#itwing

[tnsfrbc]

75 வருடங்களாக மக்களுக்கு நடந்து கொண்டுயிருக்கும் கொடுமைகள்!

[softsyart]

its starting to feel like hoa hoa hoa hoa hoa

[airocats]

[fipindustries]

It's genuenly fascinating how Lovecraft, known xenophobe in it's truest sense, created this race of grotesque utterly inhuman alien creatures and the goes on at length describing with genuine respect and admiration how advanced and complex and admirable their culture and civilization was.

like, we are talking about these guys

and lovecraft is like "ah yes, their goberment was complex a probably socialistic...there was extensive commerece, the culture was mainly urban, in furnishing their homes they kept everything at the center of huge rooms leaving wall spaces for decorative treatments, lighting was probably accomplished by a device electro-chemical in nature"

is so strange how comfortable he is humanizing these creatures, treating them like any other culture worth of consideration. i really didnt expect this coming from this dude

[rosewaterandivy]

i. aconite

Summary: there are strange things that go bump in the night, and then there’s steve harrington and his inexplicable nailbat.

Pairing: s.h. x f!werewolf reader

W.C.: 5.5K

Warnings: supernatural elements, questionable bodily substances in the adults only section of Family Video, steve gettin’ the heebie-jeebies

A/N: the thing that has been scratching at the back of my head for months tbh.

m.list | playlist

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

And if he’d only listened to Munson, he wouldn’t be out here in the middle of the night with a nailbat and a flashlight.

But Steve wasn’t in the habit of heeding the advice of the harbinger of Hawkins from the wrong side of the tracks.

Not when there were things afoot that tended to go thump in the night. Not when Munson’s girl wound up bruised and unconscious on his doorstep.

There had to be a logical explanation, right?

Unfortunately for him, these woods had secrets to keep and you had miles to go before you would sleep.

The moon shone low and lonely in the night sky, illuminating the man in front of you— his coif of hair and lazy swinging of the bat.

The weak yellow beam of his flashlight cast about this way and that with every step he took further into the woods past his house.

Picking your way across the pine needle-ridden forest floor, you trailed him at a leisurely pace. Senses heightened, you could hear the dry snap of twigs under his feet and the soft whistle from his lips; could smell the sweat beading on his brow, his cologne giving way to salty musk beneath.

Even in your sleep, you could track him— never mind how much you wish that weren’t the case.

Not, of course, that he knew any of this. Eddie had seen to that. And yet, despite the warnings, here he was: Steve Harrington ambling about the woods on the night of a full moon, seemingly without a care in the world.

And it fell to your lot to see that no harm befell him, even though he’d cast his crown aside long ago and traded it in for a rowdy bunch of kids and shifts at Family Video.

None of that mattered in the end, because King Steve or no you’d run until your feet were bloody if it meant keeping him safe.

That’s what you’d been born, cursed as you were, to do— protect.

Kill, if the occasion warranted it.

Though, it would help matters if he didn’t get himself into so much trouble.

But hey, we can’t have everything, right?

The first time it happened, it was a coincidence. The house did back up against a forested lot afterall.

The second time it happened, it was an accident. Cutting it too close to daybreak and utterly exhausted from activities hidden under a blanket of darkness.

The third time though…

The third time signified a pattern, and not one you could necessarily recognize.

Because when it happened, the wolf, the beast, the curse, what have you, the world narrowed to a singular point of focus.

Loping in the underbrush of the dense forest, pure instinct called you to follow a scent you couldn’t quite name— sharp, salty, with a tang that lingered on the tongue. Warm like the sun, and beckoning like a raging fire.

Mine, the beast purred from the depths of your throat.

In this form, the rational and logical part of you fell by the wayside as the beast unfurled and stretched to fill the caverns of your mind.

Retaining just enough of your waking self, you paused at the edge of the forest ears attuned to the sounds of the evening air. Radio frequencies, TV static, car engines turning over, water rushing through pipes.

Yet one sound soared above them all.

Stay, the beast hummed as you sat back on your haunches.

Foolishly, a part of you hoped to hear the bright sound once more, to have it fill the well inside of you and overflow into your veins.

A laugh.

“Robin, knock it off!”

The beast sighed as you settled against the underbrush, chest and stomach to the earth.

A surge of longing threatened to pull you under, a low whine eeking from the cavern of your chest. Laying your head down on the cool ground, you swallowed thickly around that hollow feeling.

Wait.

The last full moon had found you alone and waking up in the back of Eddie’s van as he drove down the quiet suburban streets of Loch Nora.

”Again?”

Your voice was barely a rasp, sore from disuse in its normal register, striking a muddled alto in the otherwise silent morning.

Eddie just sighed and reached over to toss an old Hellfire shirt and some boxers your way.

Shrugging off his jacket and the musty blanket he laid on you, you tugged on the worn raglan and shimmied into the plaid shorts. Once decent, you clambered over the console and tumbled into the front seat.

Your body, while sore and aching, didn’t audibly complain. Far used to rougher treatment by now, especially after a full moon.

He lights up a cigarette, not bothering to crack a window or look your way. Just simply and calmly states, “I told you so.”

Fuck.

The chains and aconite were supposed to be enough, that’s what all the books said. At least, all the books you could scrounge up in Hawkins.

A dull ache radiated from your wrists, telltale bruising from the shackles that were meant to contain the beast.

It was you, you were the beast— as if you could ever forget.

Lycanthropy by way of puberty, what a welcome into womanhood, huh?

”The chains are shot,” He says, turning onto the main drag. “Drywall too.”

You rolled your lip between your teeth and slumped down into the seat, heating in embarrassment.

”I’ll pay for the repairs.”

Eddie grunts and takes a long drag from the cigarette. He exhales slowly, rolling through a stop light before pulling off toward Forest Hills.

Silence from your best friend was never a good thing. All it signaled was a prelude to the inevitable rant driven by sheer boredom or hunger. But maybe, he was just tired.

You certainly were.

He parks the van and swings out of the door, loping onto the ground with the grace of a beleaguered old man, his knees cracking and popping like a bag of marbles. You follow shortly after, and no worse for wear, in spite of your bruises.

The comforting scent of tobacco and coffee hits your nostrils and the tension of your body melts away. Wayne left a warm pot on before passing out on the couch, and you tip-toe your way across the trailer as silently as you’re able.

You take a deep, bracing sip from a mug heralding Roswell as the ‘UFO Capital of the World!’ as cinnamon dances across your tongue.

Good ol’ Wayne.

Eddie is in his bedroom, cigarette dangling from his lips as he throws your backpack over his shoulder and eyes you up and down.

“Pants and shoes would be good,” He suggests, brushing past you on his way out the door. “We’re leaving in five.”

Setting the coffee aside, you scramble through piles of clothing, their cleanliness questionable, searching for anything that doesn’t scream ‘freshly fucked by Eddie Munson.’

You chug the coffee on the way to school, the sounds of Dio doing absolutely nothing for the throbbing pain behind your left eye. The van squeals into a parking spot just as the tardy bell trills.

Eddie’s hand braces against your chest, halting your exit from the vehicle and ensuring a pink slip from a hall monitor. The morning cigarette seems to have settled him, his gaze now concerned rather than annoyed.

”I’m sorry,” you say glumly, carding a hand through your tangled hair and tying it up in a loose bun. “I thought it would work Ed, I really fucking did.” Hands scrub down your face, desperately trying to hide your shame.

He pulls you toward him in a loose hug, his chin tucking over your head as it's buried in his chest. Soft, warm, familiar, his scent burrows its way into your consciousness calming the racket of your heart.

”We’ll figure it out, kid.”

And you’re about to laugh, can feel it wet and thick, currently lodged in your throat, when a maroon BMW swings into a spot not five paces away.

Tension cords the tendons of your body, a breath escapes you, as if it’s been forced from your chest. Pulse accelerating, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to just breathe.

Safe with Eddie. Safe with Eddie. Safe with—

A discongruent note of citrus and musk tinges the air. The sound of laughter, a euphoric baritone against a sputtering, higher-pitched explanation churns like magma through your veins.

You shudder in his hold, but it’s enough.

He tugs you closer and drops an affectionate kiss to the crown of your head before saying, “Okay, fuck this.”

The engine roars to life.

Before Eddie can hightail it out of the parking lot, your head swivels back to catch a glance from warm hazel eyes, and you can’t help the pathetic whine that eeks up your throat.

”So,” He clears his throat, hands fidgeting on the wheel, “It’s getting worse.”

Facing forward once the school is out of sight, you draw your knees into your seat and rest your head against them.

”Yeah,” you say glumly, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Later that week, when Steve and Robin are drawing straws for who has to wipe down the 'ADULTS ONLY' room and the crusty questionable remnants found therein, she asks:

”So, anymore of those weird dreams?”

Steve takes his time picking his straw, moving left and then right to gauge length before taking a step back and cocking his head.

Robin has her fingers curled in a tight fist, making it difficult to assess which straw is the shorter of the two. And Steve braved the room behind the little red curtain last week, so he’s not terribly keen to see what fresh hell is back there now.

”Not since I told you last time, no.”

Surprisingly, there is rather a bit of time to kill after the evening rush on a Friday night at Family Video. The girls coming in for candy and movies at their sleepovers, toddlers absolutely wrecking the shelves as they sweep through with abandon, harried mothers trailing in their wake.

As such, Robin has pitched herself as a quasi-dream interpreter after reading some book about the subject, much to Steve’s chagrin and her entertainment.

”Seriously, nothing?” Her eyes blow wide, eager for anything to alleviate her boredom.

Steve assesses his options, eyes narrowing and biting his lip as he goes in for the kill. He pulls a straw from Robin’s grasp just as the bell on the door chimes, signaling a new customer.

”Welcome in,” Robin chirps, unraveling her fingers to reveal her straw.

”Let us know if you need any help!” Steve adds on automatically, holding his straw to hers for measurement.

She groans when she realizes that she’s drawn the short straw, eyes rolling in distaste while Steve pumps his fist into the air in victory. Robin grabs the gloves under the cash register, a spray bottle of cleaning fluid, and a rag.

”If I’m not back in ten minutes…”

”Call the NRA—“

”EPA!”

”Yeah, yeah,” He smirks at her indignant squawk, “I know.” And waves Robin off to the back of the store with a lazy hand.

Steve leans against the counter, hand falling to a slinky resting on the laminate. He props himself up on an elbow, cupping his jaw with one hand, and wraps his fingers around the glorified silver spring.

