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marrowwife · 2 years

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- A WIP INTRO -

The trees were the kind he'd only seen in movies, towering sentries, solemn and ancient in a way that had never breached through the concrete of Los Angeles. Those trees were young and brash; he'd once told his Ma that plants in the city felt like orphans, taken from their family, lonely. She had pulled him close and whispered, ‘never tell your father about the plants, mijo, even if he asks, especially if he asks’.

- ABOUT -

supernatural/folklore, na rural fantasy

third person limited pov

first draft / writing & planning

trigger warnings tba; body horror, death, abusive parenting

- BLURB -

Robbie was thirteen when he met Dean, and he already knew that family did not equal blood, but he hadn't realised that family could mean the tree would grow, that it wasn't always the sawing away of rotted limbs and burning of roots that constituted change.

Robbie was sixteen when the four eyed, eight limbed creature that was Robbie-and-Dean abruptly amputated, a siamese hybrid severed into unequal parts; Just-Robbie and Just-Dean-and-Dean's-Secrets.

Robbie was sixteen when he learned that he wasn't the type to go down quietly.

Robbie was sixteen when the world changed irrevocably forever. When Robbie-and-Dean became more, became teeth and claws and forest and pack pack pack. When the tiny little town he had began to call home became just a little more magical and a whole lot more terrifying.

Robbie was twenty one when the storm hit. And it was rot and fire, like it had always promised to be.

This is a story about family, about coming of age, about identity and love and grief. And yes, about werewolves.

- CHARACTERS -

Robbie and Dean; have you ever had a best friend? Someone you know better than you would know your own soul if it walked right up to you and shook your hand? Have you ever had a brother? The smile and the laugh, the idea and the execution, the trouble and what follows. Have you ever had something so good you forgot the one rule you made yourself; never get used to it. Robbie should have stuck to the rules.

The Dare Family; there's always one in every small town, the family with their fingers on the pulse, Robbie has met Mayor Armitage and his son, but even outsiders like he know that Bendigo belongs to the Dares. Which is weird because they don't even live in the township. Hell, they didn't even attend high school until after the break, at the same time that everything started to go to shit. They're concervationists, Robbie, they take care of the reserve. They're weirdos and they're suddenly at every interesting thing that's happening to the town. And they've taken his best friend.

The Four; Dean Madden, Lola Novak, Nate Fletcher and Joshua Armitage. Before summer break they had nothing to do with each other. Now they're the four, joined at the hip and inexplicably the newest members of the Dare's inner circle. And they're the only people who seem to know why the woods aren't safe anymore.

The Rest of Us; Robbie was never good at making new friends but he's not the only one that things have changed for. He's not the only one that's noticing.

- TAGLIST -

(ask to be +/-)

@dreamwolves @inkingfireplace @kaiusvnoir @saltwaterbells @touchingmadness

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hanasnx · 9 months

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"not alone anymore."

You raked a hand through your hair, the cold night air fogging your breath as you stepped out the sliding glass door. Escaping the full swing of the party inside, you took refuge out on the balcony, and with trembling hands you struggled to take out a cigarette and a lighter. It was freezing out here compared to the stuffy inside, where the hot bodies dancing acted as a space heater. The dampness of your lips caught the cig, allowing you to check your watch for the time, wondering when you should be heading out. Staring at it for longer than a second told you that it had stopped at one AM. “Shit,” you muttered through your lips dangling the cigarette. How long had it been then? Tapping it out of anger didn’t work either, the face of the clock staring blankly at you. Instead, you tried to light your cig, cupping your hand around it. The lighter sparked, but didn’t catch, no matter how many times you rolled it. “C’mon, really?” A couple more times offered no solution, and you were about to toss and stamp the tobacco in your frustration.

“Need a light?” A voice coming from the side startled you, jumping in surprise, and turning to the source. It was dark out, but you could see. The source was tall, and you watched him rifle his pockets.

“Please,” you replied, inviting him over. Gingerly, he stepped to you, and cupped his hand to protect the fire from the wind, offering it to you. You brushed your hair back and leaned in, letting him light the end for you. Gently, you breathed in, and pinched the cig between your fingers so you could blow the smoke away from him. He pocketed the lighter.

“Sorry to scare you, thought you saw me.” he told you, but by this point you’d already forgotten.

