#or wanting to have big teeth and roam the woods at night and strike fear into the hearts of men

[deep-space-lines]

fursonas i made for myself so i could draw them hanging out with my girlfriend’s fursona except i’m not all that good at drawing in a furry art style so they look less like fursonas and more like a fucked up freak with the biggest wettest eyes and a folklore beast that eats people in the woods

[little-wicked10]

You Ain’t Easy to Love

JDM as Samuel “Rooster” Corbin (OC) x Unnamed OFC

Warnings: SMUT, bad language, slight mention of abusive relationship, super angsty at the end...I think that’s it?

Big thank you too @irrelevantwriter for helping me out with this one!

You gotta know what you’re walking into when falling in love with someone like Samuel “Rooster” Corbin. He looks like a cold son of a bitch, but there’s a heart left in that old chest of his. He pushes people away because he doesn’t want to depend on them. He doesn’t want the burden. That was the main reason cowboys like him tended to roam. It was like an itch that didn’t go away until he was on the road again. It called to him, and there wasn’t anyone or anything that could keep him from answering it. I hated that I loved him because I knew any minute he’d want to leave, not being able to tolerate standing still for too long. He’d be gone with the wind and all that would be left behind is a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the smell of leather, and an empty bed full of memories.

—

I heard him before I saw him. The sound of spurs clicking and boots echoing on the wood floor. I stayed still in bed, waiting for him to come into the bedroom that we shared when he was in town. The door creaked open and heavy boots entered. The smell of leather and dirt filled the room as he set down his heavy saddle. He always liked to leave his saddle in the bedroom on days it needed to be oiled. That’s the only reason he ever brought it in here. Rooster didn’t stop to see if I was awake, he walked straight to the bathroom and turned the light on before I heard the shower kick on. I knew that mood. He’d had a bad day.

On a good day, he’d come home and kiss me on the cheek before heading to shower. Something small that would make me smile and know that he was ok. His boots thumped as he threw them off, and the buckle on his belt clattered on the bathroom tile. I waited for the sound of the shower door closing before I decided to get up and check on him. The bathroom lighting made my eyes squint as I opened the door. When my eyes adjusted, I saw him leaning against the shower wall as the water beat down on his bruised and scratched up back. My hands unbuttoned his denim button up I wore to sleep every night. I was quiet as I opened the shower door and slipped in behind him. 

The war zone on his back use to scare me. Not anymore. I placed my hands on his back and traced up the tense muscles until I decided to wrap my arms around him. “You should be asleep, darlin’,” his deep voice rumbled. I ignored the comment because he said that every time I waited up on him. He hated it when I did that. Rooster never liked for people to wait around for him or do things for him. He felt an obligation to stay when that happened, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. My arms released him as he turned around to face me, a sullen look on his face. Judging by the bruise forming on his cheekbone and the cut lip, he’d been in a fight tonight with more than some steer. 

“Rooster,” I sigh, reaching up to exam his face closer. His calloused hand grasped my wrist, a warning to leave the matter alone. He never talked about things like this, and I knew better than to push him for answers or details. He’d tell me in his own time, but for now, the subject was closed. The scruff around his lips tickled my skin as he kissed my palm reassuringly. My heart fluttered with love at this grizzly man being tender with me, like a baby bird that just fell out of the nest. There were times when we were rough though.

Arguments where I threw things, and we both screamed at one another until our throats hurt. Times when he came home with a crazy look in his eye, and he had to have me right then and there, taking me anyway he could get me. Whether that be on the wooden floor in front of the door or the couch, unable to make it to the bedroom. 

Moments like that were usually followed by gentle kisses where bruises were left and whispered apologies. Sometimes an argument would break out and end up in hate fucking until we both felt better. Rooster wasn’t good with words, so he resorted to sex until he was ready to talk. It wasn’t always the most efficient way to communicate, but it seemed to work for us. 

Please don’t ask me why I stay with him. I’ve asked myself the same question many times. Why stay with a man who can’t stay in one place? We don’t always choose who we fall in love with. 

When I first met Rooster, he was at a bar after a rodeo. I had been dating a young bull rider at the time who wasn’t the kindest to me. He’d beat me and cheat on me without a care in the world because all of his buddies encouraged him and told him it made him more of a man. I stayed out of fear for what would happen if I dared defy him. That night at the bar though, Rooster beat the shit out of the son of a bitch when he went to strike me, and from that day on, Rooster and I were inseparable. 

He had taught me my self-worth, that I didn’t deserve to be treated like that, and I didn’t need a man in order to make a life for myself. Our relationship started out as friends until one day it just changed. He tried to tell me he was too old for me, but we didn’t care about that for long. A thunderstorm soaked us to the bone and forced us out of our clothes, and the whiskey we had been drinking earlier, made it very easy for us to throw any regrets or hesitations out the window.

Our story isn’t ideal, but it was ours. That’s what mattered. 

Rooster’s lips suddenly pressed against mine, forcing me to wrap my arms around his neck. My fingers wove into the dark hairs at the nape of his neck as his hands wondered down my body slowly. His callouses scratched my back as his hands wondered up until one hand threaded into my hair, pulling my head back so he could kiss my neck. I felt him bring my left leg up to wrap around his waist and his hips press into mine. 

A feeling that had me willing to fall to my knees that very second took hold of me. He chuckled into my neck feeling my knees go weak, “Not tonight, darlin’.” Rooster’s hand released me to wrap around my thighs, lift me off my feet, and press me against the shower wall. I took a moment to admire his features. His salt and pepper beard, that I loved to feel scratch my skin, smelled slightly of alcohol and smoke. His black, wet hair was slicked back, adding to his devilishly handsome look, and most likely matched the smell of his facial hair.

My admiring was brought to a halt when I felt his calloused fingers circling my clit. I moaned and laid my head back against the shower wall. My hips rutted up against his hand as much as they could with my trapped state. His teeth grazed my neck before biting into the skin. I opened my neck more, whining as he began to leave a hickey. “Baby,” I moaned, “You wanna…take this to the bedroom?” Rooster didn’t seem to hear me because he continued on his journey of leaving hickies and rubbing my clit. His finger suddenly slipped inside of me making me whimper. “You sure, darlin’? You not want me to finish this first?” I could feel his smirk against my skin. 

I tugged on his hair to look at me, “More room. More comfortable. Please, Rooster.” He stared into my eyes before quickly reaching over and shutting off the water. Rooster pulled me off the wall and made a B-line to the bedroom. Dripping wet, we collapsed onto the bed. There was something beautiful about the situation. It felt like something out of a movie or cheesy romance novel where the lovers give no heed to messing anything up in the wake of their passion. 

Rooster was quick to throw me on the bed before running his fingers through his wet hair to slick it back out of his face. I bit my bottom lip watching him. The bastard had the audacity to smirk and lick his bottom lip. He knew I was crazy about his long hair and made sure to take advantage of that piece of information. 

“Been thinking about cutting it,” he teased.

“You cut it, you’re never getting me in the sheets again,” I threatened.

Rooster quickly hovered over me, “I doubt you could stay away for too long, darlin’.” 

I laugh, throwing my head back. The witty retort I had for him caught in my throat as he took advantage of my exposed neck and sucked on the spot right under my ear. I moaned and clutched onto his hair. It amazed me how a-tuned to each others’ bodies we had become. It was like we had been created for one another; created to know the other’s body like our own. 

“I gotta have you, darlin’,” Rooster growled. 

I felt him take his manhood in hand and rub it against my entrance. The action made me buck my hips towards him and whine with need. That seemed to do him in because before I knew it, he was inside me. He didn’t waste anytime to set a slow and powerful pace that has my eyes rolling back into my head and my nails clawing into his back. Rooster took my chin in between his fingers, “Look at me, baby.” I pried my eyes open to look into his. Those eyes were filled with such heated passion it made me gasp and hold him closer, the need to feel his skin against mine suddenly urgent. 

“Rooster...hmm...I...need you,” I whined, nearly letting slip what I really wanted to say. 