He nearly forgets there’s a customer in the store until someone softly clears their throat. Letting the slinky drop with a metallic ching, Steve looks up to find a familiar face.

“Hey,” he greets as you slide the tapes across the counter, “Find everything okay?”

You nod, pulling out your wallet out of your pocket to count some bills as he tallies up the total.

It’s quiet, save for the rattle of the air conditioner and sound of plastic as Steve runs the tapes through the machine to unlock the cases. He can see you worry your bottom lip in between your teeth, the raw red of your lips a stark contrast to the white of your teeth.

And it’s not like he’s staring or anything; Steve’s mindful to keep his gaze moving, not landing in a particular spot for too long. That is until your eyes meet his and he drops a tape onto the floor.

“Shit,” He mutters, kneeling down behind the counter to reach it.

Your eyes aren’t normally that bright, are they? It’s just a trick of the light, surely.

He returns, momentarily baffled to find Eddie at your side, because he didn’t remember hearing the bell chime from the door.

Steve nods to Eddie in greeting and slides the case through the machine. He keys in a code on the register before asking, “Weekend rental?”

Again, you nod. Lip popping plump and full as your teeth retreat.

“Okay, so, Sunday night return,” Steve says and rattles off your total.

Sliding the bills across the table, his fingers brush yours just barely, and you retract your hand as if it’d been burned.

The register drawer dings open and before he can give you a receipt, you’re gone.

Eddie stands at the counter, the door swinging in the wake of your exit.

“She had to, uh—“ He begins to say, fingers drumming on the laminate. “Y’know what? It really doesn’t matter.”

He takes the receipt from Steve and shoves it into his pocket, leisurely backing toward the door.

“Dunno if you heard,” He says, voice raising just slightly as his back pushes against the glass and metal. “But there’s a party out on the lake, if you’re interested.”

”Yeah?”

He nods as Robin, dramatically shoves the velvet curtain open, the screeching metallic sound jarring as she stumbles toward the counter.

Eddie raises his brows in interest and bemusement, while Robin peels the yellow gloves from her arms and plops them into a nearby trash can.

”Yeah, some bonfire thing.” He kicks his foot back, the bell chiming as Eddie exits the store, “You should come by, if you want.”

Robin glances between Eddie’s retreating back and Steve, curiosity evident in her gaze.

”What was that all about?”

Steve shakes his head, momentarily transfixed at the memory of your eyes— so bright, they were nearly phosphorescent. Fascinating in the way they captivated him, both alluring and haunting.

He couldn’t recall seeing a color or hue quite like it, except for in his dreams.

The bonfire had been burning for a little over an hour by the time you and Eddie arrived on the scene.

You’d killed the time by categorizing the little baggies of his lunchbox, under the guise of double-checking that he had enough stock from Rick for the evening’s business. When, in reality, you were making sure none of your wolfsbane had made its way into tonight’s offerings.

Not that there would be much of the dried blue petals left to do much of anything to the average American teenager. You’d been pounding the stuff all week, as if it was going out of style.

Anything to keep the beast in its slumber.

Following Eddie as he made his way through the crowd of drunk or on their way to it teens, you pondered the recent uptick in Wolf-like Incidents you’d had to deal with.

Because, while incredibly annoying, the beast used to be reliable. Every full moon, like clockwork, you would up your intake of aconite in the days leading up to it.

And it used to be enough to quell the ache in your bones. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you wouldn’t even transform at all. Just wake the next morning feeling like fresh road kill.

But recently things had been… well, worse, for one.

The tinctures and teas didn’t cut it any more, so after copious research you had added chains to the equation. That helped, for a time. And that time was quickly coming to a close.

Now, even without the ticking time bomb of a full moon, you felt the throb of your canines pushing underneath your gums. You had blood in your mouth, more often than not. And your senses seemed permanently heightened— scent, sound, touch.

It made day-to-day life an over-sensitized nightmare that you couldn’t wake from.

At least under a full moon, the preternatural senses were a boon rather than a burden.

Catching your gaze, Eddie nodded before slipping off with a few customers on the outskirts of the group. You kept your eyes trained on them as they walked further into the woods, even though he said he could handle himself.

Yeah, you could count on one hand the amount of times Eddie had successfully “handled” it. Settling your back against a tree trunk, you cross your arms and wait.

Robin is still fixing her hair when Steve kills the engine of the beemer at Lover’s Lake.

“Seriously, you look fine,” He says, opening the car door and shoving the keys into his pocket.

He can hear the thump of the music and see the golden and amber flames from the fire a ways away.

Robin shuts her door and Steve crosses the hood of the car to sling an arm around her shoulders.

“It’ll be fun,” He promises, breath tickling against her cheekbone.

They shoulder their way through the crowd leading up to the keg, where Steve watches with a smirk as two linebackers haul out a replacement keg.

They stare at each other for a minute, brows furrowed as to how the beer possibly escapes a sealed keg while the line behind them grows restless.

Steve sighs and extricates himself from Robin, “Where’s the tap?”

”What?”

He rolls his eyes, “The tap? The plastic pump that makes the beer come out?”

The linebackers nod and make a show of looking for the elusive tap. After a few minutes of frantic searching, there’s a victorious crow from the crowd when the tap if finally held aloft.

But still, the linebackers seem puzzled.

Steve, having quite enough of their bullshit, takes the tap from their grasp and slams it into the keg, twisting until a soft hiss sounds.

”Great,” He says, taking a step back. “Now, get to pumping. If I’m back in two minutes and you dinguses haven’t figured it out—“

Robin drags him away before he can finish the thought.

They tramp through the woods, twigs breaking underfoot, as Robin drags him along by the wrist. Beer cans skitter with a metallic clink as their shoes kick them along.

Once at the outskirts of the crowd, Robin drops his hand and turns to him with an incredulous look on her face.

“What is with you tonight?”

Her arms are crossed, a sure sign that she’s peeved, and he must be really in for it. She taps her foot impatiently awaiting his response.

“Nothing.”

She balks, “Yeah, sure. Then why the sudden emergence of King Steve, huh?”

“That wasn’t—“ He sputters, carding a hand through his hair.

He fails to string together any semblance of a response. Has no reason or excuse for how keyed up he feels right now. Itchy as if his skin is too tight, an impatient feeling skittering underneath the surface. Something is off, but he doesn’t know what. Which makes him frustrated, hence the scene at the keg.

The dull sounds of the party drown out the strained silence between them, the timber cracking from the bonfire loud enough to startle.

Steve starts to think that maybe, this wasn’t a good idea. But then, Robin’s eyes light up at something behind him. Steve turns to look and sees the copper flash of Vickie’s hair in the firelight.

He huffs a laugh and turns back to Robin with a smile, he jerks his head behind him and says, “Go.”

Robin pulls her lip between her teeth, “Y’sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

A smile breaks across her face as she pulls him into a hug, “You’re the best, Stevie.”

Steve sighs as he watches her go. Luckily she refrains from her typical idiot run— all gangly legs and spaghetti arms— and sends Vickie a shy wave as she skirts the bonfire and makes her way over.

Something tugs low in his gut, snapping like a rubber band. It’s an odd sensation and not entirely unpleasant, and Steve finds his blood thrumming just under the surface.

A languid breeze passes through, carrying on it a smoky woodiness and subtly crisp scent.

There’s something comforting in it, something familiar.

A sudden note of pine and rain steals the breath from his lungs. He exhales as if it was shoved from his chest, a dull pressure on his ribs and something akin to nausea swaying beneath his lungs.

He stumbles back, bracing himself against a nearby tree. Takes slow, deep breaths as the world shifts incrementally.

Steve blinks, his vision going fuzzy at the edges. The glow of the fire seems very far away, the sounds of the party even further.

Stay, says the voice in his mind.

And he readily agrees, swaying slightly as he sinks to the forest floor.

Under the dull roar of the crackling bonfire and whoops and hollers from the party, there’s a distinct sound of heavy breathing.

Your head turns to the left, closer to the party, and you narrow your gaze.

A body falls maybe a hundred or so yards away.

You’re on your feet before you can think twice about it, heart beating a tattoo in the cage of your ribs. Keeping your footfalls soft, you slow to a stop just as Robin’s mouth falls open in a soft gasp.

“Steve.”

He’s conscious but somewhat slumped against the trunk of an old oak tree.

Part of you knows that you should give them space, it is the polite thing to do, after all.

But a larger, territorial part of you snarls to say, “Stop,” as you stalk over to where he is.

Robin, curiously, does what she’s told.

He looks up at you, squinting eyes and furrowed brow, but says nothing. He takes deep breaths in and out, his chest rising and falling in equal measure, while your eyes rove across him.

There’s no copper tang in the air, and no broken skin that you can see.

Steve sits up a bit, appearing more alert than he was before. He scrubs a hand down his face and sighs, cheeks growing pink under your assessment.

“I’m fine,” His voice is syrupy thick and sends your blood surging. “Jus’ light headed is all.”

Robin hesitates stepping forward, eyes falling on you, as if for permission. You nod, not trusting yourself to snap at her, and watch as she crouches next to Steve.

Clenching your fists, you will the burning in your chest to subside.

Everything is fine, you try to reason, Robin’s just helping Steve get to his feet. She offers her hand to him and pulls him upright. He leans back against the trunk of the tree, eyes dreamy and hazy.

His lips kick up in an easy grin at the sight of you. Turned toward him, the firelight illuminates one side of your face, the other cast in shadow. Crossed arms, stiff posture your entire vibe screams ‘fuck off’ yet here you are.

Steve didn’t even realize a rager at Lover’s Lake would be your scene, but then again, where Eddie goes you tend to follow and vice versa. A lot like him and Robin in that respect. Still, it’s a nice surprise to see you there, lip worried between your teeth.

He wishes you wouldn’t do that, has half a mind to pull it from your glorious maw himself. Steve shivers and blinks owlishly at the thought.

“Thanks for uh…” He worries his thumb at the nape of his neck, searching for the words.

“Don’t mention it.” You say, incisors gleaming in the firelight.

Steve swallows, audibly. Blood rushing straight down at the sight of your pretty face, lips flushed, and eyes bright. God, he really shouldn’t have worn the Levi’s tonight— there’s no fucking give in these things.

He coughs and catches sight of Robin’s smirk. As you look back toward the crowd, she takes the opportunity to waggle her brows mischievously. Steve’s about to mouth something like ‘fuck off’ back to her when you turn back toward them.

