#Die Cast LED Light Housing

[biandiecast]

Innovations in LED Light Housing and Aluminum Die Casting Manufacturing

As the demand for energy-efficient lighting solutions grows, the need for high-quality LED light housing has become more critical. These housings protect the internal components of LED lights and ensure optimal heat dissipation, making them vital for longevity and performance. At the same time, advancements in Aluminum die casting manufacturing have made it possible to produce durable and precise housings that meet industry standards

[realhotgirlshitah]

Getting high with Luigi… yeah I have thoughts and none of them are clean.

The party is a mess of flashing LED lights, sweaty bodies, and the kind of cheap beer that leaves a sticky residue on the floor. The bass is pounding so loud that you can feel it in your ribs, the whole house practically shaking with the weight of the music and the drunken chaos of a hundred different conversations clashing all at once.

But none of that matters.

Because you and Luigi have long since peeled away from the noise, slipping into the one place in the frat house where nobody ever thinks to look—the upstairs bathroom.

The only light in the room is the golden glow from the cheap vanity bulbs above the sink, casting everything in a warm, hazy filter. There’s a half-used bar of soap by the faucet, someone’s forgotten makeup bag sitting next to it, and a faint lingering smell of cologne and shampoo in the air.

But the real highlight of the room is the bathtub.

It’s an old clawfoot, deep and wide, big enough to comfortably fit two people. And that’s exactly what it’s doing.

Luigi is stretched out on one side, all long legs and lazy confidence, his broad shoulders propped against the porcelain, one arm draped casually over the edge. His other hand is occupied with the joint between his fingers, lazily bringing it to his lips before exhaling a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

You’re perched on the other end, back pressed against the opposite side of the tub, knees drawn up slightly, watching him.

Or, more accurately, trying not to watch him too obviously.

Because Luigi is always attractive—annoyingly, unfairly attractive—but high Luigi?

That’s something else entirely.

His sharp brown eyes are a little hooded, half-lidded and unfocused, giving him a sort of effortless, dreamlike quality. His usually furrowed brow is smooth, his sharp jawline relaxed, and the dim lighting makes the natural golden warmth of his skin look even more intense. His full lips, usually quirked into an arrogant smirk or a cocky grin, are slightly parted as he exhales another cloud of smoke.

And when he tilts his head back slightly, exposing the column of his throat, his messy curls falling away from his face, you’re pretty sure you could die happy in this exact moment.

Of course, you can’t tell him that.

So, instead, you take the joint from his fingers and raise an eyebrow. “Jesus, you look like you’re about to start reciting slam poetry.”

Luigi snorts, lips twitching into a lazy smirk. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were anti-intellectual.”

“Oh, I’m very anti-intellectual,” you tease, taking a slow drag, holding his gaze as you inhale. “I’d much rather listen to you talk about, I don’t know, the merits of beer pong strategy.”

Luigi exhales sharply, shaking his head. “See, this is why I have to educate you.”

“Educate me,” you repeat, voice dripping with mock offense. “I am way smarter than you.”

That earns you a lazy, knowing smirk. “Are you?”

“Mmm.” You nod, holding his gaze, blowing a slow stream of smoke toward him. “That’s why I don’t waste my time pondering whether or not we’re all just someone’s science experiment.”

Luigi’s smirk widens. “It’s not a waste of time. It’s probability. Statistically, it’s more likely that we are in a simulation than not.”

You tilt your head, rolling the joint between your fingers. “I don’t know, dude. I feel like if we were in a simulation, my life would be a lot more interesting.”

Luigi huffs out a laugh, tapping ash into an empty red solo cup on the sink. “Oh, yeah? What do you want? More aliens? More explosions?”

You shift slightly, adjusting your position in the tub, the porcelain cool against your skin. “More orgies, honestly.”

Luigi chokes on a laugh, his smirk faltering as he coughs out a bit of smoke. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That’s what you’d change if you could reprogram reality?”

You grin, passing the joint back to him. “I’m just saying, if we’re really being watched by some higher intelligence, the least they could do is add some better entertainment.”

Luigi hums, taking another hit, eyes flickering over you as he exhales. “I think you’re just bad at finding your own entertainment.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, knowing, something just beneath the surface of his voice that makes your stomach tighten.

