelia wasn’t wrong about me.  I don’t have much time.”  He rubbed Leida’s back absently then turned toward a hallway entrance to their right.

Shepard’s feet stuck to the floor.  Despite the insistence that she wouldn’t be pushed away, the wounds of the past few days weren’t easily healed in the space of a few words.  It wasn’t wise to make liberal assumptions.

Perhaps he didn’t want her around.  He may still not trust himself to feel comfortable with it, like before.  

Shepard’s fingers strayed to her Omni-Tool.  Tali’s video had been returned as promised.  Garrus, Tali, and now even Cicero had seen it.  What if it showed what she feared, what Kaidan feared?

“Shepard?” He stopped in place.

Shepard’s attention snapped back. “Oh, am I . . . I didn’t want to presume.”

“You . . . don’t have to.  It’s late, I guess.” His expression dimmed.

Shepard shot after him. “Okay, but just to be clear, you’re saying I can come with you?”

The light quickened in his eyes again. “Yes.”

“Good. Just didn’t want to be the mangy stray who followed you home. But if you’re asking . . .  Lead on.”

“Heel, Shepard.” He whistled and started down the hall but threw a smile over his shoulder at her.

Her heart raced. She jogged to catch up with him. “’Heel’ and a dog whistle?  If you didn’t have a child in your arms, Kaidan . . .”

“So hostile. What’s your rabies status? Let me see your dog tags.”

She bared her teeth at him.

[theoreticslut]

George x short fem reader

Requested by @pastanest 

warnings: fluff

A/N: this request is so freaking cute! It made me so happy to read and then try to figure out how to write. I, myself, am a pretty short person at around 5′4 so george would still tower over me which i would honestly love to experience but we don’t need to get into that right now. anyways, this is just fluffy with a bit of a protective reader and its cute. I hope you like it!! also, pls don’t judge some of my curses; I’m well aware some of them are questionable...

Dating a giant is fun; you always have someone to completely smother you when cuddling, when you steal their shirts you know they’ll always be long enough, and you’re favourite part of it - you always feel safe because you have a bloody giant as a boyfriend to protect you.

The only downfall you’ve come to find is how many people like to criticize your relationship solely due to the height difference.

You and George have been dating for nearly a year and you’ve lost count of how many comments have been made that you’re too short to be with him. At first it was fine, people just pointing out the obvious, right? After a year of it though, you’re tired of hearing it. You and George love each other and you’ve never given anyone a reason to think you weren’t good together, yet people continue to joke about how you won’t work out due to just how short you are compared to him.

You were honestly starting to wonder if maybe everyone else was right. Maybe you and George really weren’t going to work out.

“Princess, what are you thinking about?” George asks, noticing how distant you’ve become over the last half hour or so while hanging out.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing important.” You give him a small smile, your cheeks tinting a light pink.

“So I’m nothing important?” He playfully pouts, giving you those puppy dog eyes you can’t ever refuse or ignore.

You chuckle and smack his bicep causing him to laugh and pull you closer.

“You know I’m only joking, sweetie. But in all seriousness, what’s got you so down?”

“It’s dumb.” You chuckle, blushing and looking away.

“I love dumb.” George smiles, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“It’s just, I don’t know, does it ever drive you crazy how many people say we won’t work out?” You ask, frowning and not wanting to meet his gaze.

It’s a dumb question; you knew it didn’t bother him. Hell you’d be surprised if he even paid any attention to it. You were just feeling insecure.

“What are you talking about, love? Who’s been saying we won’t work out?” George asks, frowning at how obviously upset you are over this.

“Well, no one in particular really...” you trail off, glancing up at him frowning as you fidget with your hands.

“It’s just, well, ever since we’ve been together people keep saying I’m just too short for you, and because of that we won’t last.”

George watches as you explain all of this, watching as you fidget with your hands and how you will barely look at him. He notices how flushed you’ve become just by bringing this up. He smiles, loving how adorable you are. He couldn’t care less how short you are compared to him because there’s so much more to you than your mere 5’ height. True he was over a foot taller than you, but it came with so many benefits that he couldn’t understand how anyone would talk down on the height difference.

“Princess, will you please look at me?” He urges, gently trying to lift your chin with his finger.

You sigh, feeling shaky as you do, immediately finding yourself lost in his eyes as he smiles at you.

“Princess, I don’t care how many people tell us we won’t work out. You know why?” He asks, looking into your eyes, trying to read the emotions that swirl within them.

“Why?” You mumble, not sure if he could even hear you.

“Because what they say doesn’t matter. Not one bit. They say we won’t work out because of our heights? That’s pure hippogriff shit.” He says, causing you to chuckle at his wording. If there’s one thing George weasley is good at, it’s making you laugh.

“They’re jealous, princess. That or they don’t know the joy of dating such a short person. Do you know what I love most about you?”

“What do you love the most?” You ask, trying to hold back a smile as your boyfriend keeps his gaze locked on you.

“I love how small you are. I love that when we cuddle I can literally wrap my body around the entirety of yours. I love having to crouch down to be eye level with you. It’s so much fun! Why else do you think I do so all the time?”

You let out a small chuckle as he pulls you up into his lap, making you straddle him so you can look at him.

“I love how when I pick you up you wrap your legs around me so you know you’re at least holding onto something because you can’t reach anything else. I love when I give you piggyback rides and you’re so amazed at how different everything looks from my height. It’s the cutest thing to watch how excited you get.”

“But I think my absolute favourite thing is when you wear one of my shirts and it looks like a dress on you. Or when you steal one of my jumpers and it looks like it’s swallowing you whole. I love that.” He chuckles, remember the first time he saw you in one of his jumpers.

He was honestly worried how you’d be able to handle anything because not only was the top itself long on you, but the arms were so much longer that’s yours and you refused to roll it up. You barely had any functionality to your hands because every time you went to reach for something, it was just sleeves.

“And even though you are shorter than me, there’s so much more to who you are and why I love you that being short becomes so insignificant in the big picture I’m not sure why anyone would judge this on the mere height difference.” George states, smiling at you and admiring how happy you look now compared to a few minutes ago.

“I love you so much, George.” You smile, kissing him as he wraps his arms around your waist.

~.~

Since your talk with George about the whole height difference between the two of you, you’ve been more than happy and it’s been easier than ever to brush aside the comments.

However, you’ve been having a bit of a rough week. You haven’t gotten much sleep since you’d been studying for a few different tests your professors decided to give at the same time.

You haven’t been able to spend much time with George lately as he’s had quidditch practice nearly every night to prep for the big game between gryffindor and slytherin.

Then on top of it, this ravenclaw boy, Alec Newton, has been trying to get under your skin for the last few weeks by either taunting you or criticizing your work or even trying to make fun of your appearance.

“Hey y/l/n! Wait up.” You hear him call.

“What do you want Alec?” You sigh.

“How is everything going with weasley? I haven’t seen you two together a lot lately. Has he finally realized you’re too good for him?”

“What’s it matter to you?” You ask, not having the energy to care about this conversation.

From down the hall, George is watching this play out, annoyed himself at how much it seems this Alec guy is annoying you.

“Well, if you’re single I’d like to take you out? I mean, don’t you think you deserve someone you don’t have to look up to. Someone who you can meet eye to eye with.” He asks a bit too smugly for your liking.

George gawks at this dudes bravery. Just because you and him haven’t been seen together much this week he suddenly thinks he can make a move on you? He’s nearly ready to storm over and save you from this asshole when he notices you start to get angry.

He stops solely to see how this will continue to play out. George has rarely seen you get angry and he’s curious to see what you’re like.

“Excuse me? Are you saying that George doesn’t deserve me? And because of my height?” He can hear you ask, clearly disgusted with how this dude could possibly think that was an acceptable conclusion. He notices how you start to position yourself in a fighting stance, your hand tightening around your wand handle.

“Well, yeah. Wouldn’t you like someone you could-“

“What I would like, Newton,” you say, pointing your wand at him to emphasize your point, “is for people to stop pointing out the height difference between George and I.”

You buzz with the rush of adrenaline fighting gives you, not caring that you cut him off nor realizing who you have as an audience. All you care about in the moment is how annoyed you are at Alec and everyone else who has ever said you and George aren’t going to work out because of the height difference.

“There is more to our relationship than just our heights. In fact there’s more to us as people than just our heights. If you can’t see past that then I feel really sorry for how much of a ignorant worm you truly are.”

“But-“

“And truthfully, our relationship is of no bloody concern to you now is it? We’re not dating you, you mangy dragon, we’re dating each other.” You point out, waving your wand around animatedly to make your point.

“And furthermore, what makes you think I would go out with you of all people?” You hiss, pointing your wand directly at his throat as if threatening to cut off his head.

“You’re annoying and rude. You go around telling people that their boyfriend doesn’t deserve them when you know absolutely nothing about the relationship to begin with.”

“You pretend you’re some big hotshot that all the girls want, but in all reality you’re a sorry excuse of a wizard. You barely pay attention to classes, you can’t tell the difference between dittany and gillyweed, and your spell casting is so weak I’m surprised you can even cast lumos.” You continue, not giving him a chance to speak as you continue waving your wand around as you talk.

“I-I’m sorry.” He states, a bit scared at how harsh you’ve become as well as how you’re carelessly waving your wand around. He’s well aware of how intelligent you are and knows that you could jinx him without really thinking about it.

“Oh you’re sorry? Well that’s just great for you, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have to be if you hadn’t opened your bloody mouth to begin with now would you?”

“You’re lucky I don’t hex you right here on the spot for being such an annoying rotten mandrake. If I ever hear you saying George doesn’t deserve me again, I will not hesitate to vanish you from existence. You understand me, Newton?” You threaten, your wand at his throat.

“Understood, y/l/n. Again, I’m really sorry.” He says, visibly shaking at the threat of being hexed.

“Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and hex you anyway. I don’t want to hear from you again, and I better not hear anything about George from you either or I will personally hunt you down and kill you myself.”

“Y-yes. You won’t hear anything, I promise.” He stutters, hurrying away the second you lift your wand from his throat.