“Robin!”

She turns and waves at Vickie who has two solo cups in her possession. Her eyes light up at the sight of the redhead, and it’s fairly obvious what’s about to transpire when you clear your throat to say:

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Buckley.”

“You sure?” She looks to Steve, questioning.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

You snort, “Right, sure.”

Robin’s pointy elbow lands in a patch of soft tissue on his side, just between his ribs. “That’s so nice of you!” She says brightly, “Isn’t that nice, Steve?”

“Uh huh, nice.”

“Be good,” She calls over her shoulder and melting back into the crowd.

An awkward beat of silence passes between you. Steve toes at the pine needles riddling the forest floor and grumbles, “I really don’t need a babysitter.”

“Well,” You say with a casual shrug. “I don’t see any babies that need sitting on at present so.”

He lets out a soft laugh, “Mmm, clever.”

“I try.”

Joining him, you let your back rest against the oak tree, posture much more relaxed than when you first arrived. He can feel your breath as you exhale, the puffs of air brushing against his arm.

It’s a welcome distraction.

Because, let’s be honest, it’s not as if Steve really knows you. He remembers you, fleetingly, from the halls of Hawkins High— you and Eddie, bundles of frenetic energy careening from class to class. Loud, boisterous, and with an ever-present smile.

He remembers once overhearing the tail end of a conversation between you and Higgins about your “less than satisfactory” attendance. He’d been in the office with a doctor’s note or something, bargaining with the attendance clerk.

Higgins has his usual disdain written across his face, the stern line of his lips and arms crossed against his chest. You, however, were less than concerned. You shrugged on your backpack and left his office with a sarcastic salute.

“Aye, aye, cap’n!”

“Chief Hopper will be hearing about this, young lady!”

You turn, incredulous, “Oh," You lob back at him with mock sincerity, "Rest assured, sir, I’m shaking in my boots.”

And before Higgins can go postal on your ass, you dart past Steve and out of the office doors with a swiftness he could only envy.

So, yeah.

Steve and you had exchanged a grand total of maybe a dozen words the entire time you’d known one another. It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement for making any overtures of friendship.

Besides, you’re Eddie’s girl.

Everyone knows that, what with the way you’re attached at the hip most of the time. Your wardrobes are so intermingled by now, that Steve would bet good money you’d be hard-pressed to find a shirt that Eddie hadn’t wormed his way into.

He sighs, it’s better left alone.

Steve figures Robin will hitch a ride with Vickie or some band nerds whenever she’s ready to go and pulls his set of keys from his pocket. Before he realizes it, you’ve snatched the keys from his hand.

“What the—”

“Looks like I’m your chauffeur for this evening, Harrington.” Your tone brokers no room for argument as you twirl them in warm yellow light. “Where to?”

He trails after you, and your strides, oddly, rival his own.

“I really am fine,” Steve points out. “Seriously!”

You round the car and slide the key into the lock on the door, flicking your wrist to unlock the front cab. One hand catches the window of the door, resting casually as you wait him out.

“Sorry man,” You offer a non-apology with a shrug. “I’m not in the habit of distressed damsels driving themselves home.”

Steve colors at that, can feel the heat radiating from the tips of his ears.

“‘M not a damsel.”

“Really?” You drawl as you slide into the driver’s seat and slot the key into the ignition. “You nearly passed out a party, princess.”

And oh, hearing you say that should be illegal with the way it has his traitorous blood flowing due south.

He petulantly joins you in the car, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

“If that’s not damsel behavior, then I dunno what is.”

The car roars to life, stereo playing a tinny version of “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys as you navigate out of the makeshift parking lot. The sounds of the party fall by the wayside as you pull onto the country road that’ll lead back into town.

Steve resigns himself to his fate and lets his head fall back against the seat.

It’s dark on the outskirts of town, no street lights until you’ve passed the Millers' farm and enter into Hawkins proper.

Your fingers drum absentmindedly against the steering wheel as you drive, the chipped nail polish of your fingertips barely visible in the dim light.

And you’re not… unattractive. You’d just never really crossed Steve’s radar until recently, but that’s probably more to do his own headassery than anything else. You weren’t really his usual type— all closed off with stiff posture spliced and the chaotic stylings that come with being around one Eddie Munson.

Like a shower where you had to move the taps just so for the perfect temperature; sometimes you’re too hot, then in other moments too cold.

Steve could never really get a handle on that, how your demeanor could change in the blink of an eye. There was something more appealing about looking at someone like, say Chrissy Cunningham with her bubbly personality and kind eyes, than catching you in a mood, which can feel something akin to a sucker punch straight to the gut.

He can’t be bothered to make heads or tails of it as you roll back into town, the streetlights flickering through the windows of the car.

It’s there in an instant and gone in the next, and he’s positively sure that this isn’t some trick of the light.

Your eyes shift from their local color to something otherworldly, and he wouldn’t have caught it if not for the streetlight from the next house over.

“What?” Your tone is light, curious and absolutely nothing to be frightened of.

But watching as they shift again, from that luminous phosphorescence back to your normal eye color. It does something to him.

He slams the passenger door shut a little too forcefully and a bit too quickly. You raise your eyebrows at him over the roof of the car, tossing him the keys.

“You okay there, Harrington?”

He clears his throat and smiles outwardly.

“Yeah, totally.”

Because what is he supposed to say?

Actually no, I’m not fine because your eyes just like, changed in front of me? That’s not something that just happens, right? And how did you find me so quickly back at the bonfire— I couldn’t see you anywhere near me. Why is it that you smell so good, kinda how it smells outside after a rainstorm? And why is every instinct telling me to run?

“If you say so,” You nod and step silently from his drive, pink tongue gliding against a pronounced canine with a predatory glint in your eye.

Internally, Steve is both screaming and oddly turned on.

None of which, by the way, goes to explain why it is exactly that Steve is wandering the woods alone on the next full moon.

What could have possibly compelled him from the relative safety of his warm bed and into the cool spring night?

You, unfortunately enough.

It’s all your fault.

Because in an attempt to explain away the bruises braceleting your wrist to Robin, of all people (another go round with the new chains and repaired drywall in preparation for the full moon that weekend), you had settled on the completely rational response of:

“Oh, I sleepwalk sometimes.”

Her blue eyes blow wide, “Like, alone, at night?”

You nod and try to focus on the equations on the chalkboard as Mrs. G. drones on about something or other.

“Oh yeah,” Eddie chimes in from behind you, “Should put a bell on her or somethin’.” And his smile is that annoying one you’d like to smack off of his face, “Like a cat.”

And that was that.

Or, rather, that should have been that.

But Eddie and you were none the wiser as Robin relayed all of this plus the goings on of the band kids to Steve as he picked her up for work that evening.

“Yeesh,” He says, pulling into his spot behind Family Video.

“Yeah,” Robin says stepping out of the car. “And she was so normal about it. Like rambling around at all hours of the night completely unaware of your surroundings is a perfectly fine thing to do!”

Steve locks the car and follows her through the employee entrance to the store. He twirls his keys absently, trying to remember if he noticed any bruises on you at the bonfire last month.

She chats with Keith as he clocks out for the night, and shucks her bag on the sagging couch against the wall.

“What if they’re like, wolves out there Steve?”

So, yeah. In the end, he really has no choice about it.

Because there is definitely something out there.

[violentshine]

BIG FAN of how brackenpaw's speech looks. he talks quieter/softer than the others

[livelaughlovepedri]

and when he comes back as the best version of himself then what?

[the-joker-of-musicals]

witch propaganda

Beans. She encourages a grown man to steal from children. She's literally the funniest character in the whole show She murdered the Narrator She was willing to sacrifice the stepsisters to the giant She's chaotic She's abusive She's silly She's not good She's not nice She's just right She's the Witch We're the WOOORRRRLLLDDD

judas propaganda

He is literally me. He's the most devoted person to ever person. He's in love with Jesus and he's trying so hard to fix a situation that can't be fixed, and so he only accelerates it. He's the narrator and the narrative. He's everything

[theflyingcosmos]

NO SHAME SORRY FRIENDS WHO FOLLOW ME ON HERE

Anyways I'm falling back down the UTMV rabbit hole and making an AU type thing, but just with the Sanses because I'm insane(aren't we all)

ANYWAYS X2 my little AU idea is ofc using the NMs castle idea and it's like kind of a fantasy world also Cross is a Lycan HEHEHEHE I'm losing my mind I feel 14 again /pos

[conflitdecanard]

I think I didn't post it here yet... But yeah !

I had it started last year but finished it now ! Based on an outfit Crepe got in Tomodachi Life and he would 100% wear it Pird do workout with Siazia to help keeping in shape and Crepe JUST happen to be there too wow... (ㆆ_ㆆ)

[knivestothroats]

In The Woods Somewhere + Professional//Victim Crossover AU

@victimeyez and I like to play with our OCs together like dolls. We came up with a number of ways Tommy ends up with Fletcher but this is a "my mom sold me to one direction" type AU where Fletcher buys Tommy to basically replace Buck.

CW: long term captivity/human trafficking, withholding food (in past), physical violence, burning, dubious consent sort of, guns in places they shouldn't be

read In The Woods Somewhere here || read Professional//Victim here

Scene 1

Tommy hadn’t experienced a thunderstorm in years.

It rained sometimes when he was on his way to a client, but having lived in a basement for the last five years, he had forgotten their intensity. How loud the incessant, arrhythmic rainfall echoed down from the roof. How lightning could suddenly illuminate the whole room in a flash. How he could feel the house shake with the roar of thunder. Or maybe it was just him shaking. He felt like a dog on the fourth of July. 

It was stupid, after everything he’d been through, to be afraid of the weather.

A bright flash through the window again, followed shortly by a crack of thunder that he could feel in his chest. They were getting closer together. 

There’s no way Tommy could sleep. He was sitting up in his bed in his new home, knees to his chest with his arms wrapped around. 

As much as he loathed Caius, he did provide comfort at times. It was twisted, but it was something. Fletcher… he wasn’t sure about. They had been more reserved so far, treating him with a sort of casual amiability. But Tommy was well aware how Fletcher reveled in inflicting pain. He just hadn’t figured out yet when and why they shed the wool to become the wolf.

Another flash. Tommy tried to brace himself, but he still jumped at the thunder.

Tommy swung his legs off the bed. He stared at the door for a second before going through into the hallway. It was still strange to not be locked in.