The thing is, Luigi has always been like this with you. Teasing, cocky, challenging you in ways that make your blood run hot. It’s been your dynamic for as long as you can remember—constant bickering, constant one-upping, constant tension that neither of you have ever really addressed.

And yet, it’s never felt dangerous before.

But right now, sitting across from him in this tiny little bubble of smoke and warmth, his voice low and his gaze heavy-lidded, you can feel something else threading through the usual banter.

Something thick and electric.

Something dangerous.

You shift again, not even thinking twice about it, and then suddenly, you’re moving over to his side of the tub, your knees pressing into the firm muscle of his thighs, your hands bracing against his broad shoulders as you settle yourself right onto his lap.

Luigi doesn’t say anything at first.

He just blinks at you, his long lashes fluttering slightly, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second before he exhales, slow and measured, smoke curling lazily from his lips.

Then, finally, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “What, not enough space on your side?”

You inhale deeply, the scent of weed, cologne, and something uniquely him filling your lungs. You exhale just as slowly, fingers curling slightly where they rest against his solid chest. “There’s never enough space when you take up, like, ninety percent of it.”

Luigi huffs a quiet laugh, his hands instinctively finding their way to your hips, fingers settling warm and heavy against the curve of your waist. It’s an innocent touch, something he’s done a thousand times before. But right now? Right now, it feels like a live wire pressed against your skin.

And then you feel it.

The slow, creeping realization of just how firm he is beneath you.

How solid his thighs are against the insides of yours, pressing up exactly where you’re sensitive, where you’re already way too warm.

And just like that, the air shifts.

Because you can feel it now—all of it.

The heat of him, the slow, easy rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips, the way the rough denim of his jeans is pressing exactly where it shouldn’t be, igniting something slow and insistent low in your stomach.

Your breath hitches, barely noticeable, but he notices.

Of course, he does.

Because Luigi feels it.

He feels the way you stiffen slightly, the way your thighs instinctively press tighter around him, the way you hesitate for just a second too long before shifting again, just a little, but enough that the movement sends the slightest friction sparking against your core.

Luigi notices.

And when he does, his smirk widens just a little.

His fingers flex against your hips, like he’s testing the weight of you, like he’s grounding himself.

“You okay?” His voice is lower now, rougher, thick with amusement.

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” His thumb strokes along the fabric of your dress, slow and teasing. “You just got really quiet all of a sudden.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse stutters at the deliberate touch. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say.”

Luigi hums, considering this. Then, without warning, he shifts his leg slightly beneath you, just a minor adjustment, something so subtle it shouldn’t have an effect on you.

But it does.

The movement sends a slow, unexpected drag of friction right against your already sensitive core, making your breath hitch before you can stop it.

Luigi’s smirk deepens. “Huh.”

You clench your jaw, narrowing your eyes. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he muses, dragging the word out, his voice lazy, knowing. “Just funny.”

You raise a brow, forcing your expression into something unimpressed. “What’s funny?”

Luigi tilts his head slightly, considering you. “You.”

You scoff, shifting slightly, which is a mistake, because the movement only presses you down harder against him, the fabric of your dress doing nothing to shield you from the sensation of rough denim pressing against where you’re starting to throb.

Luigi inhales slowly through his nose, and when you look at him, really look at him, you see the way his pupils are blown, the way his jaw is a little tighter now, the way his hands are gripping you a little firmer, like he’s holding back from something.

Oh.

Oh, he’s feeling it, too.

The realization sends a hot wave of satisfaction rolling through you, emboldening you.

So, instead of pulling away, instead of laughing it off, you decide to test him.

You shift again, slower this time, more deliberate.

Luigi’s fingers dig into your hips harder.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-exhaling. “Didn’t even realize you were doing it at first.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”

Luigi exhales sharply, his fingers sliding lower, down to the curve of your ass, gripping firmly.

“This,” he murmurs, and then he moves you.

It’s subtle at first, barely more than a slow drag of your hips against him, but the sensation is enough to send a shiver straight down your spine.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your hands tightening against his shoulders.

Luigi grins, slow and lazy, watching you. “Feels good, huh?”

You don’t answer at first, too focused on the delicious friction, the way the heat is building, slow and insistent, the way every little movement is sending sparks licking up your spine.