Once he’s run off you sigh, trying to calm yourself down. You relax your shoulders and run your hand through your hair.

“You’d really hex that ‘ignorant worm’ for me?” You hear George chuckle from beside you, jumping as you didn’t realize he had been there.

“Y-you heard all of that?” You ask, blushing as you’ve never let George see you get angry. You didn’t like when you did. You’d much rather try to keep the peace and fight only when absolutely necessary.

“Heard and watched it, princess.” He smiled, pulling you into his side, ruffling your hair a bit.

“Oh Merlin. I’m sorry, George. He just- he was being so annoying. Has been for weeks.” You sigh, trying to justify you threatening him.

“No need to apologize, princess. I thought it was pretty hot myself.” He smiles, watching as you look up and blush at his words, your eyes wide at the statement.

“I never realized just how feisty my girlfriend is, and I have to admit I quite like it.” 

“Seriously George?” You groan, feeling like he was just teasing you now. You start to pull away from him to walk back towards the common room.

“Seriously!” He chuckles, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you back to face him.

“I’m glad you think I deserve you, if you didn’t I’d start questing how good of a boyfriend I really am.” He jokes, causing you to roll your eyes at him.

“But in all seriousness, princess, that was really hot and I’m glad your mine. It’s nice to know someone loves me enough to threaten to hunt a fellow classmate to his death for me. I love you.” He smiles, pulling you in for a kiss.

“I love you too, George. More than you know,” you smile letting him kiss you again.

[sinsofazeroth]

Dead End Rot

Summary: Lydia simply wants to live her life in the house she always wanted. However, her aunt keeps pestering her to pay off her house with a price that's impossible for Lydia to afford. Luckily she finds a strange, mangled creature in the property's garage who offers her a bargain she accepts, for better or for worse. Tags: horror, thriller, creature-feature Warnings: animal death, graphic description of corpses and various stages of decomposition Rating: mature

Chapter 1 - Roadkill

“Need… more…”

His voice has grown even weaker.

“...will… perish…”

Dead, glossed over eyes stare at her. She feels herself shaking.

“I know, I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you anything lately, but I’m here now.”

Her voice surprises her, as somehow she manages to keep it from shaking along with the rest of her body. Must be getting used to it.

She opens the bag and reaches inside, pulling out a handful of dead insects.

“Here. I know it’s not that much, but it’s all I can give you right now.”

Slowly she moves her hand towards the rotting creature in front of her. He’s been looking worse and worse the past weeks…

What once looked like a mangy dog is now a mess of rotting fur, flesh and bones. His lower half has completely rotted away from his torso, leaving his splintered spine and ribs exposed. There were no noticeable organs left at this point. It was all just one big mess of fluids and hair.

With her other hand she gently lifts the creature’s head from the cold garage floor. He takes that chance and gobbles up the insects, leaving not a single crumb.

“Not… enough…”

“I know, I know,” the woman sighs.

“...more… blood… more… blood…”

She ignores his mumblings, getting up to leave the garage where she first found him about three months ago. Without hesitation she closes the large gate and seals it shut, the creature’s demands still ringing out to her.

After locking up she leans against the gate and sighs deeply once again.

“How the hell am I gonna keep him fed…” she thinks out loud. “Guess I really have to go and look for roadkill. Oh well, better be seen as a public weirdo than become a half-rotten corpse in a garage,” her thought continues.

Suddenly she hears a phone ring. She hastily enters the house, stumbling over a few moving boxes in the process.

“Dammit, why haven’t I cleaned all this up yet,” she scolds herself.

With quite a bit of stretching she finally reaches the phone and answers it.

“Hello?”

“Lydia, dear! How are you? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days now!”

“Oh, mom? God, I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy looking for a job and keeping… other things in order.”

“It’s alright, dear. Say, have you found work yet? I really don’t want to pressure you but your aunt really wants the payment for the house soon, you know how she gets…”

“Riiiight, about that…”

Lydia rolls her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘I really don’t want to pressure you’ yeah right, go suck that witch off even more, would you, she thinks.

“Just mail me the check as soon as you can, yes? Love you, dear! And please try to call more often. Your father and I are quite worried, you know?”

“Will do, mom. Gotta go now, bye.”

Without hearing her mother’s goodbye Lydia ends the call and puts the phone back in its charging station.

“Fucking bitch,” she mumbles. “If she wants my money so badly why doesn’t she call me herself?”

Lydia briefly sits down on a chair and rubs her temples.

“Oh, right. The fucking roadkill.”

She hastily stands up and hurries back out of the house, into her car. The engine starts and she drives off. The day before she already scouted out places with the most cases of roadkill and marked them on a map.

“‘Kay, let’s get to it, then. Wonder how many weirdos are gonna stare at me for picking up the roadkill,” Lydia chuckles slightly. “Not like anyone else does it around here, geez.”

A few minutes later she arrives at the first location marked on her map. She slows down the car in order to get a proper view of the road.

“Aha, got one!”

Lydia pulls over and gets out of the vehicle. Just off the side of the road lies a horribly mangled corpse.

“Hmm, must have been a raccoon or something. Poor thing. But don’t worry, you’re not gonna go to waste like that, little buddy.”

The woman takes out a black trash bag from the back seat of her car and scoops up the unfortunate animal. Just as she wanted to throw the bag back into the car, she grits her teeth and tilts her head.

“Great. Why now of all times?”

Another car drives by her. The driver seems to be extra curious as they slow down to properly stare at Lydia.

“Just please keep driving…”

The driver stops.

“Fuck me.”

A man steps out of the jet black vehicle. He quickly fixes his suit jacket and hesitantly walks towards Lydia.

“What are you doing here? What’s in that bag?” He inquires.

Lydia raises an eyebrow.

“Uh… roadkill?” She answers.

“Why do you need roadkill?” The man continues.

“None of your business, chap,” Lydia snarls at him.

“Well, I mean,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I do appreciate that at least someone is getting those poor things off the roads. There’s just so many of ‘em, it’s pretty disturbing to drive along these parts seeing those critters smashed and broken left and right…”

“A-ha?” Lydia gives the man a confused look, raising her brow even further.

“Truth is, I picked up a few of them on my way to work earlier, but don’t really know where to put them. Would be a bit weird to just throw ‘em onto the compost in my yard. I got nosy neighbours, you know,” he gives the woman a sheepish smile.

Lydia’s face lights up.

“Now look at that, must be my lucky fucking day!”

The man seems to be slightly taken aback by her sudden statement. He begins to walk around to his car’s trunk.

Inside are two more black trash bags, presumably filled with even more roadkill. Lydia flashes a smug smirk. Jackpot!

“Yeah, so, I got my ways of putting those rascals to use. I can take care of that, no problem!” She exclaimed.

“Thank you, really. I have to get to work now, but if we meet again, I owe you one!” The man gave Lydia a warm smile. She shuddered slightly.

With two more bags of dead animals in tow she returns to her house. She opens the trunk and hoists the bags out with a groan.

“Hey, I got some great stuff for you today!” She shouts towards the sealed garage gate. Lydia sets the bags down and looks through her keys to undo the locks.

She opens the gate.

The stench is so much worse now. It’s been pretty warm lately so the decomposition is accelerated greatly. Lydia frowns at the surefire possibility of her ending up in the same position as the creature if she doesn’t get him what he needs, stat.

Hoisting the bags inside she already hears his laboured breathing.

“...”

“Cat got your tongue?”

He remains silent. Unusually silent.

A horrid, guttural growl suddenly shakes her to her very core.

“Shit, shit, shit…” she repeats in her thoughts, over and over.

Lydia hurries over to the broken creature, bags in tow. Hastily, she rips them open and dumps the horrid remains of those animals onto the floor. An uncomfortable amount of bodily fluids spreads out around Lydia’s feet.

Another growl, followed by wet smacking sounds.

She sighs in relief.

After a few minutes the creature has consumed all the woman brought him. He growls in content.

“I am again strong enough to speak. You do well, human.”

His rough, guttural voice rings out.

Lydia looks to the ground. All those nasty fluids are getting drawn to the creature, like he’s a sponge absorbing it all at once.

“I grow impatient, Lydia.”

She jerks, affixing her eyes back to him. It feels like she’s frozen in place.

“I need more sacrifices. Bigger sacrifices. I am still far from whole. I do hope you remember our bargain, Lydia.”

Lydia swallows.

“Of course…” she answers sheepishly.

Three months ago they had indeed struck a bargain. Lydia is to bring him sustenance in order to rebuild his terribly broken body. In exchange he will grant her the money she needs to pay off her aunt for the house she so desperately wanted. If she’s to break the bargain, however, he’s going to consume her instead, leaving the woman in the state he is in now, rotting, waiting for someone, anyone to come by and agree to strike a bargain with her.

Mustering him intently Lydia notices that the beast’s body has barely mended at all, though he is able to move more now. With each movement of his head however, his spine and facial bones make these harrowing cracking noises, like wood being strained until it’s about ready to break. It makes her sick to imagine herself in that same position.

“I’ll give you a week, Lydia.” The creature speaks again, accompanied by the cracking of his mangled bones.

Like an ice cold hand a shudder crawls up and down Lydia’s back and neck at those words. She merely nods in response, picks up the bags and leaves the garage, making sure to seal it extra tight this time.

[mmvalentine]

Afraid of the Dark pt 3 | Feysand

Prompt fill: "Feysand as werewolves." Read part 1 part 2 part 4. CW: violence.

Feyre stayed five weeks with Rhys before Tamlin found her.

The first few days, she walked around like a ghost, and then she got very hard headed all of a sudden and decided that was enough and she was moving on with her life.

Rhys's crew visited every day, after that. Mor, Cassian, Azriel and Amren. The people he always saw hanging around the bar with him, but had never talked to her as much as Rhys had. And they were so lovely.

In truth, Feyre was not entirely comfortable with it at first. Kept shrinking into Rhys's side, because him she knew but she couldn't fathom why the others were being so nice to her. But over the weeks, she came to crave their presence and delight in their warmth and their wickedness.