Rooster replied by kissing and biting my bottom lip, “Only Ol’ Rooster can make you feel this good, baby. Right?”

I nodded my head, but he wasn’t happy with that. He halted his movements making me protest and move my hips. “Ah ah. Who makes you feel this good, darlin’?”

“You do, Sam!” I watched him smirk. I only used his real name when I was pissed with him, and I was pissed at the control he had. 

He suddenly leaned down and left gentle kisses along my neck to my ear as he resumed his pace. I loved the nights Rooster made love to me like this. We savored the feel of each other skin, the sounds we made, the whispered sweet nothings, every aspect of us. These were the kind of moments I would dream about on the lonely nights he was away. I always awoke in a fevered state until I felt the empty side of the bed, and that feeling was quickly replaced with a deep sadness.

I held tightly to his long hair and kept my legs firmly locked around his waist. The callouses on his hands smoothed over the outside of my thighs until grabbing a hold of my knees to keep me wrapped around him. “I want ya to cum with me, darlin’,” Rooster grunted. His thrust picked up pace slightly as he sat up and placed one of my legs over his shoulder. The following thrusts were so deep that I nearly screamed in ecstasy. 

“C’mon, baby,” he moaned.

We locked eyes. This man meant so much to me. I only wish I could tell him that. You don’t tell a cowboy those words, not unless you want him to never come back. I felt my mouth begin to form the words, but I quickly bit my lip. ‘Don’t say it! Don’t say it!’ my mind cried. My heart chanted differently. Everything came to a screeching halt when Rooster’s thumb pushed against my clit and stars exploded in my eyes. Rooster suddenly fell forwards as I felt the warmth of his release inside me. He moaned my name.

I love you….

— 

The early rays of light coming through the window woke me. As I stretched, I felt my muscles cry out in pain. Lord knew I had the bruises to match how sore I felt. I stirred a bit in bed, but something felt off. Something wasn’t right…wasn’t normal. I turned over to the other side of the bed and was met with cool sheets. My heart picked up its pace a little bit. “Baby?” I called quietly. No reply.

I listened for sounds of life. There wasn’t a sound. 

No rustling in the bathroom.

No pots and pans rattling in the kitchen.

No TV blaring the morning news or NFR reruns.

My stomach twisted in knots, and my heart was pounding in my ears. I quickly got up and threw on one of Rooster’s t-shirts from the dresser. I suddenly noticed Rooster’s saddle was gone. Maybe he took it out to the truck? I ventured further into the house and…nothing. Everything was where it had been left the night before, but things were missing. Rooster’s things.

“Oh my god,” my heart stopped.

I raced to the front door and threw it open in a panic. I ran to the side of the house to the drive way. As I rounded the corner, I choked on my tears at what I saw.

No truck.

No trailer.

No Rooster.

He’d left without a trace, without a goodbye, and I knew exactly what drove him away. Those three little words.

[yandere-sins]

Imagine Yandere Werewolf Bakugou was kidnap and a slave by a witch then Y/N who is a retire knight kills the witch. Y/N sets him free but like he has no where to go. He has been a slave for a long time that his pack is gone some where, he is weak from the lack of food, and shelter. Y/N is like, "You can stay with me for awhile. I don't mind." Y/N lives in a comfy cabin and this is where Bakugou felt warmth in so long by this knight treated him kindly. Y/N thinks herself as an older sister.

@popcornsalazar Thank you for requesting, was a really interesting idea! ♥

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

When did he forget who he was?

He was Bakugou Katsuki, the strongest, biggest wolf of his pack, undefeated ever since he tore away from his parents and attract his own followers! He was a werewolf, a strong, dangerous creature that could maul any small little human figure. And yet, he had been captured by a simple witch, a nobody, someone who needed a piece of wood to cast some spells, say abracadabra and ride on a broom.

So when had he decided that this was okay? Living at the witch’s side for so long, being nothing but a guard dog, only ever taken off the magicial, invisible leash to scare away unwelcome visitors. He, the great Katsuki, a simple pup on a rug, chained down and greedy for every bone thrown his way. How could it have come to this?

And then, how had it come to you being allowed into the witch’s lair, cutting her head right off without even noticing him? You had no armor, no flag - a sign of belonging to a kingdom - stitched up on your clothes, and yet you had handled the sword with precision, blood splattering everywhere without even a wrinkle of concern on your face. At that time, he didn’t know why you even came, simply spilling blood without any word and turning to leave without a blessing or another thought.

If he hadn’t objected, ask you to help him, you would probably left him there to starve. Luckily, the moon phase had just ended, turning him back into a human, and he remembered your red face as he approached you, still chained and naked. Your first reaction had been to throw a fur rug at him, but at least you had heard him out, believed him when he told you his sad tale of captivity.

Just… the werewolf part. That he didn’t tell you.

Freeing him from his chains, you had helped getting him a cloak to cover up, inviting him to track back to your hut, so he could eat and get his strength back after being held capitve for so long. You must have noticed his rips shining through his skin, the countless scares adorning him. Even if they weren’t from the witch per se, it was a good thing he was so proud of them, loving to show them off, adding something to the pity you found for him.

For the first time in long, he felt alive again. Conversing, laughing, hearing of the outside world. It had been years apparently, since the witch caught him, as unbelievable as it was. Even if this wasn’t the rush of a hunt, the feeling of bones cracking in his jaw, it still was… satisfying. He couldn’t deny it.

Maybe he should have feared you. Feared the silver blades that you liked polishing and sharpening in case of an emergency. You were a knight, trained to kill, having done so countless times. The witch had done nothing to you, aside, apparently, taking a child from the nearby village. But you were just like him, a hunter, a killer. You liked the thrill, and didn’t mind the dirt and blood.

You were also annoyingly concerned about others how he found.

That was the only reason you even took it upon yourself to kill the witch and take him in. Nothing more than feeling so much empathy, that you’d even give him your bed to sleep in and cook more than you could afford to feed him, even if he couldn’t give you anything in return. Even when he swore upsidedown against that stupid hag that had captured him, you had been calm, patting his shoulders and promising it would be okay. That he was safe now. Like a child.

You always had the prettiest breathing rythm when you slept. It was always nervous and alert when you two went out, but you were incredible calm in your dreams, at least, for someone so ready for every attack that might come. Katuski had come to quite like being able to lay beside you, even when you still protested that he should have the bed alone. Guess you’ve gotten softer for him by now, trust building every day.

But this was bad, really bad.

All around him, it smelled like you. The cabin, the bed, the clothes he was wearing. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he smelled like you too. Truth be told, he had been ready to get home. He knew the city close to you and he knew how to get home from it, hoping he would find his pack in his territorry or maybe with his parents. Katuski hoped they bunch of idiots had been reasonable enough to reunite with what was closest to him, in hopes they could find him.

But how was he going to explain this smell? Everything about him smelled like you, and he got concerned whenever you two went out and he wasn’t able to smell you anymore. Sticky like honey, that’s how it felt, unable to seperate from him anymore. As if you had become one with him already.

Eyeing outside the little window above the bed, he could see the moon in full view. Soon enough, that damn, white ball of light would be complete again, giving him a new moon cycle to live out what he deep down was. A hunter, a wolf, a monster. Katsuki knew that if it came down to that, he wouldn’t be able to stay with you. How could a renowned knight like you ever accept someone like him, even if… Katsuki had long accepted you as his mate.

There weren’t many other explanations as to why it was so hard for him to separate from you. He had tried running away a few times already, not wanting to deal with staying with you longer than needed and getting more indepted to you. But by night, he had come back, and you had welcomed him even when he apologized only through gritted teeth. Why it made him crazy to not smell you and why he felt better smelling like you than smelling like blood and forest as werewolves usually do.

Those were only a handful things that showed him what this connection between you two really was. And he could deny it and curse the gods or whatever holy reigned over him, but undoubtedly, it was you. You were his mate, even if that made the neck hairs on both of your necks stand. The last thing Katsuki wanted was to be bound down by another spell, another inevitable strike of fate, but here he was, and his time to be angry about it run out with every second the moon revealed more of itself.