He walked gently down the dark hallway. He knew where Fletcher’s room was - they had pointed it out on his first day with a strict do not enter.

Tommy stood outside Fletcher’s bedroom door. He rubbed his hands over his arms. 

This was ridiculous. Going to Fletcher for comfort? Like a child waking up their parents after having a bad dream? During a thunderstorm of all things. He should just go back to - 

Flash. Crack.

Tommy knocked on Fletcher’s door. He tried to listen for movement over the sound of the rain. They probably hadn’t even heard him over the din. Maybe he should knock again, or maybe he should go back - 

Fletcher opened the door, wearing just a t-shirt, gym shorts, and bed head. They squinted at him in the dark.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of Tommy’s mouth. “I, um. I can’t sleep and, um…”

Fletcher was silhouetted as their room lit up. The thunder followed so quickly behind, rumbling through the house, that Tommy didn’t have time to count. 

Fletcher saw Tommy flinch hard, drawing his shoulders up by his ears.

“You’re scared of thunder?”

Tommy felt his face redden, in spite of himself. He should be incapable of embarrassment at this point, after all the humiliation he was put through, but he just felt childish.

“Alright, come in,” Fletcher said with a yawn, moving aside to make way. “Don’t try to kill me in my sleep.”

“Really?” Tommy asked, perking up. He took a hesitant step into the room. “Can I, um, do you mind if I share the bed?”

“Yeah I assumed that was what you were asking,” Fletcher grumbled, shutting the door behind him.

Fletcher took their side first, and Tommy took the other. He laid stiff in the bed, making sure they had a gap between them. Tommy had wondered if sharing the bed would come with a cost, putting himself in a vulnerable position within Fletcher’s grasp. But Fletcher had turned their back to him, sleeping on their side.

He was still on edge. Was sleeping beside Fletcher really better than being alone?

There was a flicker of lightning, followed by a grumble of thunder. Not as loud this time, but enough to make Tommy nervous. 

Tommy turned on his side as well and carefully scooted over until his back was brushing against Fletcher’s. He held his breath, but they didn’t react. 

Tommy could feel their warmth seep into him. He let out a slow breath. It was definitely better than being alone.

~

Fletcher had managed to tune out the storm into white noise, but they were a light sleeper, forever on edge. They opened their eyes in the darkness, listening to Tommy murmur and shift in his sleep.

Fletcher rolled over and draped their arm over Tommy’s middle.

“Shhh,” they hushed gently.

Tommy’s shirt had ridden up, and he whimpered when Fletcher made contact with his skin.

Fletcher tensed up at the noise. Tommy was definitely asleep, but that whimper was perfect. They wondered if he practiced it for his clients. It was difficult to resist the urge to wrap their arm tight around him and squeeze, trying to elicit the sound again. 

Fletcher moved their hand over Tommy’s bare torso. They could feel his ribs too distinctly beneath his skin. Caius and the others probably had him skipping meals. Whether to keep up his waifish victim aesthetic, to keep him weak, to punish him, or just from neglect.  Fletcher figured he would put on weight quickly here. He was going to need to, if he was going to keep up with the work Fletcher had for him to do around the lodge. 

~

“Get up.”

Tommy gasped awake as a hand jostled him from his sleep. He looked around quickly, getting his bearings, and saw Fletcher leaning over him.

“I’m getting up, you can’t stay in my room alone,” Fletcher said.

“Oh,” Tommy rubbed his eyes. “Right. Okay. Thank you… for letting me sleep here.”

“Uh huh,” Fletcher said. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Do you want me to help?”

“Mm, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay… do you want me to make your bed?” Tommy offered, trying to show his gratitude.

“No,” Fletcher said flatly. They gestured to the door. 

“Right, sorry.” Tommy hurried out of the room. “Um, would it be alright if I took a shower? Or do you want me to wait?”

“All yours, bud,” Fletcher said, closing the door shut behind them. “Just don’t take too long. You want to get the breakfast while it’s hot.”

~

Tommy turned the water up as hot as he could stand. It staved off the chill that seemed to linger in the lodge. He allowed himself a few moments to just stand under the stream after he had washed, but Fletcher had told him not to take long, and he didn’t want to push it.

Tommy dried and dressed quickly, scrunching his hair with the shirt he had slept in and finger-combing it out of his face. He made his way to the kitchen, which was already calling his name with rich, savory smells.

Fletcher was standing at the stove, stirring one pan with a spatula while another sizzled away next to them. 

“What smells so good?” Tommy asked, trying to peer into the pans.

“Onions and bacon, mostly,” Fletcher said.

“Do you need any help?” Tommy offered.

There was a pop, pop as a pair of bagels sprung up from a two-sided toaster.

“Yeah, grab those bagels for me and add butter and cream cheese. There’s plates in that cabinet, silverware in that drawer.”

Tommy moved swiftly to do as he was told. 

When he had plated them, Fletcher carried over the first pan.

“Okay, get out of my way.” 

It was said lightheartedly, but Tommy still leapt back.

“Just take a seat,” Fletcher nodded to the kitchen table. “It’s ready.”

Tommy sat down and watched as Fletcher assembled the plates, but their body was blocking his view. It wasn’t until they set his breakfast down in front of him that he was able to take it in. 

Scrambled eggs with multicolor peppers, strips of bacon, a sausage, and the bagel he had prepared.

He couldn’t believe how much his mouth was watering.

“It’s veggie sausage,” Fletcher said. “I only had a couple left. Oh - you want coffee?”

Tommy looked up at them wide eyed. Fletcher had told him on the first day that he could help himself to food in the kitchen, but he had been too afraid to touch their coffee maker. Even when there was a pot already made, he had been too anxious that he wasn’t supposed to take any.

“Yes, please.”

“How do you take it?” Fletcher asked, getting a mug from the shelf. It was designed to look like a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. 

“A lot of sugar and cream,” Tommy said. “Please. If you don’t mind.”

Fletcher heaped two spoonfuls of sugar into the mug and then looked in the fridge. 

“Mm, I just have oat milk right now.”

“Okay, that’s fine, thank you,” Tommy said, even though he had never tried it before.

Fletcher splashed some into the mug before pouring the steaming coffee on top. They gave it a stir and set it down in front of Tommy.

Tommy hadn’t touched his food. He stared at the spread before him, not quite believing it was really for him.

Fletcher settled down across the table with their matching meal and began to eat.

“I don’t know where to start,” Tommy said in a small voice.

“Eggs,” Fletcher provided.

Tommy scooped up a forkful of the scrambled eggs and took his first bite. 

It wasn’t just peppers, there were onions and cheese mixed in as well. The texture was perfect - they weren't dry or runny. 

“Wow,” Tommy said. He followed it with a long sip of coffee. It wasn’t as sweetened as he would have made it for himself once upon a time, but it was hot and rich and maybe the best cup he’d ever had.

He might actually start crying. 

“The secret is cream cheese,” Fletcher said, gesturing to his eggs with their fork. “And to scramble it in the pan. How’s the coffee?”

“So good,” Tommy said. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.” Fletcher started to pile their eggs and bacon onto the bagel. “How often were you being fed before?”

“Um, twice a day, usually,” Tommy said. “Sometimes… less.”

Fletcher nodded. “Figured. You need to start increasing your caloric intake. I need you to do work around here and I don’t want you passing out after an hour in the garden.”

Tommy took a bite of the bagel. The layer of butter under the cream cheese felt so indulgent. 

“If it means I get to eat like this every day, I am more than happy to oblige,” Tommy said.

“Well, I’m not cooking every meal for you,” Fletcher said. “But I want you to eat.”

I want you to eat.

Even if it was to work him like a dog, it was so much better than being worked like a dog on an empty stomach. Despite Fletcher’s generally cold aloofness and passing threats, despite having been the victim of their bloodlust in the past, Tommy felt oddly cared for.

He took another bite of the eggs and hoped he could get Fletcher to teach him how to cook like this.

Scene 2

Fletcher had their sleeves rolled tightly up above their elbows. On their hands they wore black disposable gloves. Tommy watched as those hands deftly sectioned the chickens into pieces, their well-sharpened knife effortlessly cutting through the flesh. 

Tommy had to let his eyes drift away. He watched Fletcher’s arms instead. They tended to hide their form under layers, but every time they rolled up their sleeves, it revealed their muscle tone. Tommy wondered why they didn’t show it off - most people would. He noticed as well, as he watched, that Fletcher had some lighter lines on their skin - old scars haphazardly slashed into their arms. He imagined them getting into knife fights. He imagined them holding someone down by the throat with both hands, arms tensed, as their victim clawed at their skin to no avail.

Fletcher moved the chicken pieces into a bowl of marinade. Spice bottles were cluttering the counter around it. 

Fletcher covered the bowl and set it aside. They cleaned up, discarding their gloves and disinfecting their work space. 

Tommy had been tasked with washing the potatoes he and Fletcher had harvested from the garden. Fletcher had asked him to take his time, making sure each one was free of dirt in the divots, as they wouldn’t be peeling them. He was worried, when Fletcher turned to him, that they would be angry he hadn’t gotten through the whole crop, but they merely began to take from the clean pile and start cutting them into chunks. 

“When you’re done with that can you go through the green beans and just make sure to snap all the stems off?” Fletcher asked.

Tommy nodded. “Sure.”

They had picked the beans together as well. It felt nice to be doing something actually productive for a change. 

When they were done, Fletcher dumped the potatoes into a big pot of water but didn’t light the stove. They sighed, looking at the clock and chewed their lip a moment.

“I should’ve started this earlier. I’m already starting to get hungry,” Fletcher said. “I just want everything to be done at the same time.”

Fletcher shook their head like they were hoping the thoughts would fall into place. They took a baking sheet and returned to the chicken, laying the pieces out.

“I’m done,” Tommy said from his spot at the table with his bowl of beans. He swept the stem pieces into his hand and got up to dump them in the trash.

“Ah-ah!” Fletcher waved their hand at him, causing Tommy to stop abruptly. “Compost.”

“Right, sorry.” Tommy ducked his head.

“Just give the beans a rinse and then you’re done for now,” Fletcher said. “I’ll call you back when it’s ready.”

It was a while later when Fletcher called Tommy back into the kitchen. He was sitting out on the back deck, just feeling the sun on his skin and listening to the birds, when Fletcher opened the door and leaned out.

“I need your help,” they said.

Tommy jumped up and followed them in.