Feyre never went back to the house. She gave the key to Rhys's friends and they went during work hours to collect her things. And to leave the letter that she had written Tamlin, telling him that she was leaving him, and not to come look for her.

Somewhere in the second week she started sleeping in Rhys's bed. Just turned up one day, after lying awake yet again in the spare room and not knowing how to sleep alone, and crawled in next to him. He had wrapped his arms around her and gone straight back to sleep like they did this every day. And so they did.

And of course Feyre got to go back to Velaris. Still loved it there, and although Tamlin was sure to check there for her eventually, she felt safe being surrounded by people in leather jackets. One night, they stayed late after closing and Rhys had to carry her home. It was only wine-drunk that she was able to finally ask him.

"So," she said slowly, once he had gotten them both into bed. "You're a werewolf."

"Sometimes," Rhys responded, moving his head on the pillow.

"Not sometimes," Feyre argued. "You're either a werewolf or you're not."

"Well, sometimes I'm a werewolf, and sometimes I'm just Rhys."

"Okay just Rhys," Feyre said tipsily. "Well I liked you as Mr Wolf, too."

Rhys chuckled. "Well thanks."

"Can you be Mr Wolf some time again? I miss him."

Rhys looked at her strangely. "Why?"

"Because I could always tell him things."

"You can still tell me things."

Feyre frowned, and her eyes slid closed. "Not as many things," she said, and then fell asleep.

When she woke up, Rhys was a wolf.

He was curled up on the foot of the bed, and Feyre grinned broadly at him.

"Mr Wolf!" she said happily. She got up and patted his soft, black fur, and scratched his massive ears.

For a minute, Rhys just lifted his chin and enjoyed the scratches. Then he hopped off the bed, and looked back at Feyre with those endless violet eyes. She scrambled out of bed, and followed.

"Where are we going Mr Wolf?" she asked. She pulled her coat and shoes on. "Are we going for a walk? It's been a while."

Suddenly she was excited. She hadn't walked through the forest in some time, and she had never walked with the wolf in the day time.

"I've got so many things to tell you," she said.

So they walked.

The forest was different early in the morning. The fog was thick and everything smelled fresh, and green. Rhys let Feyre lead the way, padding along silently next to her.

"Well," Feyre started. "The big update I have for you is that I've left Tamlin. Didn't think I could ever do it, but here we are. And you know what?" She looked at Rhys, and grinned. "I think I'm actually happy." She laughed. "I didn't know I could be happy."

Feyre jumped down off a log, and Rhys landed right behind her. She kept walking. "Everyone's so nice to me. Most of the time I feel like I don't deserve it, but also I don't know what I'd do without them all."

She sat down on a large stone, and Rhys sat down next to her.

"And you," she said, stroking his head. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Suddenly, Rhys went taut. He leapt in front of Feyre and started growling, teeth out and ears flat against his head.

"What's wrong?" Feyre breathed. She looked around, scanning wildly for the danger Rhys clearly could scent.

"Just stay still," came a voice. Feyre whipped her head toward it, and Tamlin stepped out of the forest with a shotgun on his shoulder.

"Stay very still, and it'll all be over," Tamlin said.

"No," Feyre breathed. "No Tamlin, don't."

"It's okay," Tamlin said, "I'm here to save you."

"Tamlin don't, it's not hurting me!"

"It's a wild animal, Feyre." He looked up at her then. "And where the hell have you been, anyway?"

Feyre lifted her chin. "It's not your concern anymore. We're no longer together."

"We're together until I say we're not," Tamlin snarled. "Now I'm going to put this thing down and then you're coming home with me."

Rhys was growling louder now, stepping toward Tamlin but also wary of the shot gun.

"No!" Feyre cried. "Okay. Okay look, I'll come home with you, just don't shoot the wolf."

"Like I give a fuck about what you want, or about some stupid mangy dog," Tamlin said, and then pulled the trigger.

Feyre dove.

Dove right into the path because she knew it was coming, knew Tamlin would always choose violence over negotiation especially when it meant giving up anything for Feyre. So she jumped, and collected the bullet somewhere against her ribcage and by the time she hit the ground Rhys had already lunged for Tamlin's throat.

She closed her eyes. Time seemed to speed up between blinking.

Opened her eyes and Rhys was human again, and Tamlin was lying somewhere further away and not moving. Closed her eyes.

Opened her eyes and she was in Rhys's lap, and he had taken off his jacket and t-shirt and was strips of the latter to bind her wound. Closed her eyes.

Opened her eyes and realised Rhys had been talking to her.

"Feyre," he was saying. "Feyre, Feyre why did you do that, fuck why Feyre? I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry."

It's not your fault," she said to him. Her mouth felt like it was moving through treacle as she tried to talk.

"I told you you'd never have to worry about him again," Rhys said. "And I failed. We're going to get you to a hospital," he said.

But Feyre knew that the nearest hospital was miles away, there was no cell reception in the forest, and they were on foot.

"You know," Feyre said. "I don't mind dying."

"I mind," Rhys gritted out. "You aren't going to die today."

"I've just... not had that good a time being alive." She lifted a hand to his face, and it was red with blood. "Maybe it'd be different if I was like you. If I were you, I'd just be a wolf forever and ever and I'd live in the forest and be happy."

Rhys went still. "Would you?" he asked. "Would you be happy as a wolf? As a half thing?" Feyre smiled.

"Better half human than whole human, I reckon," she said.

"Alright," Rhys said. His throat was tight and his voice was hoarse. "I can make that happen."

"Make what happen?" Feyre asked, and then her eyes closed again and the pain stopped, and a peace spread through her belly. She didn't mind, truly. Didn't mind dying. The last thing she was conscious of was Rhys's lips on the join of her neck and shoulder.

Not his lips.

His teeth.

****

Did I just want to kill Tamlin off? Maybe.

Okay looks like it's 4 parts not 3 because ya gal CANNOT write concisely! One more, rascals xx

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars

[milk-carton-whump]

Lowkey a passion project just cuz I was really inspired to write about Fido. This is set like a month into living with Mister Patton. Also, I feel like I missed some warning but none too bad I think...

Tagging: @sideblogformindtrash @tears-and-lilies @unicornscotty @cowboy-anon @abitefullofwhump @oswaldinator3000

CW: pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, cold whump, hair pulling, muzzle, choking, collar, noose mention, hair cutting, intentional disobedience, begging, dehumanizing language, defiant whumpee, forcibly stripped (non sexual), non con touching (non sexual), manhandling

The Groomer

Fido glared up at his owner, he hated the car rides. Forced to sit on the floor like an animal, like a mangy mutt. Even worse he had been muzzled, they were going somewhere that required he didn't bite. 

Mister Patton's hand combed through his knotted red hair, the tug making him wince in pain as it pulled at his scalp. He growled, teeth barred and full of hatred toward the man. 

"Lighten up puppy, you're going to the groomer today. Isn't that exciting?" Mister Patton stated as he gripped a fistful of his pet's hair.

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a fucking dog!?" Fido snarled. 

A sharp tug to his hair shut him up, if only momentarily. He hated how the man so casually and so freely just grabbed and touched his hair, it was overgrown and his so called owner barely brushed it. Of course, aside from running his fingers through it, leaving his hair still tangled and knotted. 

The car came to a halt around twenty minutes later, his heart dropping into his stomach with worry. He masked it well but knew that Mister Patton could feel his trembling against his leg. The car door opened and he was dragged out by his choke chain as his owner climbed out of the car. 

He fell to his knees onto the brick driveway, forcing a pained gasp through his teeth as he landed on his bruised knees. He moved to stand up, to gain some form of dignity back, but was quickly kicked back down onto all fours. 

"Fido, you know puppies don't stand on two legs. Now, come on, we're going to be late for your appointment." A sharp tug on his leash, momentarily choking him as the chain cinched closed around his throat. 

His attempts at arguing were ignored as he crawled on his hands and knees after Mister Patton, just trying to keep the leash slack enough so he could breathe. It was one of the rare times he actually thanked whatever powers that be that his owner required the leather mitts on his hands, easily keeping his hands from getting scraped up.  

He crawled after his owner, following him to the front desk and sitting back on his heels. He watched the interaction from the floor as Mister Patton spoke to the receptionist. He growled, seething over the fact that he was here, muzzled, and humiliated. An annoyed glare followed the man's every move as he spoke, each gesture noted while Fido tried to wrap his mitted hands around the leash. 

A quick yank to the leash forced a choked gasp from the pet's throat. Fido looked up to see that the leash wasn't in Mister Patton's hands anymore but instead in the hands of a woman with dark hair that was pulled back into a bun. He dug his knees into the smooth linoleum floor, trying to halt any progress of being pulled around like a dog. 

"Fucking let go of me!" Fido snapped, anger dripping from his voice. 

He was dragged, his throat being closed off most of the time until they managed to get him into a room with a bathtub. He looked at it and shook his head quickly, a bathtub meant they would strip him down to nothing but his collars. 

He tried to pull away, pushing himself up onto his feet and tripping as he did. His legs wobbly and weak from disuse, yet still desperate to get away. Unfortunately, he collapsed to the floor, legs folding under his body.

The groomer grabbed him by the hair, a harsh pull that almost convinced him that his hair was being ripped out. He looked her in the eyes, in pain but forcing a scowl. 

"Your scary dog act doesn't work, now stay." Her voice commanded, sending a shiver down his spine. 

Before he knew it, his clothes were gone, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to anything she may decide to do. His eyes watched her carefully, followed the direction her hand pointed finding a bathtub full of water at the end. He hesitated nervously, afraid of the possible ways he could be violated in that tub. 

The water was frigidly cold, soaking through his skin and to the bone, the water rippling around him as he shivered. He looked up at the groomer, his muzzle gone but a leash still tightly pulling at his chain collar replaced the need. 

"C-can-nt-t-t I have warm-m-me-mer wat-ter-er, pl-lea-lease?" Fido stammered out, his teeth chattering loudly with each word. 