Latest by morning you would see it. His… form. You’d wake up next to a stinking mutt, only that this mutt wasn’t only technically bigger, but also ten times as dangerous as any street dog. And you’d jump for your swords, he’d slap them out of your hand and either maul you or devour you whole in his paniced instincts. So what could he do? Katsuki knew he should have just left, ran as far as he could and hoped he wouldn’t find back, but he found himself glued to the mattress, glued to the feeling of your back against your arm, you two having to sleep so close with how tiny the bed was.

And by your fucking scent.

So when had he decided that being with you like this was okay? That it was better to curse his existence than the rush of the hunt, the freedom of being a werewolf? Just because he wanted you in his life, was that worth it? Perhaps, because he was chained for so long, he had forgotten the taste of the other, so this was the only thing that felt good right now. But he wouldn’t know if he didn’t experienced going back to his better self.

Turning his head towards you, he watched you sleep peacefully while he was tormented by his thoughts. He knew that even if he tried to explain the situation, it wouldn’t go well, and it wasn’t like you could be with him while he roamed and pouched the forest. Maybe he was the next thing you’d set out to kill after he got too close to the village one day. But even worse so, he just couldn’t find it in himself to leave.

Overwhelmed with this feelings, Katuski found himself at a loss of what to do. Your scent would always lead him back to you, even when playing the role of the big bad wolf. In the end, with all the risks calculated, all he could do was hope that his other form could still recognize you, know not to hurt you. Then again, who knew what other things it wanted to do to you, besides shredding your body into pieces.

But it was his best bet. Not long from now, he’d be awaken, and this place wasn’t a good one to do that. Quietly, he slipped out, sharpened instincts helping navigate the dark and be quieter than a simple human like you could hear. It even helped him pick you up from your bed, wrapping a blanket helplessly around you before exciting the cabin, not bothering with closing the door.

If he couldn’t escape you, then you couldn’t escape him either. And if he had to make sure you both survived this, he had to get you away from there, shielding you from anything that stretched towards you two as he ran out of the forest, trying to find a cave, or a hideout for a while. Maybe he’d be able to explain it to you, maybe you two would be able to live alongside of each other if only you could understand him and his feelings.

Katsuki promised you quietly that he would be good to you, take care of your needs and provide for you in even the dire times. He could hunt, he could fight. He only lost his glory for a moment or two when he got captured. He’d lead his pack again, make them welcome you as his mate. Maybe build a family with you. Even if you two wouldn’t be able to see eye to eye at first, it would come eventually, the more time you two spent together.

Once you learned you could rely on him, your lives could weave themselves together easily, become one beautiful shared lifetime of joy. He was the greatest werewolf to live, he’d become it once again, to the point you’d look at him with awe in your face. And maybe, he would be able to learn to control himself, chaining you somewhere you couldn’t escape him, so he could learn patience even when he was blinded by his animalistic instincts. He just needed a chance to try this out.

And you needed a chance to see to which lengths he would go, just for you.

[touchstarvedsam]

Read on AO3 or read the fic under the cut.

Sam’s been spending less time in the bunker since curing Dean of being a demon. After unchaining him, he left the dungeon with a look on his face Dean never wants to see again. Dean’s seen Sam cry, he’s seen Sam completely broken and hurt. But he has never seen this look on Sam’s face before. Complete and total hopelessness, terror, and heartbreak. Not even after Jessica burned up on that ceiling did Sam look like that.

And Dean put that look there.

Dean broke Sam so totally and completely beyond repair.

He remembers the things he said, as a demon, because he remembers meaning them. But he doesn’t mean them now and he doesn’t know how to fix this.

Castiel had brought him food from the local diner after he was cured, said Sam placed the order and picked it up but couldn’t bring it to Dean himself. He’d told Cas he just needed time, and Dean will give him that, as much as it hurts having his little brother hide from him.

Sam ordered him a cheeseburger extra onion and double French fries, just like he likes, with two slices of apple pie for dessert. Even sad and scared, Sam will always think about Dean above himself.

He’d asked Cas if Sam got himself a salad like the health nerd he is. Cas just gave him a pitying smile, which told Dean everything he needed to know.

Now, almost a week since he was cured, Dean knows Sam hasn’t been eating enough, and that Sam spends a lot of time at the local bar outside Lebanon. It’s a couple steps down from a dive, but it has its share of rowdy drunks, a pool table for some good hustlin’, and bartenders that aren’t scared to kick you out on your ass. Dean would know.

And Sam has been there at least four nights this week.

It’s the fifth night that he hears the creak of the door open and slam shut that alerts Dean to Sam leaving again. It’s just after nine. Dean weighs his options and decides to follow Sam there but remain hidden; he’s gotten good at hiding since he got the mark of Cain.

He gives him an hour head start before heading over, driving through the lot to locate the car that Sam seems to take whenever he goes off alone, then parks in the back so Sam can’t find Baby and know that Dean came.

The bartender knows him, lets Dean take up a shadowed corner with a couple’a beers and hunker down to watch the show.

Sam seems to be two or three beers in; he’s swaying on his feet, cheeks flushed and hair a mess like he ran his fingers through it several times in frustration.

And he appears to be hustling, except the little shit is drunk and not just faking it to play the guys he’s hustling. If Sam does this every night without backup, Dean is going to kill him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” one of the guys slurs, leaning too close to Sam for Dean’s liking. Dean never was fond of anyone touching Sam or calling him pet names. That’s Dean’s baby brother and Dean doesn’t play nice when it comes to Sammy. He watches as Sam visibly tenses – knows what’s making his brother uncomfortable – and steps back. “Oh, don’t be like that, pretty, you know you can’t win this, don’t ya? I’m givin’ you an out. Your arm’s broken, ain’t it?”

“No,” Sam replies, bumping the pool table in his haste to put more distance between them, grunting in pain at the contact. “Already told you… I lose an’ you take me for all the money I got, or you lose, and I take you for all the money you got – no more no less. I can beat you, sprained elbow or not.”

Dean smirks with pride. His brother may be drunk but he’s not stupid. Sam can play pool left handed or right handed. They trained themselves over the years how to use both hands in case their dominant hand becomes incapacitated somehow in the middle of a hunt. Always need a contingency plan when your life’s on the line.

“We’ll see about that,” the man growls, leering at Sam, eyes roaming his body up and down. That kind of scrutiny would have Dean wanting to shower and scrub himself raw; he can’t imagine how Sammy feels. “It’s prudes like you that beg for cock when it’s presented to them.”

That has Dean half standing, anticipating. He’s furious that anyone would say that to Sam. It has Dean’s skin crawling and the mark on his arm burning, begging for bloodshed. Dean wants to slit this man’s throat for even thinking of Sam that way. He wants to torture him and make him beg for Sam’s forgiveness.

He wants to bash his face in.

Sam shoves the guy’s shoulder and says, “Just play pool, man,” and Dean sits back down. The game resumes and Dean keeps a watchful eye as Sam fumbles his way through the game, drunk off his ass. Sam accepts drink after drink and Dean knows his little brother isn’t going to win this game with that much alcohol in his system, but he’s waiting until Sam actually needs help to step in.

“You’ve been alone for awhile, sugar. You waitin’ for someone?” a smooth woman’s voice says from his left. He looks up just as she’s sliding into the seat across from him and blocking his view of Sam and the guys he’s hustling. He needs to get her out of here fast.

“I’m just enjoying some time alone,” he replies, not trying to sound rude but wanting her gone.

Her smile is predatory when she asks, “Would you like some company?”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he tries to sound remorseful but misses by a mile as he leans slightly to the right to try to get an eye on Sam.

She must notice he’s distracted because she turns her body slightly to the left and cranes her neck to see what Dean is looking at before turning back to him. “That tall glass of water, huh? It’s always the gorgeous ones,” she says wistfully with a shake of her head and winks at him as she gets up from her chair. “If you strike out, I’ll be at the bar, sugar.”