“I forgot to make fucking gravy,” Fletcher growled. “I just need you to mash the potatoes for me while I whip this up. And just shake the pan with the green beans occasionally to move them around.”

The kitchen was hot now, and Tommy quickly shrugged off his sweatshirt before taking over the potatoes. Fletcher was mixing ingredients when there was a thud above them, followed by an indiscernible shout, followed by, “Fletcherrrrr!”

“Jesus Christ,” Fletcher rolled their eyes. “Okay in like two minutes you need to take the chicken out of the oven and check it. 165. Don’t forget to shake the pan.” They rattled off instructions as they marched out of the kitchen. 

Tommy kept an eye on the clock, rolling the beans in their saute oil. They looked kind of brown? He looked closer, not wanting Fletcher to come back and find them burned. Hm, no, he was pretty sure it was whatever they were being cooked in. Balsamic maybe? There were chopped onions in with it as well, and those similarly looked a little brown but not burnt. 

He checked the clock again. Okay, two minutes. Tommy looked around the counter, seeing the thermometer but no oven mitts. There was one pot holder laying out, and he folded the towel hanging off the oven door to go with it.

The tray was heavily laden with the chicken, heavier than Tommy expected it to be. He tried to adjust his grip so it didn’t tip backwards, but his adjustments shifted his fingertips off the towel. 

Tommy quickly pulled his hand away from the heat. Now holding the tray with one hand, it began to go sideways. Instinctively he tried to catch it, only serving to touch the hot metal again. This time, his brain - desperate to keep him from making the same mistake a third time - drew back his hands completely and the tray clattered to the floor, scattering the chicken. 

Tommy’s heart leapt to his throat. He dropped to his hands and knees and picked up a piece of chicken, dropping it immediately.

It’s hot, it’s all fucking hot, he berated himself. He started using the towel to scoop up the chicken. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he piled it back onto the tray. His heart was beating so loudly in his ears he didn’t hear Fletcher’s footsteps. It wasn’t until he saw their boots that he looked up.

As if they had materialized before him, summoned by his fuck up, Fletcher stood glowering down at him. They held a bloody rag in their hand from whatever they had been dealing with upstairs.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said. “I’ll… I’ll…” Fix it? How was he going to fix it?

Fletcher closed their eyes and dug the heel of their palm into their temple. 

“Do you have any idea the amount of effort that went into this dinner?”

“I know, I’m sorry-” Tommy started again.

Fletcher cut him off. “You don’t know. I had to drive an hour and a half just to get these chickens. Every time I have to leave the lodge it’s a fucking ordeal. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but there’s not much around here. I can’t run to the grocery store without making a day of it. I can’t order fucking take out to fix this. You do know how long this took me today to put together.”

“I do, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Fletcher reached down and slammed Tommy’s head against the cabinets. 

“Stop fucking saying you’re sorry! I know you’re fucking sorry! What happened?”

Tommy held his head, trying to blink his vision back after it whited out.

Fletcher crouched down on their haunches and grabbed Tommy by the front of his shirt, giving him a quick shake. 

“Hey! What the fuck happened?”

“I, uh, I burned my hand…” Tommy said, keeping his eyes low. He held back another “sorry.”

“You burned your hand?” Fletcher repeated unsympathetically. “Where?”

Tommy glanced up at them and hesitantly opened up his hand to them. Fletcher grabbed his wrist with more force than necessary.

“You think this is a burn?” They snarled. “I’ll show you a fucking burn.”

Fletcher took Tommy’s hand and pressed it down against the still hot metal pan.

Tommy screamed and Fletcher allowed him to jerk his arm away. He cradled his hand to his chest, tears escaping from his eyes.

Fletcher stood again, looking down on him.

“Don’t bother getting up. You’re going to be scrubbing the floor.”

Fletcher turned around to storm off, only to see the three trainees leaning around the doorway to observe.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Fletcher snapped.

One held up their hands and made themself scarce.

“Does this mean there’s no dinner?” Another asked.

“There’s potatoes,” Fletcher grumbled. Then they suddenly turned back and dashed to the pan of green beans, taking it off the heat. They inspected the vegetables, ignoring Tommy sniffling on the ground, trying to scoop up the chicken with one hand. “Yeah, these are fine. There’s also green beans.”

Scene 3

Tommy had experienced more types of pain than he could count, but burning was usually off the table to clients. Too much deep tissue damage. It was scary to think that his hand may never be the same. And if it was to recover, it was going to do so at the slow, agonizing crawl of natural healing. 

Tommy did his best not to flinch as Fletcher applied the cream to his burns. He just had to suck air between his teeth and not complain. 

“How’s it feel?” Fletcher asked once they had finished wrapping the gauze. 

“It stings,” Tommy said pitifully. “It feels like I’m still being burned. Do you think… do you think it’s going to be okay? Eventually?”

“Well, if you want to give me the information of that doctor you used to see, I’m sure he can give you a magic healing potion or whatever the fuck. Once I decide you’ve suffered enough.”

Tommy’s stomach flopped. He would take a burn any day of the week if it meant he never had to see Sam again.

“Please don’t take me back to him,” Tommy begged softly. 

Fletcher raised an eyebrow, but said no more on the subject. They peeled off their gloves.

“Then here’s how it will go. It’ll hurt, and then it will blister, and then the blisters will pop. You have to keep it clean so it doesn’t get infected. If you find yourself unable to do simple tasks because you can’t use one of your hands, you can come find me…” Fletcher took his chin in their hand. “And beg for my help.”

~

Tommy slept with his hand cradled against his chest. There was a brief moment of peace when he awoke before he began to feel the throb of the burns. 

He kept his arm close to his torso as he walked to the kitchen, trying to think of what he could make for himself. Surely he could manage a bowl of cereal with one hand.

The box was easy enough. Tommy got the milk from the fridge. Oh yeah - oat milk. He held the container between his arm and his side, twisting the cap off with his good hand. Looked like milk.

He thought about pouring some into a glass to try, when Fletcher walked in, carrying dirty dishes to the sink.

They glanced in Tommy’s direction, then away, saying nothing. 

“I can-” it came out quiet and hoarse. Tommy cleared his throat and tried again. “I can wash those.”

“Can you?” Fletcher asked without looking back at him. 

“Um, I can, well, I can try…” Tommy offered. 

Fletcher turned to face him now, leaning back on the counter. “If you drop something, and it breaks,” they said, “I am not going to be happy.”

Tommy paled. “Is there - is there something else you would like me to do?”

“Not really,” Fletcher said. They walked out of the room. 

Tommy wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. They hadn’t told him not to do the dishes, just not to break them. And if he misinterpreted their response as a no, and they came back to find that he hadn’t washed them, they might be angry.

His strategy for washing dishes with one hand was to lay them in the sink, scrub them there with one hand as best he could, and then move them into the stream of water.

It took longer, and was more awkward - they kept sliding around - but he was able to do it.

When Tommy found Fletcher next, they were out behind the lodge chopping wood. He watched them raise the axe over their shoulder and swing down on the log, cleaving it easily in two. 

“Do you want any help?” Tommy called out, keeping his distance.

“No,” Fletcher called back, setting up the log again.

Tommy hesitated. “Is there anything you would like me to-“

“What the fuck did I just say?”

Chop.

Tommy left them alone the rest of the day. He kept to his room, trying to give Fletcher space now that they had made it clear they didn’t want him around. For a while he tried to read, but he struggled to find a comfortable way to both hold the book and flip the pages. He ended up pacing the floor, filled with anxious nerves that urged him to do something.

He had been having such a… if not good, unquestionably better time here than he’d had with Caius and the rest. This was a bad turn. It didn’t have to be like this. He just had to make it up to Fletcher somehow; get back in their good graces

He had tried to make himself useful around the house without much success. It was true that what he could do would be limited while his hand was injured. Which meant he had to rely on other skills to make himself useful.

~

Everyone else had gone to bed. It was just Fletcher sitting on the couch, illuminated only by the fluctuating light of the TV screen. They had a beer in one hand, resting on the arm of the couch.

Tommy approached slowly, tugging on the hem of his shirt with anxiousness. Fletcher didn’t acknowledge him, even when he was standing in front of the couch. He kept to the side enough not to block their view.

It was only when Tommy lowered himself to his knees that Fletcher said, “What?” without taking their eyes off the screen.

“I’m really sorry about the dinner,” Tommy said. His stomach rippled with anxiety.

“I know,” Fletcher said flatly. “You’ve said.”

Tommy swallowed. He hesitantly leaned in and nuzzled his cheek against Fletcher’s leg.

Fletcher finally looked down at him.

“I would like to make it up to you.”

“How’s that?”

Fletcher said it flatly. Disinterested, still annoyed. There was no flirtation nor cruel amusement in their voice. 

Tommy swallowed. Was this a bad idea? Or was he not making it obvious enough? Most people would jump on him at the mere suggestion. 

Tommy put a hand on Fletcher’s knee and ran in gently up their thigh. Not far, not overstepping. Just trying to give them the right idea. He looked up at them with his best wet dog expression.

“Okay,” Fletcher said. 

They set their beer down on the end table and shifted their pose, spreading their legs a little more. Tommy dutifully shuffled in between.

Nothing you haven’t done before, he told himself. It’ll be better afterwards. 

“Close your eyes.” Fletcher said. And once he had, “Open your mouth.”

Tommy opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out a little. He waited, listening to Fletcher shift on the couch. Probably opening their pants. A click, that must’ve been their belt buckle. 

What entered his mouth was too big, too hard, too metallic. 

Tommy’s eyes flew open as the barrel of the gun forced his jaw wider. He tried to pull back, but Fletcher snatched a fistful of his hair and held him in place. 

Tommy whimpered that beautiful whimper, but it was more rounded, more frantic.

“Breathe through your nose,” Fletcher said.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut and followed the order. He tried to breathe deep and slow through his nose. He tried to keep his tongue down as far as he could, to not gag and to not taste the oiled metal.

“I want you to look at me now.”

Tommy slowly opened his eyes. Fletcher was staring down at him impassively.

“Don’t try this shit with me again.”

Tommy couldn’t nod, so he did his best to make an “Uh huh” noise. 

Fletcher withdrew the gun. Tommy doubled forward and hacked. His mouth was left with an awful taste.

“Don’t spit on the floor,” Fletcher said. They picked up a magazine from the cushion beside them and slid it back into the gun. “Go.”

Tommy clamored to his feet and ran off. He managed to get to his room and close the door before fully breaking down into sobs, sliding down to the floor.