"Only good puppies get warm water and you've proven that you like to misbehave. Be good this time and I'll give you a warmer bath next time." She said in an overly sweet and condescending tone. 

He continued to shiver as she washed his hair, scrubbing at his skin with a scouring pad and making the entire bath miserable. By the time he was allowed out of the tub, his body was red and irritated and he couldn't stop shaking. 

He was rubbed down with a towel, careless of his now sensitive skin. A miserable whine escaped his lips as he followed the groomer to spot on the floor where the eerie sight of what looked like a noose greeted him. 

He just stared at it, comfortable with the fate he expected to come with it. To his surprise he was only asked to kneel and the noose was loosely hung around his neck, keeping his chin tipped up. 

The groomer sat down on a rolling stool and picked up scissors off her table to begin cutting his hair. He could feel the blades of her scissors cutting his long shaggy hair, bringing it close to his head. Short strands of hair fell on his nose, tickling it and making him scrunch his face to get it off. He told himself that all of this was humiliating, the way they treated him, spoke to him and even acted around him. 

He had an annoyed scowl on his face as the groomer tipped his chin up more to shape a tuft of hair she kept long right on top. Finally she reached over, set the scissors down and picked up a hair dryer. The warm air felt nice against his still shivering body, but all too soon it was gone. 

Before he knew what was happening, his tank top, jeans, and leather mitts had been quickly put back on his body. His clothes offered little warmth as he was taken back to Mister Patton. Crawling shamefully behind the groomer until he forced his body to stop moving upon seeing his owner. A hard tug to his leash cinched his chain tighter, choking him as he fought being dragged toward the man. 

Mister Patton eagerly grabbed the leash, reaching down to caress his dog's face. He was surprised to find that Fido leaned into his touch, seeking the bit of warmth his hand provided. He paid for the service happy to have his pet crave his affection if even temporarily, it only served to make him more excited to fully train the dog. 

Once in the car, the air conditioning was turned on, sending Fido's already cold body back to shivering terribly. He graciously took up his spot on the floor, pressing himself tightly to Mister Patton's legs. They offered the warmth he so desperately desired, a hand combing through his now short hair. "That's a good boy, Fido. Such a good boy." His owner praised, putting his warm hands on the pet's cold cheeks. 

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

The In-Between

I have become enamored with the time in between-- after they drove off into the sunset in 15x19, but before they awoke in the bunker at the start of 15x20; because there were some days there, and in those days, something changed in Dean. So it got me thinking ... what if ...

“Finally free.”

Dean had said the words— and he had meant them, but they didn’t bring the joy he thought they would. They didn’t leave him feeling as free as he wanted to be; because for the last ten years, he never dreamed of a freedom without Castiel.

It was supposed to be him, Sammy and Cas in the end.

They were Team Free-Will.

The three of them.

But now, it’s just him and Sam and a whole world that looks all too much the same for all they’ve lost... for what’s been sacrificed to save it.

Dean presses the gas pedal, and Baby roars down the road, eating up the miles like the beautiful monster she is. He looks over, and Sam is smiling, but there’s an emptiness to it—and Dean knows that his baby brother is hurting too. He still hasn’t heard from Eileen, so he still doesn’t know if Jack brought her back with everyone else; or … if he just took her to Heaven because, she technically should have been there all along.

And it seems like some kind of sick joke. Some punchline Chuck had built into the universe, and Dean and Sam were always destined to be the ones getting punched.

They were free, yes; but they aren’t happy.

The Winchesters saved the world but they lost so much more.

 They stop for gas somewhere outside of Sante Fe, where the fields stretch out forever and Dean thinks that if he just tracks the horizon long enough with his eyes, he can maybe fall right off the edge of the earth.

The pump clicks, and he caps Baby back up, giving her a pat on the trunk—knowing that both her and Sam would suffer if he was gone, so he blinks goodbye to the sun’s bed and climbs back behind the wheel, ready to continue on to nowhere, or somewhere. Right now, they’re just driving because they can and not because they have something to kill or someone to save, and that’s perhaps the nicest part about their new life so far.

“Holy crap” Sam says, looking wide eyed out the windshield.

“What?” Dean asks, following his brother’s gaze through the glass and out to the gravel driveway of the station.

And there, all shaggy and panting—is Miracle.

“No way!” Dean gasps, immediately jumping out of the car again to crouch and side step towards the mangy dog as quick as he can. “Hey—hey, boy! Is that really you?” He says, laughing and smiling, and the dog wags his tail a little, sitting still as Dean kneels down in front of him. “I thought we lost you, buddy” Dean says, looking into those brown eyes as they look into his. “I thought we lost you like we lost—” he starts to choke up, “like … we lost …” he leans over and pats Miracle on the head, “like I lost—” he bends down and hugs the dog close, crying into his fur; and Miracle whines, scoots in closer, nestles his chin onto Dean’s shoulder—and let’s the man hold him as he completely breaks.

“Dean …” Sam says softly, touching Dean’s arm as he squats beside his older brother and the dog. “C’mon … I’ll drive.”

Deans nods, wiping at his eyes before he stands back up, picking up Miracle with him and carrying him to the car. “We’re going home, buddy” he whispers, kissing the top of the dog’s head, breathing him in, breathing in the life of him, clutching his fur and losing himself in the solidity of him.

The dog is here, he is present.

He’s come back to Dean.

Some things can come back.

 Miracle settles quickly, and Dean settles into having something to take care of, because Sam is too grown and too stubborn to let Dean take care of him anymore; and lord know—Dean won’t take care of himself, so the dog will have to do.

Plus, he’s cute … and he follows Dean everywhere, and when he’s confused, he tilts his head to the side … just like —

Dean cries in the shower, knowing it’s the only place where he won’t be heard.

He cries with the memories, wishing that he could make them stop—stop the silence of them.

The loud memories— the memories where Billie is still banging on the door in his mind, the memories where he’s still begging Castiel not to go, not to do this, and even the memories of the Empty ripping through that wall, he’d take every one of those as trade over the gut-wrenching silence that followed.

The loneliness that followed.

The dog that follows him around like a four-legged cork in the powder keg that he’s become.

Dean cries as the shower’s hot water runs out; but when he turns it off—he knows he’s still not out of tears. He will just have to turn those off too, because he can be heard now.

The sun passes overheard without him knowing, and it’s not until Sam says he’s going to bed that Dean realizes how late it’s gotten. He’s just been sitting here, cleaning his weapons over and over again, trying to wash away even the smallest molecule of blood, because it was something to do. Something he could do without thinking; because thinking is more dangerous than any gun in his hand.

Miracle follows him into his room and curls up onto the pile of old blankets that Dean put down for him.

Dean shuts the door, locks it, and then looks around—noting the mess, noting the disarray. He never used to let his room get like this, but he can’t bare to move anything now, because it all is as it was when Cas was alive.

He might’ve touched something in here.

He might have left a small trace of himself on a book, or on one of Dean’s shirts, and if Dean can just hold in it in the right way, maybe, just maybe—he’ll unlock a memory, something he’s forgotten that won’t make the angel feel so far off, so permanently gone.

But—he knows that’s not how these things work. He’s lost enough people in his life to understand … that’s not how any of this works; yet, the books stay half open on the table. The clothes stay piled on the chair.

And Dean stays, buried alive in the middle of his mess of hope and discarded despair.

 He sits down at his desk to finish the paperwork he got from the auto shop in town. They were looking for a part-time mechanic, and Dean was inside the manager’s office and shaking the man’s hand before he even knew what he was doing.

He just needed something, anything that didn’t remind him of the hell he’s been living in all his life, and a normal 9-5 job seemed just crazy enough to work.

Dean’s eyes scan down the page—social security number, birthday, last employer … and he doesn’t know what to write. He doesn’t know if he can even put down the truth anymore. The world might still think Dean Winchester is dead, or a mass-murder, or a psycho or whatever.

Can he even be himself anymore?

Was he ever himself to begin with?

“Just be honest, Dean.”

Dean lifts his head slow but turns quick, looking up at Castiel as he smiles down at him. “Cas?”

The angel’s smile brightens. “More or less.”

Dean’s heart stops. “Wh-what does that mean?” He stands up from his chair cautiously, and he begins to notice how the light from the lamp in the corner of the room is shining through Castiel’s skin, as if he’s not fully whole … as if he’s not fully here. “Am … am I dreaming?” Dean asks, breathless, already starting to cry, because it doesn’t even matter what the answer is, he’s just so happy to see his friend again.

“That is how you’ll remember this, yes. However, Jack has assured me that you’ll know this was real.” Castiel looks down at Miracle, sleeping by his feet. “I see you’ve adopted a dog. That’s good. I always felt this place was one species short.”

Dean’s breaks into a teary laugh, reaching out to hug Castiel—and to his surprise, he can. He holds him. He holds him tighter than he’s ever held anyone, and shuts his eyes tight, wanting to put all of this away in his mind, every inch of feeling, every breath, every smell, every single second that passes so that when he wakes up and Castiel is gone again, he’ll remember.

He needs to remember.

Castiel’s arms come up to hug Dean back, and they stay there for as long as Dean stays—and it feels like hours before they finally pull apart again.

“How are you here?” Dean asks, shaky and quiet, once he can no longer simply stare at his friend in silence anymore.

“Jack” Castiel says, and Dean raises his eyebrows—gesturing for Cas to elaborate. The angel smiles, and he looks over Dean’s face the way he always used to, only, now … Dean knows exactly what that look means. “Jack saved me from the Empty and he brought me to heaven; however, my vessel … it was lost when the Empty took me. So, Jack fashioned this body; but since it was never of the earth, it cannot stand upon it and be known.”

Dean furrows his brow, opening his mouth to say something—closing it again once he realizes...he has no clue what he could say to that.

Castiel’s smile softens. “I wanted to come back to you, Dean … but I wanted to come back as myself. The me that you’ve always known, because you—you knowing me, that’s the only way I discovered who I truly was.”

“So … why didn’t you? Why didn’t you come back?”