It had to be less than a minute between the time she looked at Sam and then left the table, but by the time Dean’s view cleared, Sam and the guys at the pool table were gone. Dean almost knocked over his chair in his haste to get up and find Sam. It was barely 11, and the past week Sam hadn’t been coming home until well after midnight. Last call was 1:30 but Sam has always been the type to leave well before last call to avoid being “one of those people,” he’d say. His little brother was such a nerd.

Sam’s a grown man. 32 years old and 6’4”, he shouldn’t need Dean’s protection, but that will never stop the big brother side of Dean from protecting his little brother. And now, with this mark burning into his arm, Dean’s more protective than usual. More agitated, angry. He’s itching to make someone hurt, someone bleed, and if tonight it happens to be some guys Sam beat at pool then so be it.

He bypasses the pool table they were hanging at -- the  drink Sam had been drinking rests on the edge of the table, condensation leaving a ring on the lacquered wood finish -- and heads for the hall leading to the bathroom. He stops at the sound of voices in the middle of an argument.

“I told you, nothing more nothing less,” Sam’s voice carries down the hallway and Dean waits, wanting to give Sam the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t see how many of the guys followed but even inebriated he knows Sam can hold his own. It’s just the protective part inside him that wants to beat this guy’s face in for thinking he can get something from Sam.

“I might’a let you go if you didn’t hustle me an’ my boys for all we got,” the man replies huskily. There’s a thud and Sam grunts. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge and makes his hand twitch for a blade. He peers around the corner and sees that Sam’s pressed against the wall by the man he was playing when Dean got to the bar, the other two that had been hanging around the pool table watching them play were flanking the two of them. Dean could only make out Sam’s shaggy head of hair. “Now we’re gonna take it out on your ass for all we lost.”

Sam tries to shove at the guy’s shoulders, says, “Just because I can outplay you in pool with my arm in a sling doesn’t mean I cheated. You just lack skill.”

It’s Sam’s smart mouth that Dean both loves and hates. His baby brother can be a huge pain in the ass with his book intelligence, but sometimes he lacks severe street intelligence. He wonders how often this has happened before; he’s going to have to have a talk with Sammy after he saves his ass, literally.

He has half a mind to let these guys fuck with Sam a little bit to teach him a lesson; give himself a better excuse to beat them half to death for touching his brother.

He wants to be Sam’s savior and then punish him accordingly, both for running away from him and for putting himself in deliberate danger.

He’s going to punish Sam regardless.

“Get off’a me!” Sam shouts, trying to shove harder, but he’s outnumbered and while Sam is tall and strong, these guys have more muscle mass on him and they just laugh as Sam struggles against them, his arm in the sling cradled against his chest. He can’t use all his strength because of the damn sling and his hurt elbow.

Being bitten by a vampire while Sam watches crosses his mind and he feels less inclined to jump in just yet, wanting to see how this plays out. Sam had no soul, he reminds himself, but at the same time… Dean feels like he doesn’t have a soul right now, too. Just dark thoughts swirling around in his head about his little brother and pain.

“Aw, come on, pretty boy,” another one of the men taunts, gripping Sam’s chin and turning him to face him. “Don’t be a prude. You look like you’re desperate to get fucked. Just turn around and we’ll make you feel good, baby.”

“No!”

Hearing this sleazeball call Sammy “baby” is enough for Dean. He steps away from hiding just as they’re turning Sam to face the wall, fiddling with Sam’s belt buckle as his little brother squirms in their grip.

“Let him go,” Dean growls.

“Mind ya own business, pal.”

“I said,” Dean speaks slow, as if talking to a child who broke the rules, “Let,” he steps closer, “Him go.”

“Dean,” Sam says, voice quivering both in fear of the men trying to have their way with him and possibly at Dean himself. Sam hasn’t looked Dean in the eye since Dean was cured; he’s been ducking out of the bunker before Dean can emerge from his bedroom, or the bathroom. Dean had been longing to catch Sam in the library again, reading a book, happy and comfortable like he used to be. But as far as he knows, Sam stays in his room, or leaves the bunker altogether to run away from Dean.

That stops now.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, “I’m here.”

“Listen, buddy,” the man that Sam beat speaks up again, “Find your own bitch, this one’s ours.”

Despite the burning of the mark, begging for Dean to slit the throats of these men, Dean actually laughs out loud. “You’re right,” he shrugs, a smirk growing on his face as he steps closer. “He is a bitch, but he’s my bitch, and I’m not going to let scumbags like you taint him.” He grabs the hair of the one who had grabbed Sam’s chin and yanks him away roughly. “If you don’t want to die today, let him go.”

“Alright, asshole--” The first guy releases Sam and lunges at Dean, who slams the guy he has by the hair face first into the wooden wall of the hallway next to the bathroom. He whirls around before the guy reaches him to throw a right hook into his chin, sending him flying back. The third guy releases Sam completely with a shout and lunges, too, but Sam sticks a foot back and trips him so he falls face first.

“Like I said,” Dean says with finality.

“Dean,” Sam repeats his name, looking at him fully. He still has fear showing in his face but Dean is just glad to hear his voice. “You--”

“Sammy,” he says softly, stepping over the man he knocked out with a right hook and pressing Sam back against the wall. He almost backs away when Sam’s beautiful hazel eyes flash with fear -- the last time he had Sam against a wall, he had a hammer and was going to kill Sam and Sam had a knife to his throat that Dean knew he wouldn’t use on him -- but he doesn’t. He holds his ground. “Sammy,” he repeats, raising a hand to caress his little brother’s alcohol flushed cheek. “I don’t want you doing this anymore.”

“Dean, I- I just needed time and--”

He doesn’t know why he does it -- actually, that’s a lie because he knows why he does it, he’s always wanted to do it -- but he leans in and kisses Sam, effectively quieting him. Sam gasps against his lips and accidentally grants access to Dean’s tongue. Dean holds Sam’s chin with one hand while the other trails downward and grips Sam’s hip to press it tightly to the wall, keeping him still. His hips follow soon after and press against Sam’s. He’s careful where they press together so he doesn’t put pressure on Sam’s hurt arm as he deepens the kiss.

Sam doesn’t fight. His free arm lifts up and he wraps his thin fingers into the collar of Dean’s shirt and pulls him closer. Dean smiles into the kiss before pulling away, says softly, “Come back home, Sammy,” and gives him another chaste kiss.

Sam goes home with him, riding shotgun in the Impala as he should. They’ll get the car Sam drove tomorrow. Tonight he’s going to punish Sam for running away, and then claim him like he should have done all those years ago.

[lefaystrent]

Kid!Logan au pt.4

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic LAMP

Summary: Logan would say that he signed up for a movie night, not this, but he didn’t really sign up at all, now did he?

Masterlist Link

They go to Roman’s house.

Logan hates it.

“No need to look so gloomy, Shortstop.” Roman grins as he hops out of the car.

Logan sulks in the backseat, reluctant to exit. The two-story house is big and nice and has a manicured lawn with the most elegant looking plastic flamingo he has ever seen positioned by the mailbox and Logan hates it.

“Could we not have gone to Patton or Virgil’s house for this gathering? Were those not options?”

Roman’s dramatics are difficult enough to bear when at school. In his own home though?

“My place is small,” Virgil explains, still sitting in the backseat with him. Patton has already gotten out so it’s just them two. “As for Patton, he’s got a big family. It’s always been easiest to hang out at Roman’s.”

Logan turns towards him. From the way he talks, the three of them have been coming over to Roman’s for a long time. He wants to ask about it, understand how people can remain so close for so long, and distantly he wonders if their bond will waver once they’re out of high school, like so many friendships do.

“Why are you still in the car?” Logan asks. “Do you not want to go inside?”

Virgil looks out the windows, eyes lingering towards the front door the other two have disappeared through. “I know we kinda pushed this on you, and I’m sorry.”

An apology.