“Hm? Oh,” You wrapped an arm under your chest to protect your middle from the air and to prop up your elbow, sipping your cig leisurely. The smoke warmed your lungs. “no sweat. Don’t sweat it,” you mumbled, kicking the ground underneath you to hear your shoe scrape against the concrete. You sniffed, and glanced at him. “Thanks for the light.” He noticed your small smile, and leaned back against the wall.

“No problem. It seemed like you were having a hard time,” Apparently he’d seen you curse at your watch and your lighter.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “I think I’m just ready to go home.”

“What’s keeping you?”

“Nothing, I guess,” You shrugged, rubbing your temple with the hand that held your cig. “Feel like if I go home, I’ll wonder why I didn’t stay. I’ve got that fear of missing out, you know?” You glanced at him after you asked the question, and you caught him looking at you already. You idled, having calmed down from the nicotine rush, you registered who you were speaking with. It hit you how cute this guy was. Dark hair, styled up in disheveled locks. Handsome face, with soft lips and crystal blue eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn he glanced at your mouth.

“I get that,” he said softly, and you inhaled sharply at the sound of his lowered voice.

You adjusted, mimicking him to rest against the wall, and flicking off the ash from your cig. “What about you? Why are you hiding out here?”

“Not really my scene. I’m just a wingman.” He peered over his shoulder to spy his friend cozying up with the woman he’d been talking to. “Looks like I’m a retired wingman.” He returned his gaze to you, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“‘A wingman’?” you parroted in disbelief, and you looked him up and down. “You?” His lips curled at the question, recognizing it for what it was. A subtle flirt. He gave you a sly look, and to change the subject you offered him the butt end of the cig, “Care for a draw?” He accepted it, your cold hands brushing past one another, and you watched the sharp angle of his jawline as he took a drag.

“Yeah, believe it or not,” he spoke through the smoke, some curling out from his nose. “I’ll be heading out soon.” You were still occupied by the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the brief contact.

“Shame,” you muttered without realizing, and while he took his second puff he eyed you curiously with a tilt of his head.

“‘Shame’?”

You rolled with it, since it was too late to back track. “Shame,” You shook your head, listening to the bump of the bass inside shake the apartment. “I was just about to ask you if you wanted to come back in with me for a dance.”

“Dance, huh?” he said with interest, handing off the roach. The temperature of your skin giving him an idea. “I’m not a big dancer.”

“I bet you’re great, c’mon,” You found yourself wanting him to stay. “Just one, I’ll be really nice even if you make a fool of yourself,” you assured, coaxing him.

He merely shook his head, “Maybe next time,” It was an empty promise. “Nah, I wanna grab a cup of coffee. You should come with.”

“I’m just saying, I find it hard to believe that out of every animal on the planet you’d wanna be a… porcupine.”

He eyed you over the rim of his mug, brows furrowed. He hissed when he placed it down. “And I’m just saying, that in a world full of predators, I’m gonna be the guy with the impaling armor.”

You shimmied in your seat, sizing him up. “You wouldn’t wanna be a predator?” you teased. “Most guys I ask usually go for one of the big cats, gator, rhino, or gorilla—“

“—Those are the most popular options—?”

“— From the guys I’ve asked, yes!” A smile tugged at his lips from the conversation, and you continued. “It’s science, really.”

“Science?”

“Science. I’m telling you. There’s a psychology to it.”

“Explain,” He took another sip of his coffee. The diner you two occupied was cool toned, greens and silvers and blues. Empty, except for a gray bearded man in the corner, and the two of you sitting on the bar stools, facing each other.

“The guys who say they’d be gator, those are the rednecks,” You began, and with fake interest, your companion perked up in his seat, flashing you a wide eyed expression.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” you told him playfully, reaching over to nudge his shoulder. He rested his cheek on his fist, and gestured for you to go on. “So those are gonna be the guys with the camo, they’re from Florida primarily, probably carry without a license.” You listed on your fingers, crossing your legs. “Gorilla guys are the big, buff for no reason— like The Rock-level buff— maybe less. From my research,” He raised his brows at you in feigned intrigue, knowing this was based on nothing but your own observations. “they’re more of the hit-first-ask-questions-later type. Rhinos too, however I think Rhinos are the more husky of the two. Other than that, those have been pretty interchangeable. Now, the cats, that’s where it gets interesting.” He checked his watch and glanced up at you, and you rolled your eyes at his bad joke. “I’m almost done. Lions are the vain type, usually long hair, real pretty boys, probably have a tattoo of one or want a tattoo of one.” Your eyes searched the ceiling, feeling hot under his gaze for talking this long. “Tigers are the serene type, zen, yoga, I’ve-trained-with-a-bo-staff and studied-abroad. Jaguars, usually black jaguars, are the goths. The piercings, the tats, the rockstar hair, skinny jeans, and tight v-necks.” You met his eyes.