“Like I said before, Dean … my vessel was destroyed, and Jack couldn’t recreate it exactly, not without disrupting the forces of nature. This was the best he could do, therefore … this dream is the best I can do at reaching out to you again. I am here, although—not really. I am solid, although, not really. I am as present as you wish me to be, and the very fact that we can touch …” Castiel reaches out and touches Dean’s hand, closing his eyes a moment as he loses himself in the feel of it, “means that you have been wishing for this almost as much as I have.”

Dean laughs in spite of the new wave of tears that has washed over him. “Almost?”

Castiel’s face sterns. “I’m in love with you, Dean. Obviously, my feelings are stronger.”

“Cas …” Dean scoffs, stepping closer to hold the angel’s hand fully, “if you can live for thousands of years—”

“Millions” Cas corrects.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever. If you can live for millions of years, die a dozen times, become a God, become human, become—whatever the hell else you’ve morphed into, if you can still do all that, see all that … know as much as you know, but still not know how I feel about you standing in front of me right here, right now, then—I hate it break it to you, buddy … but you don’t know half as much as you think you do.”

“Dean, what are you—”

Dean shuts him up the only way he knows how … or more, the only way he wants to.

Miracle’s head perks up as the two beings kiss above him.

And they kiss, and they kiss—and they hold each other until the sun laps the world again and begins to breach the other ends of those fields; but Dean no longer wants to fall off their edge. He just wants to stay in his room, stuck between his two miracles, holding onto this happiness, holding on to this life.

“I want you to be happy, Dean” Castiel whispers, face buried into the collar of Dean’s shirt.

“Then stay” Dean says back, breathing in the smell of the angel’s hair – and it smells like clouds. He knows that’s the smell, even though he’s never been high enough to experience it.

“Dean …” Castiel pulls away again. “I need to go soon. I need to go back to Heaven—I need to go back to Jack and the other angels; and I need you to live your life. Start that job, start a family of your own, and be happy … your happiness is what I died for.”

“No” Dean is shaking his head hard, gripping onto the angel’s side and digging in his nails. “No, you couldn’t have died for that … because the second you were gone,my happiness was gone too. Don’t you get it, man? I’m no good without you.”

“You’re everything good, Dean. When will you learn that?”

“Cas, stop —  I’m saying that I don’t want to do this without you!”

“Dean” Castiel whispers, kissing Dean’s red, wet eyes, “you will never be without me. That’s what my being here is supposed to prove to you. As long as you exist … wherever you exist, I will be right there with you.”

Dean nods against Castiel’s cheek, pulling him closer, holding on for dear life, because it is dear … he sees that now. He knows it to be true. “You promise?”

“Of course, Dean.”

“But ... when will I be able to see you again?”

Castiel kisses his temple, his lips, blessing every freckle, praying to every tear that falls from Dean’s eyes. “When your time on earth is done.”

“That long?”

Blue eyes hold him steady, hold him to the earth, ground Dean in a way that’s never failed him … not since Castiel first pulled him from Hell. “It won’t be long enough. The world deserves your gifts, Dean Winchester; and I will be ready and waiting—as long as it takes. Just promise me you’ll be happy, you’ll live and love the world you’ve saved. The world that I save for you. And when you do finally make it up to heaven, know that I’ll be there waiting for you and loving you still.”

Dean’s eyes open. The room is quiet—the faint scent of clouds and rain, and promise still hang in the air.

Miracle hops onto the bed to greet him, and Dean welcomes him with open arms.

And when Sam says he’s been thinking about Cas—about Jack, Dean knows that the only thing he can say is what Castiel told him as they held one another the night before; whether it had been a dream, or something more, it was all still real, and it all settled Dean’s heart to a steady pace—one that it would beat to until its very last.

“If we don’t keep living, then all that sacrifice is gonna be for nothing.”

And when he sits beside Bobby in Heaven and hears him say Castiel’s name—Dean knows that the angel will kick his ass for coming by so soon, but he quickly smiles to himself, because... he told the guy before:

He didn’t want to do this without him.

[awholelotofladybug]

Stand Up 2: A Stammering Adrien AU Moment

Based on this AU.

While hanging out with her friends, Chloé comes across a bully named Katrina, who hails from an upper class family and has some things to say to Chloé.

Katrina: You know, Chloé, I’m impressed. Not everyone can say they’re okay with giving up their dignity.

Chloé: Excusez-moi?

Katrina: I’m just saying. You haven’t done anything worth any notoriety lately, you adopted that mangy, junkyard dog, you hang out with undesirables, and you’re dating that wannabe, Luka, who looks like he dresses out of a dumpster. You’ve let your inner circle get so, ugh, tacky.

Chloé: *face starts to turn red*

Marc: Uh oh...

Aurore: This can’t be good. 

Katrina: Seriously, you used to have much higher standards. I’m embarrassed for you.

Chloé: *eyes turn bloodshot, vein in her neck throbs, and jaw clenches*

Katrina: If I were you, I would ditch these losers, and get back into the right crowd. The In-Crowd. Au Revoire. *laughs and starts to leave*

Chloé: *seething with rage*

Sabrina: Now, Chloé, calm down. Don’t let her get to you.

Marc: Deep breaths, honey. Breathe before you blow, remember?

Chloé: *gets up and storms towards her*

Sabrina: Chloé, no!

Katrina: *looks behind her to see an angry Chloé* Uh oh...

Aurore: *covers her eyes* I can’t watch*

Chloé: *looks like she’s about to tear her apart*

Marc: This will not end well...

Chloé: *takes a deep breath and calms down* Those “undesirables” are my friends, that “mangy, junkyard dog” is a sweet, loving pet, and my boyfriend’s “dumpster outfit?” It’s called “punk.”

Katrina: Well...

Chloé:  As for your “In-Crowd”, I’ve been there, done that, and frankly, it’s not for me, not anymore. My friends make me feel better than the “In-Crowd” ever could, and they do it without brown-nosing or putting people down. The only reason you’re even bothering me, Katrina, is to make yourself look good for that “In-Crowd.” If I were you, I’d take a moment to reflect on my life. Give the In-Crowd a rest, and make some real friends, ones who don’t come with a price tag. That’s what I did. Au Revoir *turns back around and walks away*

Katrina: Well, I... You... UGH! Whatever! *storms off*

Chloé: *sits back down* Well, that’s taken care of. *readjusts her cardigan*

Sabrina: Chloé, that was amazing! 

Aurore: You didn’t even lose your temper!

Chloé: Well, I had something to say to her, and I don’t think getting angry would have gotten the point across.

Marc: You did good, honey. You did good.”

Chloé: *smiles* Thanks, you guys.

[bicount-de-lettenhove]

Preferences are a Privilege that Geralt Doesn't Get to Have - Part 2: Dog Meat Boogaloo

TWs: graphic violence, blood, food horror, mentions of self harm

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The wraith contract hadn’t been that difficult to fulfil; he’d had time to prepare his blade with oil and then had been able to summon, trap and dispatch her with minimal injury. Standing by Roach in the moonlight, a safe distance from the cemetery, he had gulped down a dose of white honey to clear the toxins from his system. He is about halfway back to the village when he hears baying and snarling from the dark trees. He urges Roach into a gallop but the pack of wild dogs are already upon them, leaping at him, jaws snapping. Geralt draws his sword and swings, cleaving a dog clear in half as Roach runs. The forest is dense and she dodges to the right of a tree, then wheels around, panicked, as a warg appears in front of her out of the dark. Geralt hangs on, gathering the reins in short as he tries to turn her so that he can swing at the warg with his sword hand, but a dog leaps up behind her, its claws raking down her flank. She screams and bucks, sending the dog flying. The rest of the pack are closing in and she rears, throwing Geralt to the ground. Then she backs up and he yells in pain as she crushes his shin with her hind hoof, rearing again. The dogs are circling around her, the braver ones darting in to snap at Geralt where he lies trapped. Roach moves her hind hoof and he swears, rolling and reaching for his silver sword. The dogs are already tearing at him now that Roach has moved and he’s easy prey. He brings the pommel of the sword down and feels the crack of a skull at the same time as jaws close on his thigh and drag him sideways. He thrashes, swinging at the warg that has its teeth clamped deep into his leg, and warm blood - some his, some the warg’s - sprays over him. Claws rake at his back, a dog snarls and takes a chunk out of his shoulder. More teeth close into the side of his abdomen and he pulls the sword up, slitting the dog’s throat. He elbows another and it circles around and then sinks its teeth into his thigh, shaking its head to tear a chunk of meat free. He screams, manages to get a hand around its skinny neck and twists, snapping it and dropping the limp body to the side. There are few enough of them now that he has time to form a sign. He uses Aard to blast the remaining dogs back, and hears one of them slam into a tree, dead weight falling to the ground. He casts Quen but he can already hear the baying disappearing into the trees; the pack must have found easier prey to hunt. 

He lies there, panting, and blinks up at the moon as he tries to gather the strength to move. He can feel the blood running down his sides and soaking the ground, and he’s already feeling dizzy and tired; he doesn’t have very long. He won’t make it back to the village without passing out, and Roach has bolted with his Swallow in her saddle bags. ‘Fuck.’ He growls, then heaves himself to sitting. His head pounds and the nausea is already rising but there’s only one thing he can do. He’s always hated this bit, he thinks, as he reaches for his knife. He slits one of the less mangy looking dogs down the stomach, organs spilling out onto the blood-soaked ground in a steaming pile. He reaches into the slippery mass and messily frees the liver. His shaking hands mean he nicks the colon and the foul stench of shit rolls over him, but he brings the liver up to his mouth and takes a bite, his mouth filling with the sour, powdery meat. He swallows it down, barely chewing, trying to focus on the feeling of the blood loss subsiding rather than the sickly warmth of the meat in his mouth. When the liver is gone, he pulls back the skin and hacks a chunk of meat from the dog’s skinny haunch. It’s stringy and the tendons are hard to chew, making him gag when he swallows part of the meat and the rest of it almost chokes him, attached by a string of sinew. He swallows back bile and takes another bite, the blood running down his chin.