That isn’t what he expects, nor is he quite comfortable with the subdued air around Virgil. Logan shakes his head, voice dripping with disdain, “If anything, I am more than happy to blame this entirely on Roman.”

Virgil stifles a laugh with his hand. “Ya know, I can talk to him. Make him take you home if you really don’t want to stay. He’s not really an asshole, just an extrovert.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Logan opens the car door, ready to get out. “I might as well stay and let you all get this ‘hanging out’ with me out of your systems. You’ll soon find I’m not the most ‘fun’ person to be around.”

Virgil smirks. “Don’t hold your breath.”

They go inside and the interior is just as gorgeous as the outside. Afternoon sunlight streams in through gossamer curtains, shining bright across the wood floor. The rooms are washed in soothing creams accented by rose gold light fixtures. Potted plants litter the place, the touches of green standing out. In the dining room they pass, Logan spies a twinkling chandelier.

“What do Roman’s parents do?” Logan asks conversationally.

“Eh, his mom’s a realtor and his dad is . . . something.”

“Something?”

“I forget how to pronounce it but it’s like in engineering or something. He takes contracts out of state a lot. Why do you ask?”

Logan looks around them pointedly. “Well they certainly don’t appear to be lower class.” He looks up at Virgil to find his gaze boring into him. “What?”

Virgil shakes himself. “Nothing, just . . . Most kids don’t really make those kinds of observations.”

Logan frowns. “I am not most kids. I am only me, and that’s all I know how to be.”

“. . . is that why you don’t try to pretend?”

“Pretend what?”

From across the house, they hear Roman shout, “Are you guys coming or what? I can hear you breathing in there.”

“No you can’t, shut up!” Virgil rolls his eyes. He knocks lightly at Logan’s shoulder. “C’mon, before Princey throws a hissy fit.”

Logan is led down a hall to the other end of the house where a den opens up. Two of the walls are made up entirely of windows, letting in more than enough natural light. In the middle of the room there’s a green table with a short net splitting the middle. Roman has a couple of paddles in his hands, waving them around.

“Today is the day you will know utter defeat, Shea!” Roman declares, aiming one of the paddles at Virgil.

Virgil tilts back his head and lets out a deep, evil chuckle. “In your dreams, Prince.” He tosses his bag onto a nearby chair and takes position at the other end of the table.

“Why is there a ping pong table here?” Logan asks in bewilderment, coming to stand next to Patton.

“To play ping pong,” Patton answers wisely.

Logan face palms. “No, I meant that I was under the impression that we were to have a movie night?”

“We have a loose definition for movie nights.” Virgil shrugs. He’s picked out a paddle for himself and spins the handle in his hand.

“We can still watch something later if you want,” Patton offers. “Virge and Ro usually play a few rounds first though.”

“With Patton as our lovely score keeper!” Roman bellows in an announcer voice.

“I’ve got a whistle,” Patton shows Logan gleefully, as if that makes it official.

“That is indeed a whistle,” is all Logan can think to say.

“Enough chit-chat,” Roman interrupts impatiently and—mother of god, he’s posing at Virgil to intimate him or something. “The gauntlet has been thrown down! You must answer its call.”

“That eager to lose?” Virgil taunts.

“The only one who will be losing today is you, Surly Temple.”

They’re standing at either end of the table now, but Roman is still armed with two paddles.

“Isn’t that against the rules?” Logan points out. “It’ll give him an unfair advantage.”

Virgil doesn’t look bothered in the slightest. “Not that it matters.”

Patton leans down to whisper to Logan, “Roman’s never won a single match.”

“Is he that bad?”

“No, Virgil’s just that good.”

Now Logan’s eager to watch.

Virgil serves first. Roman smacks the ball lightning quick, his eyes sharp and more calculated than Logan is used to seeing. For as swift as Roman’s strikes are, Virgil’s are barely able to be followed. Logan theorizes that his movements are linked to muscle memory and sheer instinct. There’s a way that Virgil moves with serpentine fluidity, yet his strikes exude all the hunting prowess of a big cat.

While Virgil is fast on the attack, Roman is left playing goal keeper.

“That’s six to two!” Patton announces after Virgil scores yet again.

“I’ve never been interested in sports,” Logan mentions, eyes drinking in the frustrated snarl on Roman’s face. “But this is enthralling.”

“Oh, so you think you can do better?” Roman growls at Logan. “Just you wait. I’m still in this!”

“I’m rootin’ for ya, Roman!” Patton cheers. “You got this!”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay neutral?” Logan asks.

“Eh, well, he needs all the help he can get.”

“Patton! I can hear you!”

“Whoops! Sorry, kiddo!”

Logan shakes his head. In truth, he’s older than these kids, and these silly antics are why he didn’t bother pursuing social connections outside of school. They’re loud and childish, and he has no need of them. That’s what he told himself going into this.

That’s what he tries to tell himself now.

Wonder of wonders, he’s fighting down the urge to smile.

By the time Virgil scores his ninth point, he’s grinning like a shark. In school, he isn’t one to talk much. Logan had easily picked up on his introverted nature and his nervous tendencies like hiding in the hood of his jacket or picking at his nails or clothing.

Here, paddle in hand and Roman struggling to catch up, he’s in his element. This is Virgil outside of school, walls down.

“He’s a real powerhouse, isn’t he,” Patton laughs softly. He must have noticed Logan’s staring.

“I haven’t seen him so energized before,” Logan hums in agreement.

“You should get him talking about his favorite bands or shows or games,” Patton says with a fond smile. “He can talk for hours about Kingdom Hearts or Evanescence. Oh! And spiders. He really loves spiders, even if they are abominations who roam the Earth spreading nothing but misery and despair and should all be annihilated by way of fire.”

“Patton . . . are you okay?”

“I’ve seen things.��

“Patton, serve’s up,” Roman calls for his attention.

He snaps out of the haunted stare he’d been giving Logan. “Right! Go ahead!”

The score becomes ten to six. Virgil needs one more point to win, according to the rules. They’re both panting lightly after their exertions.

“It’s not too late to forfeit,” Roman goads him.

Virgil’s eyes gleam in amusement. “Aw, it’s cute that you still think you have a chance.”

He tosses the ball into the air and smacks it down with unrelenting force. Roman, still in his banter mode, is unprepared and doesn’t have time to raise his paddles. The ball goes right for his face and he falls flat on his butt.

“Game, set, and match.” Virgil drops the paddle like a mic.

Everyone startles when Roman leaps to his feet, the ping pong ball clenched between his teeth.

“A-hah!” Roman grunts victoriously.

“What the fuck, dude,” Virgil says, one eye squinted and the other wide.

“Did you catch that with your mouth?” Patton asks in awe.

Roman stands tall, fists on hips, bellows of laughter seeping around the ping pong.

“Even I must admit that’s impressive,” Logan acknowledges. “But you do realize that you still lost for failing to keep the ball in play?”

His pride-struck expression falls. Roman goes to argue, but in his rush he accidentally chokes on the ball.

“Spit it out, you moron!” Virgil practically vaults over the table, he’s there so fast beating on Roman’s back. Roman’s hands clutch desperately at his throat, pupils blown wide in fear. Patton’s there in an instant but isn’t sure what to do.

Logan does the only logical thing and punches Roman in the gut.

The little white ball dislodges and pops out of his mouth. It soars through the air to bounce sadly away. Roman coughs repeatedly, face red and eyes watering as Virgil and Patton hold him up.

“Are you okay? Can you breathe okay?” Patton asks frantically. He pats at Roman’s back to help him along. Roman nods through his coughing.

Virgil runs his hands through his hair and blows out a heavy gust of air. “Holy shit, I cannot believe that just happened.”

“Now what have we learned today, kiddos?” Patton asks sternly.

“Just punch away all of your problems,” Virgil answers.

Patton is not amused and Virgil giggles, borderline hysterical.

Roman gets his breathing under control. He stands up straighter, wiping the spittle away from his mouth. He looks at Logan in a whole new light.