He had just been trying to make things better.

~

Tommy cried himself to sleep. Nothing new. He had just hoped to break the habit. 

He shuffled into the kitchen in the morning, and froze when he saw Fletcher sitting at the table, nursing a mug of coffee.

Tommy dropped his gaze quickly. He tried to decide quickly whether he should leave now, or grab some food and then leave. 

“Hey,” Fletcher said. It was softer than Tommy expected. “Sit.”

No running now. Tommy drew out the chair across from them and sat down, still avoiding their gaze.

“I recognize… that I have been harsh,” Fletcher said.

Tommy slowly lifted his eyes towards them, trying to read their expression. Was this a trick? Was he supposed to tell them he deserved it all? Was he supposed to believe them, and be lulled into a false sense of security?

“I didn’t give you a concussion, but, you know, the head can be tricky. And your hand…” They looked for the words. “I try to - I want to keep you in working condition. Nothing that’s going to really put you out of commission for a while. So that probably won’t happen again. Not to your hands. And the gun…” Fletcher ran a hand over their face. “The gun was a lot. That was uncool of me because, you know, gun safety rules.”

Tommy’s mouth was hanging slightly ajar. Was this an apology? At least, as close as Fletcher could get to one? He had expected something closer to, I recognize I’ve been harsh, but if you behaved I wouldn’t have to do these things.

“I know how it feels to have a gun on you,” Fletcher continued. They were the one to look away now. “And I… forget, I guess. That most people aren’t used to it. Can’t shake it off.

“Look, I’m not… not gonna say it will never happen again, but it probably won’t be this bad most of the time. Plenty of days will go by without incident, I’m sure. But I am… a violent person. I have violent tendencies, and I get angry. And I’m not trying to curb these tendencies because I enjoy indulging in them. So…” They tapped their knuckles on the table and shrugged. “That’s the situation. We’re square, for now. So you don’t need to be skulking around anymore. And… nevermind, I was going to say something mean.”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably. “About last night?”

“Yeah.”

“What, I’m not your type?”

Fletcher chuckled. “I was going to say when I want to take sexual advantage of you, I’ll let you know; you don’t have to initiate.”

“Right,” Tommy muttered, looking down again.

“I’m joking,” Fletcher said. “You can tell from my lighthearted expression.” They pointed at their face, purposely putting on a grumpy look. “Anyway, I’m planning my lesson for today. Might have to throw you around a bit for the demo. Nothing personal.”

“Oh,” Tommy said. “Okay, um…”