‘Sweet Melitele’s sagging tits, Geralt. What are you doing?’ Fuck. He startles, whirling around to face Jaskier, whose mouth is open, looking between him and the meat in his hand, his face wearing an expression of utter horror. For a moment it’s quiet and Geralt can see that Jaskier is trying to school his features into something gentler. Then rage overtakes him. Jaskier should know by now that Geralt is a mutant - a monster. He doesn’t need the bard’s pity. He stumbles to his feet and lurches towards Jaskier, who instinctively takes a step back, eyes widening in fear. Good. Geralt knows how he must look, so he takes full advantage of it.

‘Fuck off.’ He snarls, but the idiot bard doesn’t move. ‘Jaskier.’ Geralt bears his teeth, blood coating his lips. ‘Fuck. Off.’ Jaskier shakes his head minutely as if to clear it, stumbling backwards. ‘Right, yes. I’ll just be -’ He indicates vaguely over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Geralt. ‘I’ll just be back at the inn.’ He starts to turn away, then looks back. ‘Geralt, it’s -’ he starts. But he sees Geralt’s expression and his mouth clicks shut. ‘Right.’ 

The sun is starting to rise by the time Geralt has healed so that he can walk, rounded up roach and made it back to the village. He unlocks the door of the inn room they’re sharing. A small, vicious part of him wants the bard to be gone, but when he opens the door he sees Jaskier sitting on the bed, lute in his lap, utterly asleep. The candle by the bed has burned out but Geralt can see Jaskier’s face by the grey dawn light, features slack and mouth hanging open, utterly vulnerable. Maybe he actually is an idiot, Geralt thinks. He clearly has no self preservation. He stands there for a moment, listening to the bard’s peaceful breathing, then frees his swords from his back and drops them noisily to the floor, startling Jaskier awake. 

‘Geralt!’ He squeaks, disorientated and blinking in the dawn light. Geralt continues to remove his armour, not looking in Jaskier’s direction. ‘What time is it? Is it late? Or - sort of-’ He squints out of the window ‘early? I was just - uh - resting my eyes, waiting for inspiration to strike - the perfect simile, the perfect rhyme - you know how it can be.’ Geralt doesn’t. ‘Anyway, how was the contract?’ His tone is forcedly bright. ‘I thought you were taking your time last night so I would come and lend a hand! And then -ah, well- we all know what happened then, and - well I thought you might never come back, so there’s that.’ Jaskier suddenly loses momentum and pauses nervously. Then he remembers - ‘Bath! There’s a bath! It’s probably cold by now but I’m sure you can-’ he flicks his hand in an imitation of a witcher sign, moving away towards the bath ‘-witcher it hot again.’ Geralt feels something warm in his chest. Probably heartburn, he thinks. 

Jaskier chatters relentlessly as Geralt bathes, but once Geralt is dressed again in fresh clothes, patching what he can of his tattered armour, the bard grows quiet and thoughtful. 

‘Geralt?’ he asks, and Geralt knows that tone - knows that it precedes a question about witchers. He knows what Jaskier wants to ask, but he’s not going to make it any easier for him by anticipating his question. 'The - uh - you know - the dogs? The dog… meat…' He frowns, and Geralt feels his frustration rising again. How is this so hard for Jaskier to understand? If Jaskier can't accept Geralt as the mutated freak he is, that's not Geralt's problem. 

'What about it?' he growls, not looking up. He hears Jaskier shift his weight.

'I don't mind. Not that you care what I think, I know.' Geralt hums. 'Rude. But I was just wondering.' A breath. 'Do you like it?' Geralt looks up; that wasn't the question he was expecting. Jaskier's expression is painfully open, and Geralt looks straight back down at his work, suddenly feeling trapped. Why does it matter whether he likes it? It's what his body needs; he doesn't have to like it. That's a stupid question, he thinks, angrily. 

'Why does that matter?' It comes out rougher than he means, and jaskier flinches minutely, then stands up and crosses the room to pick up his lute, the picture of nonchalance except for the slightly raised heart rate that's now all Geralt can hear. He grits his teeth. 

'Well, I was just wondering. Didn't want you to go without on my account. My delicate sensibilities won't be offended. If that's-' he pauses to gesture at Geralt '-what you like.'

'I mean,' grits out Geralt, 'why would it matter what I like?' He hasn't looked up, but he can feel that Jaskier is looking at him. He pushes the needle through the leather with more force than necessary and it plunges into his thumb. That vicious part of him wants to push it deeper, but an infection in his sword hand is the last thing he needs. He pulls it back out and wipes the bead of blood off on his shirt, anger boiling over. 

'It doesn't fucking matter, Jaskier. Stop asking stupid questions.' He snarls. Jaskier stops tuning his lute, and for a moment Geralt thinks he's going to say something. But he obviously thinks better of it, and goes back to his tuning. Good, thinks Geralt, standing and slamming his half-mended armour onto the chest he'd been sitting on with a thud. He kneels, trying to clear his mind of irritation so he can meditate. He closes his eyes. Maybe he's finally succeeded in pushing the bard away. Maybe Geralt will come to and find himself alone, Jaskier's clothes and toiletries and lute gone from the room. Maybe he'll finally be able to make his way on the path without a constant stream of chatter and music alerting every man and monster on the continent to his presence. He hopes Jaskier will be gone, he thinks coldly. A familiar ache settles in his throat and he swallows it down, focusing on his meditation. 

When Geralt does resurface, the first thing he hears is Jaskier humming under his breath as he works on a melody. He keeps his eyes closed; the bard doesn't know he's awake yet. For the second time in as many hours, Geralt feels that peculiar warmth in his chest. Heartburn, he thinks, and opens his eyes.

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There we go two drabbles in one night !! I had the day off work today so it's a special bumper edition of fic.

This is heavily based off the game!lore, as in you can eat disgusting shit and Geralt will regenerate health. Except then I peppered in a bit of Netflix!Geralt's Turn-Every-Emotion-Into-Anger and added some General Suffering, as a treat.

This is part of a freeform series of short and unconnected drabbles based around Geralt denying that he has preferences, and Jaskier's reactions. Part 1 is here.

Enjoy!

[redemptionbaby]

Can I get some Kieran getting treated to a night out? Like get that boy a bath, some food and a party because he deserves something nice

Kieran Duffy

“W-what? You mean it? Y-yer gonna take me out?”

Honestly. At first? He’s pretty sure this is just like a cover and that you’re actually just going to finally take him out into an open field and shoot him like a lame racehorse. You’re gonna take him somewhere real far and just give him the ol’ yeller treatment. This is it. He had a nice ride I guess. Thrice he ate some berries and once a pear.

When you actually stop in town he’s starting to believe you actually are gonna do something nice with him. Probably ultimately humiliating, but it’ll probably be nice for at least a little while. The others probably put you up to it cause they know he likes you so much and they wanna dash his hopes.

The bath takes a long time for him to accept. He remembers when his balls were on the line, so he’s a little hesitant to be totally naked in an unfamiliar place. You know those videos where they like gently hose down a mangy dog rescued from years of abuse? It’s like that.

But when you do finish up, he feels like a whole new man. He hasn’t been this clean in years. He feels fresh to death. His pores are finally getting some fucking air. If you killed him at this point? He wouldn’t even be mad.

And dinner? Like a real dinner cooked at a stove? Not just leftover mystery soup? What the fuck?

He gets a fine little cut of beef with some roasted veggies and mashed potatoes. He hasn’t eaten this well since... well, since his parents were alive. Since he was a boy. And he eats like he hasn’t eaten anything in years. He never wants this meal to end.

But it does, and he sits and enjoys the music in the restaurant for a good while, and a beautiful walk on the finer parts of town with you. The first time he’s been able to just talk and relax in such a long time. Again, right like you do with an animal before you euthanize it. But at this point he’s just resigned himself to a good time.

He’s kinda sad to be going back to camp. Back to shoveling hay and getting picked on, getting shoved in the dirt and ignored. But it was nice while it lasted.

Seeing as it’s late he’s surprised to see the lanterns still lit when you ride in

Waiting for him are crates of beer, music, the gang, Arthur in front of them

“So! Ya finally made it huh, O’Driscoll?”

“W-what is all this? What’s the occasion?”

“Long overdue is what it is. Yer one of us now, plain and simple. S’about time we made it official. Unless yer fixin’ to sit lookin’ like an idiot on that horse all night?”

There are tears in Kieran’s eyes as his lip starts quivering into a smile. A real one. He’s almost completely forgotten how to make one.

“N-no sir!”

Optional:

Kieran’s eyes drudge open, sore and aching, greeted by darkness

His blindfold removed, he moves his wrists to find them raw and bleeding against rope blackened with dirt and blood

“Had enough beauty sleep, traitor? You’d best be ready to tell us where them Van Der Lindes are hidin’ or we’ve got another long day ahead of us!”

[bibliocratic]

For your writing prompts, I’ve always found that the phrase “for you” has a certain gravity, so maybe something with that? :3

This was such a good prompt, which is my only excuse for why this is three days late and barely counts as a drabble at all.

jonmartin, post-S5 domesticity and parenthood

“He was showing me another room he's made it to on his game,” Jon offers as an explanation as he ambles back into the living room. “Some sort of creepy dungeon, lots of what I can only presume are zombies. He can turn into a dragon now with this magic cloak thing, it's all very sophisticated.”

Martin, whose knowledge and ability with video games both started and ended with having a go on someone's Game Boy Colour one rainy school break, makes a supportive, 'showing-interest' noise as he feels around for the remote before finding it wedged under his thigh, muting the sound of a gritty BBC drama he is clearly not enamoured by. He shuffles over to make room on the sofa. Disturbing the cat, who jumps off his knees, casting a betrayed gaze upon the offender before she haughtily goes to commandeer the high-backed chair usually taken up by Jon.

“Dragons are one of the few things that haven't turned out to actually exist, and tried to murder us.”