“You saved my life,” Roman rasps.

“I didn’t mean to,” Logan automatically responds. His fist is still raised and slightly shaking. “I know the Heimlich maneuver would have been a better method . . . but I just—my body acted without thinking. I apologize, Roman—”

Without warning, Roman sweeps him up in a hug. Logan is very, very not okay with this.

“Awww,” Patton cooes.

“Roman, please, my feet are meant to be on the floor.”

“You brought me back from the brink of death,” Roman sniffles, far too emotional for Logan’s tastes.

Logan stops squirming and accepts his fate (Roman’s biceps have to be made with steel). “Is this that bonding thing I’ve heard about?”

“Shhh, just accept it.”

“It burns.”

“That’s the bond setting in.”

“I think I’m allergic.”

“Maybe we should move on to something a little less exciting?” Patton suggests. “We’re having a little too much of a ball in here.”

“I’m never playing ping pong again,” Virgil swears.

“Movies then?”

“Yes please.”

A/N: Alternate scene, because I almost had Patton be the one to punch Roman in the stomach.

Patton’s there in an instant, fist pummeling into Roman’s mid-section. He heaves up the ball and nearly his lunch.

Patton stands proud and blows off imaginary dust from his fist. “Works every time.”

“Patton,” Roman gets out between wheezes and coughs. “You beautiful man . . . I hate you.”

Patton just pats Roman on the head.

“I’m sorry, I think I need to just--” Virgil cuts himself off by lying down on the ground to stare up at the ceiling. Logan is half-inclined to join him.

Patton lets out a laugh. “Nothing like a near-death experience to get the ole blood pumper going, am I right?”

Both Roman and Virgil flip him the bird.

“You’re doing the ‘I love you’ hand sign wrong, kiddos. It’s three fingers, not one.”

Logan crouches down beside Virgil. “Do you think you could teach me how to play ping pong once you’re emotionally stable?”

Logan wants to learn.

For scientific reasons of course.

Not because he wants to beat Roman into the ground or anything.

General Tag List:  @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @randomsandersides @gamerfreddie @unring-this-bell @that-royal-ravenclaw @analogicallythinking @lilygold23 @punsterterry @naw2702 @levy-the-b00kw0rm @iolanomsgranola @tacohippy56900 @lottavic @camariechris

Kid Logan au list:  @under-the-blue-moonlight @broadwaytheanimatedseries @just-fic-me-up @joyful-milkshake-observation @absolutesandersidestrash @midnightmagi @justcallmepancake @justanotherpurplebutterfly @aamikan @nerd-in-space @thestrangedino @deathshadowrules @entitydark @vintage-squid @max-is-tired @theitalianalchemist @deceitfullyanxiousprince @thesynysterunknown @skullfire2004 @shai-uwu @teacupfulofstarshine @the5thcoy

[shit-she-wrote]

Genre: Fantasy, Fairy Tale

Summary: Little Red Riding Hood through the eyes of the wolf, with a twist.

Word count: 2789

Trigger warning: n/a

Author’s note: I was planning on making this creepier, but it ended up kind of sweet lol. I hope you like it!! (also, I’m reawakening my kofi account, if anyone’s interested in buying me a coffee, by chance 😅)

Fearless

a short story

There is a tale going around in my village, old as time itself. It appeared one night, like a cold brisk air at the coming of winter, groaning with pain and hunger of a ferocious beast, a grand wolf, that occupies the deep nearby forests. They use it to scare children into obedience, but not even the bravest men and women take it lightly. Should you go out of your way, the wolf will catch you. Should you talk to a dark stranger, it is an evil wolf in disguise.

I know this, because I am the wolf.

Some may wonder what goes through the mind of a beast, and many cannot decide whether a beast could possess a human mind at all. Not one that lurks in the shadows, surely, not one considered being nothing but teeth and bloodthirst. I, however, beg to differ. My eyes may be adapted to the dark, my fangs may tear through flesh, my claws leave scraping marks upon the ground I walk on. But I once was human, fragile and clumsy and in bed by moonrise. I too feared the tales of horror echoing through the village streets, so what am I to do now, that the tale of horror features me?

I am forced to wonder, if nothing else, whether all the monsters I feared as a child had been like I am now. Lost, afraid, only longing for a restoration of whoever they might have been. I still hope to encounter them on my aimless wanderings and I howl at the moon each night in hopes someone would howl back at me. An instinct, other wolves would call it, should they have a sapient mind, but I call it a prayer. A prayer to no one, a cry for help no one understands, and I only desire to belong somewhere again. Old monsters have moved on, however – or perhaps, they never existed, and I am the first true monster around these parts.

A monster. What a peculiar name to call oneself. Peculiar enough to forget my own name in the process, as years have gone by since someone had last called me by it.

There is an addition to my tale, however, one that is never included when someone uses it to petrify children. It is a bright addition, a sun ray to my world of darkness. It is one of a fearless young woman, who has looked straight into the wolf's eyes and wasn't afraid. A woman who knew how to break my curse.

I know this, because she is my savior.

I heard her before I saw her, dry branches crumbling loudly under her nearing steps as she wandered too deep into the forest. I growled into her direction, low and menacing, hoping she would understand that she was headed toward the lair of a beast and turn around the second she realized her mistake. Ignorantly, she still kept going – or maybe, she was walking with too much purpose to turn back at my warning. To evade her instead, I stalked away from my prey, a hare I had caught that I still hadn't put out of its misery. Blood drying around my mouth, I lay low behind a nearby bush just as she walked past, clad in a cloak. It was so red it burned my eyes, so red it shocked me.

Ever since I had been turned into a creature, my vision had not been quite right, you see. So many colors I had once been able to see disappeared from my wolfish eyes, making the forest I lived in pale instead of lively, and all the ripest berries yellow instead of pink. But there she was, ignorant of my presence, clad in a color I could finally recognize. Not even the blood of my wounded hare had been so bright.

I crouched down, claws digging into the dirt for leverage as she noticed my dinner. She stopped, looked down, a bright smile akin to sunshine immediately replaced for worry. She kneeled down, unsure of what to do. She wanted to help him, I knew, and despite my awe with all of her colors, I was prepared to snarl, to lung at her, to make my small dinner a feast. But then, she did something inexplicable, something that shook me beyond anything I had ever seen. She hushed the weeping hare and raised a stone, bringing it to its head with a precise strike.

"You do not deserve the pain," she told him, and my ears twitched, the sound of her voice sweet and comforting, like a blessing. Curiously, I raised myself up again, peeking over the bush to reveal myself. Startled by movement behind her, she turned around, her eyes wide and frightened as they met with mine.

She did not run. That was what had amazed me the most. Most people are creatures of movement, immediately jumping to their feet, and then they either pull out their knives or run for their lives. But she did neither. She remained, frozen in place – no, not even frozen. She simply remained, kneeling in front of my dead hare, eyes never leaving me. After the initial shock had worn off and she saw that I was merely regarding her, even the fear left her eyes and, for a second, I thought she could even see the humanity within me.

She stood up slowly, carefully, her every move precisely thought out. Throwing away her stone, she picked up the basket she had with her. She smiled; such a peculiar thing to do when in presence of a beast.

"I am sorry to disrupt your dinner," she addressed me. Again, I was surprised by the courage in her voice, with the lack of a shudder from her vocal cords. I could sense no distress from her, as she could plainly see no danger in me. "However, my friend, I have something much better in store for you."

I snarled, trying to appear threatening. Who did she think she was, talking to me like she knew I, too, once walked on two feet! Who dare she not fear me! Did she not hear the stories about me? Did she not care that she was in the presence of the very thing people had certainly warned her about?

She walked toward me like a deer would walk across a dewy grass field; peacefully, as if there was no danger in sight. It began to frustrate me, how little fear she had.

"What big eyes you have," she told upon coming within my reach. She kneeled down, in awe of me, and I stepped back on instinct, to remain out of her reach. How could I know she carried no knife behind her back, how could I know she wished me no harm even when her calm demeanor told my heightened sense to not be afraid. "They're like fallen stars. I bet one can see them from far away."