Luigi leans in, his voice nothing but a soft, teasing murmur against your ear.

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, fingers pressing into your ass, rolling you against him again. “Didn’t even realize, did you?”

Your breath stutters, a soft sound escaping your throat.

Luigi chuckles, low and dark, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Oh, baby,” he coos, gripping you a little tighter. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

You swallow, trying and failing to control the way your hips stutter against him, your body desperate for more.

Luigi feels it.

And that’s when he decides to help.

His grip tightens, his hands guiding you now, slow and teasing, dragging you against his thigh in a way that makes you whimper.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you, watching the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter. “Go ahead, baby. Take what you need.”

Luigi’s grip is strong, firm, guiding you with deliberate slowness, teasing you with lazy drags of your core against the rough denim of his thigh. Every movement sends sparks licking up your spine, the friction igniting something deep and insistent inside you. The joint in his fingers smolders lazily, sending another soft swirl of smoke curling into the air, but his attention is all on you—watching the way your breath stutters, the way your lashes flutter, the way your lips part in quiet, shaky little gasps.

You’re barely even aware of how lost you are in it—how desperate you’re starting to sound, little whimpers slipping past your lips as your hips move in slow, rhythmic rolls, grinding against him in search of more. It’s not enough, not quite, but the teasing build is making your head swim, the steady pressure turning your brain to static.

And then he stops.

His hands fall away from you completely, leaving you suddenly weightless, untethered, forced to chase your own pleasure without his guidance.

The sudden lack of control—the absence of his firm grip—is a shock to your system.

Your movements falter, just for a second, your body aching for that solid pressure, for the way he was rolling you against him just right.

You blink, breathless, tilting your head to look at him. “Luigi—”

“Hm?”

His tone—that lazy, teasing mockery—sends a fresh wave of heat shooting through you.

You huff, shifting against him again, trying to find the same friction, the same pace, but without his hands holding you down, it’s not enough.

He notices. Of course, he does.

His smirk grows. “Somethin’ wrong, baby?”

You glare at him, shifting again, but it’s not the same, it’s not enough, and it makes you whine, frustration slipping into your voice.

“Luigi.”

He exhales another slow stream of smoke, watching you through hooded, knowing eyes. “Dunno why you’re looking at me like that,” he muses, tapping ash into the empty red cup beside the tub. “You were doing just fine on your own.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re such a—”

“What?” His fingers brush against your thigh, just barely, the ghost of a touch that makes your breath catch, but it’s not enough, not even close. His smirk is all sharp edges, cruel, his voice mocking. “Go on, baby. Say it.”

You glare at him, a fresh wave of heat rolling through you, both embarrassment and frustration curling tight in your gut. You want to slap that smirk right off his face. You want to grind down against him harder, make him feel how fucking wet you are for him.

So you do.

You roll your hips deliberately, dragging yourself along the solid heat of his thigh, your movements slow, calculated, and needy all at once.

Luigi exhales sharply through his nose, but he doesn’t touch you.

His hands remain limp at his sides, one still holding the joint between two fingers, the other resting lazily against the rim of the tub. He lets you do it, lets you hump his thigh, lets you grind yourself against him, but he doesn’t help you.

And it’s driving you insane.

Your breathing gets heavier, your whimpers turning softer, breathier, your body desperate for that extra pressure.

Luigi hums, tilting his head slightly, eyes flickering down to where your dress has ridden up around your thighs, where your damp panties are soaking through the denim of his jeans.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, grinning, his voice thick with amusement. “Look at you.”

Your face burns, heat flooding beneath your skin, but you don’t stop—you can’t.

Because you’re so close, the pressure building, the friction making your thighs shake, but it’s not enough, you need more, you need him.

“Luigi—”

Your voice is a whimper now, pleading, breathless, and he fucking loves it.

His smirk deepens, but he still doesn’t touch you. “You’re whining, baby.”

“Shut up.”

His laugh is low and slow, vibrating through your skin, and when you move again—when you press down harder, desperately seeking that perfect angle—his hands twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to grab you again.

You see it.

You feel it.

And it makes you even needier.

You let your forehead drop against his shoulder, whimpering softly into the warm skin of his throat, pouting against him as you continue to grind yourself down.

He exhales another slow stream of smoke, the scent curling around the two of you, wrapping you both in a thick, heady fog.