“Oh, don't be like that,” Jon smiles as he drops down next to him.  Martin's got a beer out of the fridge now Lewis has gone to bed, and Jon leans forward to snaffle it from the coffee table, takes an  slow sip, winces at the flavour and puts it back down on its coaster. “Swimming's at ten Saturday, isn't it? Still haven't fixed his goggles.”

“Half past, they had to move the rota round for some other thing,” Martin says distantly.  In the background, someone on the TV has their mouth bared in shouting, and some grim-dark poorly shaved detective is holding a gun.

Martin's shoulders are set tight. He's twisting his wedding ring round and round and round, fidgety and unsettled all evening, and now he's leant forward with his elbows on his knees, half-way through a beer on a Thursday night even though he can get funny about drinking in the house on a weekday.

“You want to talk about it?” Jon asks quietly.

Martin frowns, but doesn't ask how he knows. His palm opens from clenched to fold their fingers together, his touch chilly from the condensation on the bottle.

Jon waits for him.

Martin clears his throat. He sources out the remote again and flicks the TV to standby, the dour detective vanishing morosely.

“I'd like to talk to you about something,” Martin replies eventually. “And I know that we're not going to agree on it, but I want you to at least – hear me out, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon says carefully. A frown has rooted on his own face, but he pushes the curious simmer to a lower heat and tries to be patient. “Alright. What – what do you want to talk about?”

“What happened last week.”

“Martin...”

“Let me finish,” Martin says, his tone slightly sharper. He doesn't shout, never in the house. The only time Lewis sees his dad raise his voice in anger, he's belligerently got his hands in the guts of the boiler, pride the only thing stopping him call a plumber, or else he's stubbed his toe against the side table he always manages to catch.

Jon lets out a heavy breath.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine – we – we can talk about it. You know what I think.”

“Yeah, well, I don't.”

“It was an outlier. It doesn't mean there's a conspiracy.”

“I can't see why you're downplaying this. It was a threat, and you got hurt.”

“A few bruises from the fall. Look, Daisy and Basira handled it. They were – they were a lone Hunter. It wasn't anything organised, so I don't see the need to twist myself in knots when it won't happen again.”

Martin scoffs dismissive. “Last I counted, we've had three 'it won't happens again' in the last ten years. Face it, we've been lucky. This one got too close.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Jon says, deliberately calmly. Martin'll get to his point eventually, but he'd rather cut through whatever he's been stewing in for the past several hours.

Martin throws up his hands.

“I am suggesting that we consider the very real possibility that something like this might happen again. Something worse than some mangy Hunter or clueless cultist. These things out there.... there's more than one of them who'd see a former Archivist as a threat, Christ, I just want you to take this seriously...”

“I do take – ” Jon's voice spikes before he exhales hard and lowers his tone again. “Of course I take this seriously. Of course I worry. But if someone came here, if anyone came here, I'd – I'd Know....”

“Knowing didn't stop you from getting hurt,” Martin insists.  “It – it doesn't make you invincible.”

“I've never thought that...”

“We need to prepared, is all I'm saying. Your... the knowledge you get from the Eye, it's so much, it's so much less than before. So what if it's not enough, what if it tells you something too late or not at all?”

“Martin, I'm not going to get myself worked up over maybes.”

“Maybe you should!” Martin snaps.

They are both bullishly quiet for a moment before Martin holds his hands up again.

“Alright,” he presses on, lower pitched than before. “Alright, then lets deal with facts then. Fact number one: there are – there are forces out there that want to see you come to harm.”

“Martin.”

“Am I correct?” Martin repeats. His gaze won't leave Jon's. His temper's made his neck and throat go blotchy, but he's pressing his hands down too hard on his knees to stop their tremors.

Jon meets his eyes.

“Correct,” he says. Because it's what Martin wants to hear, because it's what Jon tries not to think about when the night-time drags loud and sleepless, and every noise he cannot account for takes on the guise of malevolence.

“Fact two,” Martin continues. “There is the possibility – no, no, listen to me, Jon – there is the chance, however small, that those forces, those people, could come here.”

“So what, we should install more locks? Buy more fire extinguishers?”

“This isn't funny,” Martin says waspish.

“I'm not laughing,” Jon replies dogged.

Martin lets out another aggrieved noise. He takes a moment, steeples his hands against the lower half of his face.

“That Hunter,” Martin says slowly. “Had our address on them. Knew where we lived. If Daisy and Basira hadn't sorted them out, they would have come here, and tried again. And if it can happen once, then it could happen again. A-and some of those people, the ones that serve their gods a-and want to make a name for themselves by going after an Archivist – ”

Here Martin's voice catches thready, the centre of his terrors finally excavated.

“I can't – I can't protect you from that, Jon,” he confesses. “I can't protect Lewis from that. And if someone comes here, what if you can't either? You're not – you're not exactly in the game of e-exploding people any more.”

“Been trying to give it up,” Jon replies. Martin's laugh is a little wet.

“Sets a bad example anyway.”

Jon rubs the skin of Martin's hand. He doesn't know what he can say to make this better.

“I would like to propose an idea,” Martin says. Softer now. More tired. “and I-I want you to hear me out.”

“OK.”

“Whatever it is.”

“You're not exactly inspiring confidence.”

Martin gives him a Look.

“OK,” Jon says, rubbing his thumb over Martin's knuckles. “OK, I promise. Whatever it is, I-I'll at least listen.”

Martin nods, and though his lips are pinched, he squeezes Jon's hand once gratefully. He separates them, and gets up, going over to his shoulder bag slouched by the door. He'd been vague, earlier this week, when he'd gone out on an 'errand'.  Jon had assumed it was something to do with their anniversary in the next few weeks.

Martin takes out a thick clump of folders from the stomach of the bag. Jon's heart drops when he sees the green-ink stamp of an imperious owl on the front of the beige folders but he says nothing.

“I have been thinking,” Martin says, planting himself back down. “About back-up plans. Last resorts, you know.  If someone does come here, if they're more than either of us can handle, if we can't keep our son safe.”

He passes Jon the folders. They're stuffed wide with statements, corroborating evidence, photographs, police reports, newspaper snippets attached with paper clips. Jon reads the introductions of a few statements as he flicks through, feeling not a little unmoored by the way this conversation has progressed – Statement of Dai Williams, regarding a library in Blaenau Gwent; Statement of  Michalis Charalambous, regarding an unusual wedding present – and something aches in him like a barely-forgotten hunger, twinges like an old wound.

Near the top of the pile,  there's a photograph, blown up to A4 size, of a book. The backdrop of an unremarkable desk, the cover itself blue backed, scuffed and foxed with age, the silver title decorated with florid curlicues: The Shipping Forecast and Other Nautical Curiosities. There's no author.

“What's this?”

“It's a Leitner,” Martin says. Not briskly, but straight-off the bat.

Jon pushes down several reactions with difficulty. Martin knows how he feels about Leitner. Martin wouldn't bring this to him, knowing what histories have left their scars on him, and beg for Jon to listen to him if it wasn't important.

“Go on,” Jon says, and nothing else.

“This book is currently in Archive Storage, where it's been for the past twenty or so years,”  Martin continues. He's to-the-point now, direct, and Jon appreciates it.  “Those are copies of all the statements I could find related to it, or people who have been in contact with it, and it makes up a fairly consistent picture of ownership and exchange for at least the past hundred and fifty years, records get a bit patchy before that.”

“Which Power?”

“The Lonely.”

That makes Jon look up. Martin's jaw is set for an argument but his voice betrays him.

“Tell me,” he says.

“The statements are all mostly the same. The book gets found or left as inheritance or in library donations, and some poor sod picks it up. Specifically, what happens is it renders people invisible when they read it.”

Jon blinks.

“... you're taking the piss.”

“No. Practical research did some basic experiments to test it before it was boxed up properly, they've – there's notes there, if you want to read in detail, but basically, you read a few lines of it, and you and whatever you're holding can't be seen. It wears off after a while, depending on how much you've read. The researchers went up to about a page.”

“There's a catch, obviously.”

“It's addictive to some people. Some of the people in the statements can use it once, get the heebie-jeebies then never touch it again, some of them can't shake the urge. The – er invisibility is more tempting to those vulnerable to the Lonely, or so the hypothesis goes. They read a little more, a little more and then, they're just gone.”

“So it's dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Then why? Why show me this?”

“If someone comes here,” Martin says, “If it's – if it's the Vast o-or the Desolation or even th-the Slaughter, we can't fight them. We can't, OK, we-we have nothing that we could fight them with. So we can't fight them, and we can't outrun them, and I don't think hiding under the bed and hoping they leave is going to do much either. The best we can hope for is that we have a few minutes grace courtesy of your magical eyeballs. And that would at the very least give us time, to get Lewis somewhere safe, get out of harm's way, to go to Daisy's or something.”

“And your great plan is that we use a Leitner to what, turn invisible and sneak away unseen?”

“I'm asking you at least consider it.”

“I have considered it and it's – it's a Leitner, Martin! You know how I –  They're not toys, they're dangerous!”

“I know that! Of course I know that. But so is being unprotected! We wouldn't be using it for – it would be a last resort, nothing more. You can read the statements and the reports. I've read them all, over and over again, I-I've checked and doubled checked. As far as I can tell, the turning invisible is a temporary state.”

“For the right people. What about you?”

Martin does not meet his eyes.

“I wouldn't be using it.”

“...What.”

“I wouldn't – I wouldn't be able to,” he says. Quieter, self-conscious. “Much as I like to think that I'm – no. No, it'd be, it'd be too much of a temptation.”

Jon's tone has slipped flat and hard.

“So you're suggesting an escape plan that, what, doesn't include you?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Jon – ”

“No!” Jon wants to get up, to stand, to shake Martin by his ridiculous shoulders, because how dare he, how dare he. “No, how can you even ask me that?”

“Because I need to,” Martin urges. “Because it's not just us. Because if the worst happens, I need to know we have some way of protecting Lewis, that you could use that book to make sure he's safe.”

“And leave you.”

“I'm not the one they want.”

“I don't remember them being all that picky about hurting whoever was in their way,” Jon bites back, and he knows he's louder now, that his eyes are getting wet and his face hot. “You can't know that.”