“Done?”

“Mm-hmm,” You sipped your coffee, and added some cream before tasting it again.

“So what about porcupine guys? What do you think of them?” he asked, downing the last of his drink. You saw how his downturned lips attempted to hide his smile, betraying his eagerness to hear your opinion of him.

“Pretty cool, I guess.” You pushed out your lips, letting your gaze travel generously this time. “Tall, lanky—“ You noted the shift in his expression, and you revised, “—toned,” You narrowed your eyes, gauging his reaction. When it was satisfactory, you moved on, “Nice hair, pretty eyes. Very cool leather jacket.”

“What about personality?” he interjected, leaning back in his chair, and you were unable to ignore how he spread his knees.

“Calm,” Was your first thought, and he quieted. “charming, endearing.” Your gazes met, locking eyes as you finished. “Hopelessly alluring.”

As if to taunt you ever further, your companion inclined into your direction— and marginally you leaned in— but his purpose was to shed his leather jacket, sliding it off of his shoulders. Only encouraging his suspicions of your helpless attraction, you stare unapologetically, mesmerized by his elegant movement, and how close the two of you were. His dirty trick had done its dirty deed, and he folded the jacket within itself, tossing it onto the bar behind him so he could face you in his black turtleneck. One that highlighted his figure that had you wondering if he modeled clothing wear by the way he sported it like it was made for him. You moistened your lips and he glanced down at them, drawn to you like a moth to flame.

His voice was soft, feather-light and carressed your ears like a saint’s prayer. “So what animal did you choose?”

Having been lost in such a small and seemingly insignificant disrobing, you were stupefied. You shook your head as if to clear your brain fog, responding dreamily, “What?”

Since you required reengaging, he crossed his arms and fixed his elbow at the edge of the bar so he could insert himself further into the conversation. Demanding your attention, and begging you to check out how thick his arms looked in his sleeves. “You ask all these guys their philosophical animals so what did you say when they asked you?”

You flashed a confuddled furrow of your brow. Downturning your lips as you searched the corners of your mind for an answer even when it was doomed to chart a naughty course. “Um…” a single nervous chuckle emitted, “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked, actually.” All of a sudden, you were painfully aware of the kind of men you’ve been wasting your time with.

Perhaps the self-proclaimed “predators” had a bad streak of being conceited.

Somehow, he understood your entire thought process, watching your expressions shift. This was noted, but not commented on. “So?” he awaited your answer.

It took you a second to decide. He had spat his so easy, ready with an explanation as soon as you’d thought up the question. Did he choose a creature based on his preference toward it, or was it just the intelligent answer?

Did it really matter? It shouldn’t, yet here you were, worrying yourself over what this stranger would think of you. Pick you apart like you so carelessly did to the others in front of him. “I’ve always liked white foxes.” Insecure in your decision and how it shone through in your voice, implied an invitation for him to scrutinize you. You expected it.

A very slight shift in his expression, how he tilted his head, and his oceanic blue eyes traveling you from head to toe— was unhelpful in easing your nerves. “A white fox,” he hummed, interested, playful. “The storybook archetype of a clever and intelligent creature.” You swallowed. “The symbol of trickery, or luck, depending on your culture.” He bowed his head forward to catch your eye, looking at you through his brows, “Cunning, silver-tongued, and beautiful. However,” The start of his new sentence implied something promising, adjusting in his seat to tap his finger onto the bar. “a white fox suggests you hide something.”

It refreshed you to hear his thoughts about you. Eloquently stated, without sparing too many details. You hadn’t connected any dots without his assistance, but you were more alike to a white fox than you anticipated. Your famed animal inquiry allowed you a small and idiotic window into how people thought of themselves. Not only had he played your game, but he turned it around on you.

“Is that a bad thing?” you asked, unable to tear your eyes away from each other.

“I like a good mystery.”

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