I growled lowly, showing my teeth. That ought to bring out her true colors. If a human was not afraid, then they were surely looking to hunt me down. This was all a trick, I convinced myself. But I would harm her before I she'd have the chance to harm me, and I wanted her to be sure of that.

Still unafraid, the woman in red leaned back, sitting on her heels, to put a safe distance between us. Not out of fear, but out of respect. She was still dreadfully unafraid, even if she did not move any closer.

"What large teeth," she continued, looking sad. "No wonder everyone fears you. No wonder hunters roam the forest, wishing you dead."

But do you wish me dead, I wanted to ask, for I did not know what she wanted to tell me. I only knew words when they were screams, only knew people come closer when they tried to harm me, only knew safety when I was alone.

She leaned closer, her hand reaching forward. I ducked back, away from her touch.

"Don't be afraid," she told me. "I wish you no harm."

What do you want, then? I wanted to ask. What, what what?

She reached out to me again, but this time I let her fingers graze my grey fur. Tenderness was the only thing I felt; she did not grab me, she did not brandish a weapon. She just kept smiling.

"Come on," she said, finally standing up. "I came to take you home."

Home? What did she know of my home? It was a forgotten place, lost and discarded decades ago when I was cast out of a human life. There was no other home for me than the one among the tall trees of the deepest forest.

She began leaving the same way she came, only stopping once she realized I was not following her.

"Come on, silly," she repeated, a chuckle on her breath. "I cannot help you if you do not follow me."

So, reluctantly, I did. Curiosity got the best of me and that dreadful ounce of hope made my heart flutter. Home. She was talking about taking me home, about ending this torturous life. Could I believe her? It all sounded like a ruse in disguise, but my fluttering heart kept following her, willing to be deceived.

She pranced around the forest like magic: aside from a bright red coat in my pale blue-yellow world, she walked as if she communicate with every tree and strand of grass on the way. She seemed to move everything she passed like the softest breeze, breathing life into the sleeping forest. Should anyone see her, they would certainly fear the power she must have contained. Don't go into the woods at night, frightened villagers would cry. A witch that can move entire trees lives in there.

I saw in her who I had been looking for all this time. A fellow beast.

Less frightening and more powerful than I could ever be, but a beast nevertheless. She had no sharp teeth, nor glowing eyes, nor claws that could tear through flesh. Her human disguise was perfect, but I could see right through her. A rogue demon, a monster. A thing to behold, a thing to fear. Clad in a red coat of magical wool, carrying potions and poisonous herbs and hexes in her basket.

Fearless was the only word to describe her with. Not because courage had been placed into her cradle, but because she knew of nothing more terrifying than her own self.

"We are almost there," she said, her voice a sweet melody in contrast of her image. Stopping at the finally line of trees, she looked at me over her shoulder, suddenly somber as if something important awaited us beyond them. "You should go first."

I did, unafraid of what awaited me. Death, perhaps? Might as well be. My once brown fur was almost completely grey already, and since I had not died of old age yet, murder might as well end my cursed misery. Although, there remained a chance of this witch truly meaning me no harm, in which case I was taking my first steps toward a home I had craved for so long.

I stepped out into a clearing, charmingly dark and blue in my eyes. In the middle of it, a small cottage stood, only one window illuminated by a candle burning inside. Before it, an old woman, with long silver hair and deep wrinkles on her face, dressed in old, wool clothes.

I knew her. Something in my gut told me that she was the home the woman in red promised me, that she was the home I longed for. There was something familiar on her face, in the way she held herself, but I could not quite place what it was, yet.

I stalked forward slowly, the red-hooded woman's soft steps right behind me, and I could see recognition, then love spread across the old woman's face. She smiled, she shed a tear, and once I was close enough to see her face plainly illuminated by the soft light from the inside the cottage, I felt like smiling and crying, too.

"My brother." Her words were soft, breathless. She took a step forward, then another, then kneeled in front of me, fearless in her absolute confidence that I truly was who she thought me to be. Her movements were slow and croaky with joints weak from age, and her wrinkled hand reached out to me. I willed to come even closer on my shaky paws, disbelief clouding my brain. Upon her touch, her affectionate caress, I truly was home.

Something warm fell upon me. Red, I noticed as I looked to the side with the corner of my eye. The younger woman's coat.

"You know what to do," she said to my dear sister, the bottles in her basket clinking as she rummaged inside of it. Brandishing a small bottle, she stepped toward me and dampened the fur behind my ears with a few drops from it. Then she moved away and I looked at my beautiful sister, who kept smiling and kept crying tears of joy. She leaned forward and kissed the top of my head – an act of fondness I had long since forgotten.

"You are home again, brother dear," she said. She spoke my name, softly, carefully, as if afraid it would shatter upon her tongue. She repeated it once, twice, three times, and with each vowel, I could feel myself changing.

Firstly, my claws turned into flat nails, then my paws into hands, human hands with long fingers. My fur fell away, and only soft skin remained attached to me, soft and wrinkled with age – I was nearing my sixtieth birthday, after all. My fangs shortened into teeth, my snout lengthened into a nose. My tail vanished for good and colors returned to my eyes.

For the first time since my youth, I was human again.

Shuddering, I crawled into myself beneath the red coat, naked as the day I was born beneath it. Reborn. Yes, that is what I was. An old man, reborn into a life he had lost.

Steadying myself on my knees, I looked down at my hands, then brought them to my naked chest, then face. I could not believe it. How ... No, I did not care how. I only cared that it happened.

Looking around me, I could see my perception of the world around me had changed as well. Everything was so much quieter, so much darker. When I looked back at my sister, I could not see her as clearly in the dark as before but, my god, I could see her in colors!! The warm orange from the faraway candle on her face, the purple scarf around her neck. My lips stretched out into a smile and I let out a laugh, my first laugh in decades! My sister laughed as well and leaped at me, hugging me as tightly as she could.

"Come," she told me as she helped me up, tears of joy unstoppable on her face. "Let's get you inside. I have clothes ready for you, and supper."

I wrapped the magic red coat tightly around myself and, once aware of the wool soft and warm around myself, I stopped. The coat. I looked down at it, then remembered the woman who had worn it. Glancing around, I could no longer see her.

"She does that," my sister said, seeing the unspoken question on my face. "Comes and goes as she pleases. Never stays for supper."

"Who is she?" I asked, my voice coarse from lack of usage.

"Who knows," my sister replied. "But she is quite fond of this coat she has lended you. She will definitely be back for it. You may try asking her everything you want to know then."

Then we went inside, went home, and thus ends my tale of horror: the tale of the big bad wolf that rummaged the woods, the tale of the wicked witch in a red coat who befriended him, and the tale of an old spinster who lived on the edge of society, considered mad for thinking her dead brother was still alive somehow. For no one has ever seen the wolf again, the old woman has been reunited with her long lost brother, and the red coat has disappeared without a trace from my closet one evening.

And the fearless, red-hooded woman? Well, I am sure she is still saving monsters from themselves as we speak, turning tales of horror into happy endings.

[themarginalthinker]

The Three Barters of Marco Bodt

otherwise titled ‘Marco Bodt’s Canine Curse’. too campy for this story ehhhh

@bringobaggins this got longggg

in case any of you were wondering, this is  totally based off of a silly little au I decided APPARENTLY DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH ANGST AAAAAAA so I wrote this for my friend in like,,,,an hour. :> 

if any of ya’ll are wonder what I’m referring to, check out this and this right here. Essentially, Marco done messed up and now he’s cursed to be but a doggo forever but Jean’s kiss broke the curse somehow. this is his story. 

He'd been one of the middle sons of a middle son. Their family was larger, and their parents never had much more then the very basics to keep them all afloat. 

Then, in a crazy bet, his father won a small heard of sheep and the dog to heard them from a neighbor and their suddenly their family wasn't so bad off. But the dog wasn't well trained, and Marco wasn't good at controlling the animal, and in one fell swoop, a nasty accident, the dog misunderstood Marco's orders and drove all the sheep off a cliff to their deaths. The family was now...even poorer.