Fletcher was already up, carrying their coffee out of the room. “Get some breakfast,” they reminded him. “Three meals a day.”

~~~

hm i kind of thought our taglists would overlap more. good luck everyone.

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

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[rosewaterandivy]

ii. bisclavret

Summary: and here he thought he’d hit the bricks when it came to library visits.

Pairing: s.h. x werewolf!reader

W.C.: 5.8k

Warnings: supernatural elements, super sleuth steve, exhausted eddie, poor mother-daughter relationship, general werewolf nonsense, graduation shenanigans

A/N: well, three months later TO THE DAY and here we are. everyone go thank ash (@big-ope-vibes) for gently nudging me to continue this. apologies for the delay & I hope you enjoy! 💜

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There’s a howl from outside his window. Low pitched and haunting as it soars over the other din of nocturnal noises in Loch Nora’s suburban sprawl.

Unmistakable.

Desperate and mournful with just a whisper of familiarity in it.

And his feet hit the floor before he’s rightly awake, drawn to the moonlight as it cascades through the trees just outside his house. His knee knocks against something hard, but he feels no pain.

But in its place, he does feel something. Anxiety, panic? At any rate, some sort of emotional discomfort. The overwhelming sensation that something isn’t quite right.

The howl trails off plaintitively, and there’s something ineffable about it because—

Steve could swear he hears a voice in it.

_

Sometimes, you felt the only time you could truly be yourself was on a run. And though you despised organized sports, cross-country had some distinct advantages. Namely, that it was almost a solitary activity.

So when you weren’t dropping by Hellfire meetings or loping around due to a paradoxical relationship with the moon, most afternoons saw you toeing on some sneakers and running for a few hours.

And while trail-running wasn’t exactly a medaling event, it was your forte and Coach Reynolds didn’t seem to mind. Other than asking you once to bring Munson aboard because he’d seen Eddie outrun the SRO in a wild sprint at the Homecoming game, the coach generally left you to your own devices.

Breezing by the picnic table that Eddie affectionately calls his office, you stride through the woods back behind the school at an easy pace. Your mind empties and allows you to focus on the breath in your lungs, the myriad of scents carried on the air. The forest smells as it always does, that damp earthy quality of decaying underbrush cut through with fresh saplings taking root.

Further into the woods and at the mid-way point in your run, you’re about to turn back when you hear a dry snapping sound from somewhere ahead of you. Lightning quick, you narrow your gaze only to find a shirtless and sweaty Steve Harrington.

His chest is heaving like he’s been running for some time and he’s wearing a ridiculous bandana as a headband to keep his hair from falling in his face. There’s a healthy rosy hue dusting his cheeks and nose, and you know if you don’t leave now then you might do something worth regretting.

“Hey,” He exhales, stopping a few feet from you and setting his hands on his hips.

Steve leans over to catch his breath as you, meanwhile, stare at him dumbfounded.

And it isn’t like you haven’t seen shirtless men before; Eddie, in fact, is vehemently opposed to wearing any clothing that isn’t strictly necessary, particularly in the summer when the a/c tends to crap out in the trailer.

But to compare the two is a moot point. Because Steve is bronzed with hair on his chest, not the pallor of some sickly Victorian child. He’s sturdy, feet planted firmly in the ground even as his sucks in breaths as if his life depends on it.

He just smells so damn good.

It is precisely at this moment, that you know you’re fucked.

Because several things happen in quick succession.

Kicking it all off, a breeze passes through and you’re, of course, downwind of Steve so you get smacked with a sensorial wall of Harrington’s sweat, musk, and what can only be described as how you believe a raging inferno would smell— sweet and smoky. Enough to make your mouth water.

Then, he takes a step toward you with a concerned look on his face.

“You alright?”

Unfortunately, no, you are very much not alright.

“I, uh,” You say, recognizing all too well the rough rasp your voice has taken on. “I gotta go.”

It’s all you say as you jog past him, shoulders colliding as you run away, a familiar pull in your belly like the coaxing of an ember into a flame.

Fucking coward.

It wallops Steve in face one lazy Saturday, nearly out of the blue.

The kids have descended to watch movies and eat him out of house and home.

They’d made it through Teen Wolf and they’re maybe half-way through An American Werewolf in London when Steve visibly pales.

“Too gory for ya?” Max asks with a laugh, tossing popcorn in her mouth only to miss.

He shakes his head, eyes trained on the screen.

Robin pokes him with a socked foot eliciting no reaction.

Steve thinks back to the bonfire, his moonlit romp through the woods and the ineffeble feeling of being watched, how fucking weird you were the other day on your run.

And then he lets out a low whistle, scrubbing his hand through his hair.

“Shit.”

How he convinces Robin to waste the remnants of her weekend at the library, he’ll never know. When he first pitched it, she looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted another head.

“Do you even know where the library is, dingus?”

“Hey,” He says, only slightly perturbed. “I dated Nance, I sure as shit know where the library is.”

Robin cracks a smile, “Sure, big guy.”

And now, they’re rifling through the folklore section of the the Hawkins library after a fruitless search in nonfiction.

“Remind me of what we’re looking for?”

“Uh, like legends about wolves, I guess.”

“Why the sudden interest in our oft misunderstood four-legged friends?”

He stops, puzzled, “What the hell kinda sentence is that, Rob?”

She shrugs and continues perusing. “I dunno, I just think people don’t understand the wolf. They’ve been hunted and poached to near extinction in the U.S. y’know.”

The hairs prickle up on the back of Steve’s neck. He hadn’t considered that, and frankly, it’s a terrifying thought. Because if on the off-chance he’s right—

“I blame recreational hunters, personally.” Robin continues to prattle on, “Because wolves actually provide a natural cull to the ecosystem. I mean, why else do we have such a rampant deer population?”

Steve let’s her continue in this same vein for a while, knowing she’ll run out of steam eventually. He tosses a few books on the table they’ve claimed, mostly Germanic fairytales. And when he’s pulled all he could from the shelves, he hauls them over to the circulation desk.

The elderly librarian, Gladys, gives him a warm smile and opens the cover of each book to stamp the due date.

“Research project?” She asks with a friendly smile. “We’ve had a lot of kids come through for that recently.”

“Uh, kind of.” Steve allows, and thankfully he doesn’t have to painstakingly continue this conversation because Robin slaps a book down on the counter at that precise moment.

“This one too.”

Her eyes glint like she’s found something good, and Steve glances at the cover briefly.

Les Lais de Marie de Fance.

“Really, French?”

“Hey man,” Robin says, jockeying an elbow to his side, “I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, okay?”

Gladys passes back the stack of books to them and Robin opens the tome to pointedly tap her finger underneath one word: Bisclavret.

_

The next few days pass by peaceably enough.

You lie low, go to school and cross-country practice, hang out with Eddie, and studiously avoid Harrington’s haunts.

Eddie is the one to return the video tapes, as a precaution.

He swings into Family Video that day with the intent to come away with a copy of Evil Dead and an even distribution of sweet and sour candy.

What he does not expect is to find Harrington at the counter with a stack of books and furiously scribbling in a battered notebook. It’s such a shock to see, that Eddie stops short in the doorway.

There’s a grunt and the sound of glass hitting metal that causes Steve to glance up.

Just Munson lurking in the doorway.

He rolls his eyes and says, “In or out?”

Eddie shuffles into the store and drops the tapes into the return slot. He eyes the stack of books warily, and can’t recall the last time he’d seen Harrington carry a book, much less crack one. Recognizing a few titles, his blood runs cold.

Goddamnit.

He beelines for the horror aisle, swipes some candy from the shelf by the counter, and tries to get outta there as fast as he can.

But, of course, Harrington takes his time rigning up the sale.

Eddie taps his fingers against the counter, leg bouncing as he stands there trying not to sweat bullets. Because it’s one thing to warn Harrington off of moonlight strolls, that’s just being like, neighborly? He wouldn’t really know.

The point is this: Steve seems very close to figuring something out.

Something that he should have no business doing in the first place. And not because you’d nearly bitten Eddie’s head off at his less than helpful suggestions.

“Over my dead body,” is what you had said.

And it was a very near thing, at the time, because you had stumbled into Hop’s old hunting cabin without a stitch of clothing on, limping, with your hands and jaw covered in dried blood.

There was also the matter of the bullet that grazed your leg, but that’s what the first aid kit was for.

“Y’know,” He had pointed out, cleaning the wound as you hissed and thrashed on the floor. His t-shirt barley long enough to be considered modest on your frame. “This could all be avoided it you’d just—”

“What,” You bit out, “Tell him about this clusterfuck of a situation?”

Eddie takes that opportunity to put pressure on the wound and pack it with gauze. You nearly kick him in the face, and maybe he deserves it.

Later, after a few hours as he was changing your bandages, he broached the subject again. A different tactic, but the same intent. He kept his voice soft, barely audible under the laughtrack from the TV.

“It’s only going to get worse.”

A grunt.

“He could help, is all I’m sayin’.” Eddie turned to you on the sofa, mindful of your leg as it rested on his lap. The wound healing up quite nicely already. “The shifts wouldn’t be as bad, you’d have some—”

A snort.

“Something to live for?”

“Well, someone, technically. But yeah.”

You wave him over with a lazy smile, only to cuff him on the back of the head.

“You idiot,” You say around a laugh, “I’ve got you to live for. Why drag another sorry sucker into this mess, huh?”

Eddie shakes himself loose, comes back to find Harrington staring at him over the counter. He pays and scoops up his purchases in both arms.

He’s almost out of there, scot-free, but when he’s turning toward the door, a knowing voice says:

“Gladys said to return those overdue books you’ve got, Munson.”

And in that brief moment, Eddie and Steve understood each other perfectly.

He high tails it outta there accompanied by a litany of: fuckfuckfuckFUCK.

_

Robin is regaling Steve with her painstaking translation of that French story she found.

“So like, the earl of whogivesafuck marries this chick and she notices that for a few nights every month, her new husband isn’t in bed.”

Steve continues typing in the receipts for the day.

“She confronts him about it, and he says that once a month he turns into a wolf and loafs around the forest. He trusts her, obviously, and says that he can only turn back if he finds his clothes, so he usually stashes them in the woods somewhere.”

He hums, trying his best to show the bare minimum of interest.

“But the thing is,” Robin says, chomping down on a piece of licorice. “His wife has this lover, a knight, and she’d much rather be with him than some earl who’s a part-time wolf. So, she waits until his next turn and then steals his clothes from the forest.”

“So, he’s a wolf forever?”

“I mean, for a while, yeah.” Robin chews audibly. “But the earl was close with the king, and in his wolf form endears himself to the court. Some time goes by, and he’s living large as a glorified pet, but then his wife comes to court with her new husband.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Well, if getting your nose bit off is bad, then yeah.” She barks a laugh and tosses the candy wrapper into the trash. “And the king is floored because this wolf has never said so much as ‘boo’ to anyone all the time he’s been at court. So suspicion falls on the now noseless wife.”

She wraps up the tale; the king gives the wolf clothes on the advice of the wife. Lo and behold, what was once a wolf is now his long lost earl. All’s well that ends well.

“Huh,” Steve says. “Weird.”

“Not that you should just randomly hand out clothing to every wolf you come across,” Robin teases with a gleam in her eye. “Just thought it would be helpful for your lil’ project.”

“Sure, sure.” Steve nods and shoves the receipts in the night deposit bag. “And this earl, did he have a name?”

“Bisclavret.” Robin supplies, “It’s like, old ass French, but I think it translates to something like…” She pauses and seems to dissect the word in real time. “Bleiz is , uh, Breton for wolf and claffet means rabid? Ill, maybe? So, my best bet is wolf-sick.”

Curious and curiouser.

Steve files it away to think about later.

Besides, he has a spare bit of clothing lying around somewhere. It would be nothing to just toss them in bag and throw it in his car. Just in case, of course.

_

Steve thinks there’s sort of a innate brilliance to it all.

It’s subtle, it has to be if you’re to avoid detection, and probable— it really works a charm.

His notebook is full of scribbled lines lifted from library books, loopy curls of a more feminine hand when Robin included her summaries of the French story, haphazard drawings of the moon, teeth, and glowing eyes.

The eyes he’s comes back to more often than he’d like. Shards of moonstone that catch the light, milky white with a flashy vein of blue.

He didn’t know that’s what it was until ambling around Robin’s room one day. She was half-assedly studying for finals, plopped on her bed and surrounded by books and sheets of notebook paper.

Steve, for lack of anything to do, investigates the collection of bric-a-brac on her dresser.

A small square of milky white cut through with specks of gray, blue, and green catches his notice. “What’s this?” He asks, feeling its dull edges in his hand. Turning it slightly, it flashes an icy blue vein.

Robin looks up from where she’s sprawled on her bed, nose in a book. “Oh, that’s moonstone.”

He hums in response, turning the rock this way and that. Phosperescent eyes coming to the fore of his mind, there in an instant and gone in the next. The golden light of the streetlamp cutting across your cheekbone, incisors gleaming and white.

Carefully, he sets the moonstone down amongst Robin’s other treasures, and files it away for later.

Things are becoming clearer as the moon creeps closer to waxing full in the sky.

Steve is a patient guy, he can wait a little longer.

The aconite no longer works.

Eddie has gone through more chains and tow rope than any twenty year-old has a right to. He’s trying to keep it together, but it’s getting pretty fucking dire.

He can see how each day, each new failure, is wearing you down.

To a casual observer, you hide it pretty well. Oh, just cramming for finals, you know how it is! Something to explain away the rings under your eyes, the ‘I just rolled out of bed’ look instead of the more accurate ‘I woke up in the woods again and these were the first clothes I could find.’

You had never, to Eddie’s recollection, willingly worn a Hawkins Tigers anything. Much less a shirt to school, of all places. It’s a slow motion disaster as you pour yourself out of the van and get your bearings on the pavement, because that’s when he sees it.

‘HARRINGTON’ emblazoned on the back of the gray tee, there for the entirety of Hawkins high to gawk at.

And yeah, you might be slow on the uptake today, but Eddie’s tongue is so tied he can’t possibly work his way out of it in a subtle fashion.

Instead, he throws an arm over your shoulders and does his best to cover the name as you walk into the building.

But the damage is done by the end of homeroom that morning. A class you share with Robin Buckley and elected to sleep through that day. Head on the desk, hair fanned around you, Harrington’s name is clear for everyone to see against your shoulderblades.

The whispers start then and Robin makes it a point to hang back as the bell rings.