“No,” Martin replies honestly. “No, I-I can't.”

Jon rubs at his eyes. The anger's boiled over and out of him at a dizzyingly come-down from furious. He listens, wondering if they've woken Lewis, but he doesn't hear the squeak of bed-springs. There's a wind picking up outside, and the cat twitches in sleep.

He doesn't feel angry any more. Just sick and scared.

“That's not fair,” he swallows, looking at the damp-blurred image of his husband's face. “That – that's not fair, to ask this.”

Martin's moved closer. Places his hand back over Jon's.

“I know,” he murmurs, and he sounds sorry, but that doesn't help either of them.  “I know it's not. And if there was – was any other option, I wouldn't even think of suggesting it. But I'd, I'd like you to think about it. Please. For me.”

Jon leafs through the folders in his hands without taking any of them in. Martin strokes his back soothingly, and crowds in too close, not close enough.

“I'll read them,” Jon says eventually. Wetly and unhappily. “ The statements, reports, I-I will. For you. And if – and only if they seem legitimate – I'll come with you and have a look at the book myself. And that's all I can promise you.”

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, and presses his lips to the thinning crown of Jon's hair, Jon leaning back slightly against his chest. He clears his throat. “Basira's all for performing some more clinical tests on the book, if you wanted some more concrete validation.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Jon says, feeling too tired to enquire further.

They linger on the sofa for a while after Martin shoves the folders back into his shoulder bag.

“I better put the dishes away,” Martin says.

“Leave them. I'll do them in the morning.”

Their bedtime routine is closer and quieter. Usually Martin goes up first, and Jon watches the newspaper review or the tail end of a documentary, but tonight he trails after him as Martin checks all the plugs and double-checks all the locks.

Martin pokes his head into Lewis' room, even though they said their goodnights hours ago. Jon can't begrudge him the anxiety.

“Kicked all the blankets off as usual,” he reports back as they knock elbows in the bathroom, Jon's mouth full of toothpaste, passing Martin a water glass to take his statins. Martin dutifully swallows the pill before reaching for his own toothbrush. “He sleeps like you, arms flung out all over the place.”

Jon doesn't deny it.

Jon gets into bed first, and fusses with chargers and alarms while Martin gets into a t-shirt and boxers. He gets the light and Jon follows the sound he makes as he approaches the bed in plunging darkness, the disturbance of the covers. Jon immediately curls against his shape, tucking himself tight and buried against his chest.

Martin doesn't comment on how clingy Jon is, how he knots their legs together, clutches him over-tight. On how hot the bed is going to get, on how his arm will go numb quickly from the angle. His own arms come around just as fiercely. He tells Jon goodnight, that he loves him into his hair, and Jon whispers it back into the dark and the heat, and knows it's true to the bones of him.

Neither of them sleep all that much that night.

[hopeisour4letteredword]

personal furnace, ch6

Summary: Winter renovations at the inn in Zaphias leave Yuri in need of a warm bunk for the night. Good thing he can always count on his good buddy Flynn.

Read it below or at the link to AO3 in the notes.

When Yuri clambers through the window for the sixth time in as many days, Flynn glances up from his book, then does a double-take as something suddenly occurs to him. Sure enough, Yuri is still only wearing the thick, woolen tunic he stole from Flynn as his top layer. Flynn still doesn't mind lending it to him, but—

"I could have sworn you said you had better jackets with you when you first arrived."

"I do," Yuri says. He grabs one of Flynn's blankets and dives over to what's rapidly becoming his spot at the hearth. It's incidentally also at the base of Flynn chair. Has Flynn been subconsciously inching his armchair closer to this spot? He feels like it was at a different angle relative to the fireplace at the beginning of this week. "But the really good winter stuff sucks ass to climb in."

"Really?"

"Yeah. At least the coat I got in Dahngrest does. I complained about the range of motion when we were getting it and Raven said it was probably better that I couldn't try to climb sheer ice, anyway."

Well, Raven wasn't wrong.

"Hang on," Flynn says, exasperatedly, as Yuri's point sets in. "You aren't wearing your coat because it would make it too hard to climb to my window? Yuri."

"What?"

"There is frost in your hair."

"The coat wouldn't cover that."

"I really don't know what to do with you sometimes," Flynn sighs. He puts his bookmark in and leans over to tuck Yuri's blanket-cloak in around his neck. Yuri leans into the touch with a grateful hum. "Please just wear your coat and come in through the front. I can talk to the night shift guards in advance if you're worried about it."

"I don't want the Knights to know my plans for the evening," Yuri mutters.

"I am the Knights."

"Oh, gods, spare me." Yuri shifts his weight so that when he leans back, his nape bumps against Flynn's knees, and he can tip his head back into Flynn's lap to give him a withering glare. "It's not that weird to not want strangers to know my business just because you're a big shot now."

"Maybe it isn't," Flynn says, more to avoid having this recurring argument distract from his main point than because he believes it, "But that's not worth freezing to death over."

"I won't freeze to death," Yuri says. "I'm not running around like this the whole day or anything. I wear the coat for most of it. I just take it off at the end of the night to come here. That's only fifteen minutes or so."

"At night, when it's coldest."

"I'm fine, Flynn."

"You did that after Ted's pipe burst, too," Flynn realizes, aloud. He sighs again. He lets his head dip forward, bending at the waist until his forehead gently bumps against Yuri's. "If you won't do it for yourself, will you do it for me? Please?"

"If you're really that worried about it, fine," Yuri says. He reaches up and pats at Flynn's head. "I'll wear the damn coat."

"...You're still going to try to climb in it, aren't you."

"Not to offend any kind of weird pride you have in the security of the castle, but this isn't exactly the kind of high-caliber infiltration where it could cause me injury instead of mild discomfort."

Flynn decides it's far too late in the evening to be weighing his options between tightening castle security for very legitimate safety reasons and leaving them lax enough that Yuri can easily visit the way he's most comfortable with. He knows he'll be more sensible about it in the morning. He sits back upright, shaking his head.

"I'd say something absurd like, 'as long as you're sure it's safe,' but I'm certain it's not. Please just try to be careful."

"I know what I'm doing," Yuri says, indignantly, and Flynn feels confident about that, at least. Even if Yuri won't confess to the exact level of danger aloud, he's aware of whatever it is he's getting himself into. "Also, just to go back to an earlier point, not wearing that coat is the only reason I didn't get frostbite from helping Ted. It shielded me from the worst of the water, but then it was completely soaked for the rest of the night. I'd have hurt myself more insisting on wearing it than I did just booking it back to warmth."

"Where in heaven's name did you dry it?" It would have frozen stiff if he'd just left it in the cold, and then he wouldn't have had it the next day, either.

"Mariam's front room. She's got it warm enough for customers. Felt bad having her hang my sopping coat out front where the guests could see it, though."

Flynn strongly suspects that there's another warm room somewhere in Mariam's inn that Yuri's coat was relocated to for the night. Quite possibly that room is Yuri's.

"It probably wasn't the worst thing that's been in Mariam's front room," Flynn says, instead of any of that.

"Eh, that's probably true." Yuri's head is still in Flynn's lap, so Flynn can see it when he grins. "You should see the stuff Espie keeps dragging in."

"Strays?" Esperanza is a friendly young lady. She seems like the sort that would be hopefully bringing mangy cats and dogs back to Mariam. But perhaps Flynn only thinks so because she reminds him of Yuri, when he was a peppy kid who ran around collecting animals in need and bringing them back to Mariam. Esperanza is much older than Yuri had been when he did that, but... Flynn doesn't mean to be rude, but Esperanza at sixteen seems to be at approximately a ten-year-old Yuri's level of naivety. Perhaps it's merely the learning curve of a recent entry to the Lower Quarter.

"Oh, yeah. Strays. Cool trash. Whatever muck she's gotten on herself messing around in the canals."

"You shouldn't encourage her to mess about in the canals, they're disgusting."

"We don't encourage it. Mariam gives her exactly the same dressing-down she used to give us, and Espie listens exactly as much as we used to."

"And what do you do?"

"Stay out of Mariam's way."

"Smart man," Flynn says. Yuri probably isn't around often enough to be egging Esperanza on too much. Hopefully she'll grow out of it on her own in good time. Then again, did Yuri ever grow out of it, really? "Well, as long as I'm pestering you about staying warm enough, can I persuade you to take another hot bath?"

"Are you saying I stink?" Yuri says, with good humor. "Mariam's communal bathrooms are working, you know. I've been taking showers."

"I'm not saying you stink," Flynn says. He brushes some hair out of Yuri's face. Yuri's eyelids flutter closed. "Just thought you might like to relax and be warm for a while, since you have to spend all day running around in the cold."

"Warm enough now," Yuri says. Flynn will accept that, if somewhat dubiously. He is camped in front of the fire with an extra blanket and whatever body warmth Flynn's legs give off. "I'd rather go to bed, honestly, since you're going to get us up stupid early again."

"I keep telling you you can sleep in."

"Even if I wanted to, I can't anymore. I'm afraid Cece will stab me if she comes up with breakfast and I don't partake."

"I really wonder what's gotten into her," Flynn murmurs, bemusedly. She hasn't asked how long Yuri will be staying in Flynn's quarters or when to stop bringing extra food. She just keeps stubbornly bringing two servings of breakfast. She had looked rather cross again the last time she brought it in and Yuri had been half a step away from leaving too soon to eat.

"Who knows," Yuri says. "Are we going to sleep or what?"

So they do.

Flynn does foist an extra pair of gloves and a scarf off on Yuri after breakfast the next morning, though. Who knows what other nonsense Yuri is getting up to without his coat. Flynn might not be able to keep him warm all day, but he can at least try to convince Yuri to keep himself warm.

Yuri wraps the scarf around his own neck with a look that warns Flynn he's accepting it as an indulgence to some idiocy of Flynn's. The gloves he shoves into his pocket.

But then he does climb out the window next, so Flynn supposes he'd rather Yuri had the grip he wants and expects for his own idiocy.