 Marco thinks of this as his fault, and it eats at him for weeks until he comes up with a harebrained solution. 

The witch that lives in the woods. It was risky...sometimes she helped, other times she hindered. And her prices were high, though not for want of gold and silver. She wanted...other things for her services. 

 The first time Marco went, he left a whole man, with an empty field over grown for lack of livestock. When he came back...he was half-blind, and the old, family-less farmer down the way had died and left all his land and animals for anyone who would have them. 

 And so began the three barters of Marco Bodt.

Marco is hesitating a little at the table now, playing with his fondue stick and the spread (which Jean has barely touched since Marco started talking) because he's not..sure how to continue. He knows his own past..but he's never had to tell it to someone before. Or even everything thats happened AFTER he was left to roam the world, alone and confused, wit no-one but other animals to talk to (who, as he's told Jean, don't make very good conversationalists.)

 So, he tries to keep it simple. His parents were so worried about him - asking what had happened to his eye, why the place where it had been was not bleeding, concerned over their newfound good fortune of the ability to claim the dead farmer's land for their own now...but Marco doesn't admit anything he doesn't have to. 

He keeps quiet, and goes back to tending the animals and watching over his younger siblings. Then, a few months later, disaster strikes for a second time. It's getting into the colder parts of fall, when there is little warmth in the sun, and the leaves of red and gold are losing their brilliance. Marco is working on fixing a hole in the fence where some of the cows got out before so they don't lose the rest of them before he goes looking for the ones who got lost, when he hears the screaming. As fast as he can, he abandons his work and runs into the woods, following the sounds of terror and - splashing? 

 It turns out it's one of the local boys - a small, frail, bookish boy by family name of Arlert. The village calls the family heretics since they don't often go to church, and collect a number of books most of the outlying counties had banned and forbidden the buying and selling of - Armin, the boy's, father is an inventor of sorts, making toys and gizmos for the children, and Marco sometimes catches his eye as he's selling his family's wares and wool in town. 

They were something of  friends, and as Marco sees, the old, old bridge that the smaller boy usually uses to cross the deep stream to get to Marco's house, has finally given out, the boards broken and sending whoever was walking across it into the icy depths of the water. Marco, of course, without thought for his own safety, immediately goes after him, jumping right into the deadly cold to save a boy who was really more of a Sunday acquaintance who Marco would never admit occupied his mind on more then one lonesome night...   

 Armin is small though, and even though Marco rushes the both of them home as fast as he can, there is little he can do to stop the dreadful blue creeping into the boy's fingers, the way he stopped shivering long minutes ago, and his eyes blinked closed. Marco is desperate, asking his mother if there is anything she can do to heal him, warm him up again. 

 There isn't, and Armin Arlert lies dead on Marco's bed. 

 So...that night, after the aggrieved parents of the well-read boy come and go in tears and confusion and the world around has taken on a new chill that Marco knows is nothing to do with the failing autumn....he goes into the woods again. 

And answers the same question the witch asked before. What would you give me in return.

 Some consider it a miracle of God that Armin Arlert was breathing by the time the sun peered over the horizon, sitting up with a blanket around his shoulders by noon, and back at home with his parents with no memory or scar of the day previous by that evening. Marco was not seen for two more days, though, and when he did return home...well. 

Just the same, when his parents asked, Marco didn't tell. His mother never looked him in the eye after that though, and his younger brother was now asked to help out more around the farm when he father called for assistance and two good hands.

Jean is silent now as he watches Marco, who has stopped trying to eat and is looking glumly over the food. He speaks again after a long moment, but not to continue his story. Rather, he asks Jean quietly if they can go home, and Jean snaps out of his amazed stupor to agree and asks the waiter for their checks and a carryout box (because he knows, even upset, Marco hates the thought of wasting food.) 

So they pack up and head home, Marco still quiet and Jean trying not to try and goad him into talking about his past more. It was an interesting story...but it was also real things that apparently happened to his...roommate? Boyfriend? Jean's own feelings are kinda conflicted. But he keeps his mouth shut, and waits for Marco to come to him. 

And eventually, he does. 

It's about a week later, when they're both watching television on the couch, and it's late enough even Jean the notorious night owl is sleepily considering heading to bed when Marco starts to speak up. Jean wonders if Marco knows Jean's awake, or if he thinks he's just talking to himself. 

It was the dead of winter. Yule had passed, and with it the warmth of festivities and stored food, and now only the long wait those last few dreary months before spring arrived remained. People were hungry. Even Marco's family, as alright as they had been doing, were still going to be scraping the bottom of the barrel by spring. 

So begins the last time Marco ever saw his...family. 

The last time he ruffled Peter's hair as he left to check the snares they'd set in the woods, playfully bantered with his elder brother Simon about milking the cows later, and told Maggie to be a good girl for mother as she wasn't feeling well today. Maggie though, wanted to come. She was getting older, a strong eight years old as she liked to remind everyone who would listen, and Marco was one of the people who would indulge her when she asked to tag along, or be included in something fun - or at least, something less menial then household chores. 

And while normally Marco would love to have her along...well....he was loathe to admit it, made his missing arm throb every time he remembered what he'd done...but the traps he'd set were closer to the witch's house then the bravest man on the land would find comfortable. The hunting was better there...and nothing bad had happened so far... but he didn't want Maggie coming along. It was still dangerous, and Marco had seen pawprints that didn't belong to any dogs that size around. 

So he told her no. He told her to stay and look after mom and be a good girl.  So, so stupid of him...

Marco went deep into the forest with his knife and game bag. The traps so far, all had something in them, and it made him happy to see. Grouse, rabbit, and hare, squirrels and even a deer had gotten it's leg trapped in one of the twitch lines. Marco let that one go, and watched it run off into the woods away from the man without a second thought. It was too big to butcher out here with...with only one hand, and besides, a whole deer and his parents might start asking questions again, about where his good hunting fortune had been leading him-

Marco never did like hearing screaming in the woods. 

Especially when it was screaming he knew. 

For the third time in his life, Marco was too late. The sheep, his friend...

Maggie had followed him, and, like the sneaky child most were when they  didn't get their way, she'd made sure he didn't know she was there, and then, well, probably gotten lost in the woods when she'd lost sight of him. There was blood in the snow when he arrived, and a hooded figure standing at the top of a hill as two huge wolves, blacker then pitch on on moonless night ravage something at the bottom of the hill that makes Marco's insides numb and his phantom limb and missing eye scream. 

He jumps in without thinking, much like his first barter, much like Armin's rescue. Ivory teeth tear his skin, and scythe claws nick bone, but still, his screams are not ones of fear of his own pain. They are ones of fear of the pain of the little girl who has stopped screaming and lies mangled in the snow. 

He doesn't realize what he's done until the blow is delivered and one of the hellish wolf twins is blacking away with a whimper as it's shadow sister lies on the ground next to Maggie with a knife through it's eye, the blade sunk in until the hilt, dead. 

Marco hesitates again, and Jean hardly dares breathe. Though it's his good eye, Jean can tell Marco is not seeing the tv in front of him when he speaks again.  Marco's vision was red, his hand was red, the snow was turning into slush and staining his clothing red. There was the sounds of footsteps, and Marco cannot drag his eyes away from the too-quiet, too-still form of Maggie to look up at the hooded woman who now stands before him. His hand clutches at his sister's torn tunic, her little hand-made cloak and he can't seem to stop the ringing in his head, the pulsing of his own wounds not even a thought in his head. 

When he hears her voice, it is not the question, that damnable question he has answered twice now, but her words still shatter his mind, reverberating not off of the trees around him in the white and scarlet forest, but in his own head. 

You have taken something from me. 

I have taken something from you as payment. 

And now...you have taken yet again. 

What will you give me in return. 

Jean knows. 

Thus completed the third barter of Marco Bodt.