She watches as you jolt awake, blinking a few times before grabbing your stuff and making toward the door.

Robin catches up to you easily, the students giving you a wide bearth in the halls. Too happy to fall into their cliques, peer at you, and whisper amongst themselves.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even realize she’s tailing you until she pulls you into the girls bathroom at the end of the corridor.

Her scent gives her away— light and airy like fresh laundry hanging on the line, but there’s a sharp sour note of fear, nervousness maybe. And she smells a bit like wood smoke— Steve.

“Woah, um, hi?” You say as the door swings shut behind you.

The few students in the bathroom rush out, leaving the two of you alone.

Robin looks at you incredulous, because she’s maybe figured something out that her best fucking friend in the world was keeping from her.

And she can’t begin to guess why he would do such a thing.

“You’re wearing his shirt.”

“What? Who’s?” You turn to look before realizing that’s a moot point and situate yourself in front of the bathroom mirror instead.

You can feel the blood draining from your face as you read the letters on your back.

Fuck.

This cannot be happening. Not today, not now, not ever.

“I, uh,” You stammer, failing to explain this away.

Robin studies your reflection in the mirror. The near bruises under your eyes, how sloppily you’re put together today, that you’re sleeping every spare moment you can get.

She clears her throat, “Did something happen between you two?”

Narrowing your gaze at her, you turn from the mirror, posture drastically changed.

Where once she believed to have the upper hand, Robin now realizes her grave miscalculation. Shoulders back and standing tall you cooly assess her as you take calming breaths.

There is a razor-fine edge that you are on the precipice of, one false move and it all falls apart.

“Wouldn’t he tell you if it did?”

If you can keep her talking, you can diffuse the situation.

Robin isn’t a threat, she’s Steve’s best friend. She carries his scent on the periphery of her own, it calms you somewhat.

“Then how did you—”

Before she can finish the thought, the door slams open and Eddie waltzes through.

You let your shoulders fall, relieved at his arrival; safe and familiar.

“Ladies,” He greets casually, as if he struts into the girls bathroom on a regular basis. “Guess my invite was lost in the mail, huh?”

Eddie tosses his bag near the door alongside yours and throws the lock.

Robin’s eyes flit between the pair of you, curious and wary.

The bell trills out and the din in the hall dissipates.

You can’t afford to linger here much longer, finals to take and all.

“Something’s up.” Buckley says shouldering past Eddie to unlock the door, “And you’re gonna tell me what it is.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Eddie’s voice is low and warning, his eyes cut to you fleetingly before settling on the growing problem that is Robin Buckley.

Her hand grips the metal handle, knuckles nearly blanching white, and barely turns her head to softly say,

“Then he will.”

The door opens and she’s gone.

“Well,” Eddie sighs as he grabs your bags. “If this isn’t a goddamn bitch of an unstatisfactory situation.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “Got it in one, Ed.”

-

Steve doesn’t see Robin that much over the week. Busy with finals and graduation, she cut down her shifts at Family Video leaving Steve with Kieth more often than not.

It wasn’t the worst but it certainly wasn’t the best; his manager elected to play the Star Wars movies on a loop for two days straight and Steve was fine with that, if not a little distracted.

He’d requested off for Robin’s graduation and was closing on his own for once. He played Fast Times just because he could and gnoshed on the half-open box of Milk Duds Robin had been working her way through.

But he couldn’t escape the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

It itched at the back of his mind all through his shift lingering as he killed the lights and locked the front door.

His skin feels too tight again and he’s exhausted despite not doing much to warrant it.

Steve grabs his keys and leaves through the back door walking toward his car.

There’s a sound like someone stepping on gravel behind him.

He pauses midstride.

And then, there’s that voice again, the one he hasn’t heard since the bonfire.

A low rumble that feels like a caress:

Go.

Steve does as he’s told, mindful of the controlled steps behind him.

He slides into the car and locks the doors.

As the engine turns over, he glances at the rearview mirror only to find the bluest eyes he’s ever seen staring back at him from the shadows.

Blueblue, definitely not moonstone.

The BMW peels out of the lot and onto the main drag, leaving whatever was lurking there to the dark.

A cloying scent of gardenia assaults your senses as you walk through the door.

Your mother is perched on the arm of the sofa, beer already in hand.

“Hi hon,” She greets with a smile that has far too much teeth. “Happy graduation!”

The best thing about your mother, if you were pressed to find one, was the simple fact that she was never around.

“Uh, thanks.”

Your bag drops near the door as you cross your arms and lean against it.

She goes on to say how proud she is of you, that she couldn’t possibly miss her only child’s graduation, that it would—

She pauses mid-sentence, her grip on the can crushing it slightly. She scents the air, her once too-perfect smile falling into a snarl.

“What is that smell?”

Throwing the can aside, she marches up to you and lifts your hair from your shoulders, turns you this way and that, eyes searching for something that isn’t there.

But now that she’s uncomfortably close, the scent is heightened.

The scent that isn’t entirely yours and is subtly laced with wood smoke.

“No,” She says, eyes catching the name on the back of your shirt, “Absolutely not.”

Your back is nearly to the wall as she clenches your arms in an attempt to force you into submission.

“Mom,” You try, voice calm, “Nothing has happened, nothing will happen—”

“After all I’ve done for you,” She sneers, eyes bright and furious, “After all the work I’ve done to raise you, ensure your safety, this is how you repay me?”

She’s always been a stong woman, your mother, forced to by circumstance and the harsh reality that honed her. Her shirt shifts as she manuevers you to the wall, revealing the faded scar of a bite to her jugular.

A souvenir from your father, that she never failed to remind you of. One of two, including you.

You swallow thickly, hating every point of contact you share with her.

The precipice is coming closer and you’re falling headfirst into it.

With a shuddery breath you close your eyes, and try to think of better things.

Summer, freedom, warm nights, cool water, that glint Eddie gets in his eyes when he laughs, running with no destination in mind, bonfires under a starry sky, the sweet scent of smoke—

Threat.

A low growl crawls its way up your throat.

A demand.

“Let go.”

Hands come up and grasp her wrists, shoving her away from you. She stumbles back, balance precarious as you purposefully step forward. Her eyes dim as she glances up at you, feaful and almost cowering.

Because while your mother was a strong woman, you were stronger. Something she always knew and lived in fear of. Let the entire pack fall to ruin under the guise of protecting you from their judgment. Refused to have you be used like a weapon.

But in doing so, she also denied your rightful place there.

Your birthright.

And sure, you mother always claimed it was because people wouldn’t respect a woman in charge. Said you were better off as she packed her bags once again, leaving you with Wayne or Hopper.

“A woman’s place isn’t at the head of the table,” She’d say as a parting blow.

Gravel would spray out from under her tires as she drove out of Forest Hills, and Wayne’s hand would fall to your shoulder in a comforting squeeze as tears leaked down your cheeks.

“Don’t pay her any mind darlin’,” He’d say ushering you inside. “She wouldn’t know the first thing about about leading a pack if it bit her in the ass.”

She looks scared now, terrified to see what you’ve become in her absence.

Strong, loved, and unafraid.

In the chaos of memories, you hadn’t felt your fangs descend. You tongue one briefly before opening your mouth to say:

“Leave and don’t ever come back.”

It is not a request.

She balks at the order, tries to fight it.

Another step closer has her lowly whining and ducking her head.

Your voice is foreign to you, a lower register and stronger somehow, self-assured. It rips through you like wildfire this new feeling, runs like magma through your veins.

Power.

She grabs her meager things and turns to leave, pausing at the door she says, “Don’t bring that boy into this.”

A parting warning as the door swings shut.

This charade goes on for weeks.

But without the excuse of school— Robin, Eddie, and you have graduated— Steve has difficulty keeping a handle on his curiosity.

Curiosity killed the cat…

How does the end of that saying go?

Right, so. Being cool, calm, and somewhat collected, Steve only tails you on certain days of the week. Generally on those evening runs you’re partial to, it’s easy enough to brush aside as a coincidence; you’re a runner, he’s a former jock besides, he doesn’t do much other than observe.

He studies where you go, the places you frequent and with whom. And more often than not, you’re alone, secluded in the woods somewhere. Steve wonders if he’s getting himself into a can’t see the forest for the trees situation, it feels like he’s getting nowhere.

Or less than nowhere, going backwards maybe.

He’s curious why Eddie isn’t glued to your side.

He has to remind himself that he’s looking for a change in behavior. On his calendar, Steve tracks the lunar phases, noting that you grow more impulsive the more it waxes, eyes beckoning like the most precious of stones. Your stride shifts to something corded with tension, you run faster as if you could outrun the skin you’re in. Your hair grows wild and unkempt, snapping hair ties in its ferocity.

Steve watches and makes note of this for reasons he cannot possibly explain. All the while, he tries to convince himself that he’s not being obsessive and weird. Though Robin would cite his notebook as evidence to the contrary.

He’s careful to remain undetected. Quick to duck behind a tree as you loop back on the running trail, and he’s convinced you’re about to glance in his direction.

But there’s something you didn’t account for, on this particular run. It’s the late afternoon the day before the full moon— the Strawberry moon— lying in wait, hot and pregnant in the sky. Steve’s tailing you at what he’s sure is a reasonable distance on your run that day, he’s got you in his sights and goes to wipe away the sweat gathered at his brow.

In that instant, you are gone.

He blinks to clear his vision, glances left and right. And, deeming that you are nowhere to be found, he drops a spare pair of shorts and an old tee shirt at the trunk of an ancient oak tree.

A twig snaps somewhere to his right.

“Harrington,” You greet with a tense smile, voice frustrated and gruff. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve replies around the lump in his throat, voice strained. “Great minds and all that.”

You take a measured step toward him, filling the space between you. He notes the slight flare of your nostrils.

“That’s interesting, I could’ve sworn you were a morning run kinda guy.”

“Oh, um,” Steve stammers in response, suddenly overwhelmed by your proximity and the musky tang radiating from your sweat drenched skin. “Well, it gets hot so early now—”

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” You warn with a low growl, and shift your stance so he’s forced back against the trunk of the tree. “You know exactly what I’m getting at.”

“Honestly, I don’t—”

You take a deep breath in, brows furrowing as if in great pain.

“I can smell you.”

And that shuts Steve right up.

It seems rather obvious to him now, of fucking course you can smell him. He feels like an idiot for not considering it earlier. God, how embarrassing.

You stare each other down in the subdued quiet of the forest, your eyes boring into his with a harsh intensity. Steve is kind of thrilled and terrified to be able to study them up close, despite the precarious situation at present.

Your irises are blown, from what he can see, like ink splattered across a page and crowding out their natural color. There’s the faintest hint of milky white rimming the edges, fluctuating slightly as if battling for dominance. Your pupils are enormous, so big and…

My, my, what big eyes you have.

All the better to see you with, my dear.

Steve shudders and books it out of there, faster than a knife fight in a phone booth and twice as choatic. And he doesn’t stop until his lungs are fit to burst at the intersection of Pine Bow. He doubles over, hands on knees, gulping in snatches of air.

He shakes his head, unable to get your flickering eyes from his mind. The viciousness in your gaze should serve as a warning.

Well, Steve had never been one to take heed of those.

He wakes in a cold sweat tangled in his sheets.

Struggles to piece together the images from his dream.

Damp earth. Wet leaves. Something wild and free.

He falls back against the pillow and drags a hand across his face. The illuminated numbers of the clock state that it is seven in the morning.

Robin is still dozing in one of the guest rooms, she’d stayed over after graduation and they’d torn into the liquor cabinet while dancing along to Top 40 on the radio.

He’s thirsty but nowhere near hungover as he swings his legs to meet the plush carpet underfoot. Robin will doze off and on until late morning if he lets her, so there’s enough time for a quick morning run.

Steve throws on a shirt that’s seen better days and the blade of Rob’s scissors, the hem barley grazing past his pecs, some shorts, and laces his sneakers. He swings the door open and is about to step outside only to stop short at the sight of a fairly large gray dog at his door.

It cocks its head curiously, mouth falling open in a soft pant as they assess one another.

Now, Steve had always wanted a dog; had begged every birthday and Christmas until it was clear that the Harringtons would not tolerate dog hair and dander polluting their home. Undeterred, Steve wrote to Santa dutifully each year until he was eleven. Then, it was all too obvious that Santa thought Steve was far too old for such things— Christmas presents turned into cash and checks left on the counter, wire transfers from the Cayman Islands.

So it’s really not his fault that he tiredly assumed what was actually a wolf was just a very large and well-behaved dog. And he maintains that fact to this very day, he’ll have you know.

“Oh, uh, hi there.”

The dog, or so Steve assumed, sat politely on his porch, its large paws barley grazing the edge of the welcome mat.

He saw no collar nor leash, and ruminated on what to do as the animal studied him in return with a keen intelligence in its eyes.

Eyes that were oddly familiar to Steve.

But before he could decide on what to do, Eddie Munson’s van careened into his driveway and screeched to a halt.

“Harrington!” Eddie yelled in the bright summer morning, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He fell out of the vehicle and tripped several times in quick succession striding across Steve’s well-manicured lawn.

The animal cocks its head to the side in interest, light eyes trained on Steve but ears cognizant of Eddie’s approach.

And before Eddie can intervene, Steve grabs something from behind the door and tosses it at the dog’s feet. A wet nose scents the air, dips to investigate the cotton, and deems it satisfactory.

It takes the shirt between its teeth— which strike him as unnaturally sharp— and trots inside the house. The act shocks Steve into silence.

“Well fuck, Harrington,” Eddie curses, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “You’ve really done it now.” He shoulder checks Steve as he enters, grumbling to himself all the while.

So, curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

He shuts the door and hears his mother’s voice ringing in his ears—

“No, you know better, Steve,” she sputtered at the puppy on their patio, worrying a dish towel between her manicured fingers. “Don’t feed it, it’ll just come back!”

He shakes the thought loose and follows Eddie down the hall to the living room.

And, well, he’d always wanted a dog, a companion of some kind. Steve figures it’s better in than howling outside his door.

[ammoknightsofficial]

Louie moment.

[harrowharr0w]

wings of fire amvs are peak animation idc

[theflyingcosmos]

KILLERRRR FOR MY FICCC