But he doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Not until you break.

Not until your voice turns soft and needy, your whimpers shaky and desperate, your hips stuttering as you chase it, as you beg for it without words.

And then—finally—he gives in.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough now, the teasing edge starting to fray as his hands snap back to your waist, gripping you hard, pulling you down against him, dragging you against his thigh deliberately, roughly, guiding you exactly the way you need.

You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he grinds you against him, the pressure perfect, the friction intense, his voice turning low and thick, dripping with filthy, taunting satisfaction.

“There you go, baby,” he coos, dragging you against him harder, feeling the way you’re soaking him, feeling the way you tremble in his grasp. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

You whimper, barely able to breathe, your pleasure climbing higher and higher, a hot, pulsing coil threatening to snap.

“You gonna come just like this?” His voice is a smirk, mocking but low and wrecked all at once. “Grinding all desperate on my lap?”

You whine against his throat, your hips stuttering, your body losing control.

Luigi groans, feeling it, feeling how sloppy you’re getting, how soaked his jeans are beneath you. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, gripping you harder, dragging you against him roughly, deliberately, pushing you over the edge-

And then you snap.

Your body locks up, your thighs trembling, your breath breaking as liquid pleasure spills over, soaking completely through his jeans, your pleasure ripping through you so violently that you sob against him.

Luigi stills.

Then he laughs, low and breathless, running a slow hand over the soaked denim of his thigh.

“Jesus, baby,” he mutters, grinning, his voice wrecked and pleased and fucking feral. “Did you just squirt all over me?”

You groan, mortified, hiding your face against his neck.

His grin grows.

Then, with zero hesitation, he takes another slow drag from the joint, exhales against your ear, his voice low and dangerous.

“Next time, I wanna feel that on my cock.”

A/N: yall im sorry i just saw the messages the messages between max and lu where he says he’s high and i had to take 20 minutes out to word vomit out my nastiest thoughts about stoner Lu. That’s it. I’m a whore and one that has a whole fic needing to be finished but I did this instead. Crazy.

[eighth-heroine]

you need to rest

pairing: sam winchester x reader

CONTENT: fluff, established relationship, reader is shorter than sam (but who isn't)

word count: 724

You tiptoed down the stairs from the second floor of Bobby's house, careful not to step on the places you knew creaked. You had awoken feeling the full effects of your dehydration, and needed a glass of water asap or you were certain your mouth would shrivel up and die.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs, you noticed a faint glow coming from inside the library. The men often stayed up late researching, so you didn't even look to see who it was, beelining to the kitchen to get your water.

The doors separating the library from the kitchen were closed, so it wasn't until you were on your way back to bed when you glanced inside the library.

It wasn't Bobby up late, like you assumed. It was Sam, laying over a pile of books, his head resting on his forearm like a pillow. His laptop was open in front of him, casting his face in a ghostly light that emphasized the tired lines etched into his skin.

You walked to the desk softly and placed your water glass down, leaning over Sam to close his browser windows and turn off his laptop.

You gently shook Sam's shoulder. He jerked upright and grabbed your arm, always ready for a fight. "It's just me, Sam," you whispered. He instantly relaxed and dropped your arm.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Guess I fell asleep."

"It's four in the morning," you told him sympathetically. "You've been working yourself to the bone over this thing. You need to rest."

"I'm fine," Sam croaked. He looked haggard, dark bags under his eyes and lines carved into his brow from squinting.

A few moments from the past week clicked into place in your mind. Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded and eyes closed. Sam dozing off in the car on the way to town. Sam with his forehead pressed to a bookshelf, jumping when the book fell from his hand, and insisting that he hadn't been falling asleep. Going to bed before Sam and waking up with him not there.

"Jesus. How much sleep have you been getting?" you asked concernedly. "You look like shit."

"I don't know."

"Don't know or won't say because you know it's not enough?"

Sam heaved a sigh that turned into a yawn. "Maybe like, three hours a night? Two? I've gone longer with less."

"A year without a soul doesn't count," you said, swatting his arm. "Come on, we're going to bed."

"But-" he protested.

"Sam."

He closed his eyes defeatedly. "Okay. You win."

Sam rose from the chair slowly and grabbed you into his arms sleepily, resting his chin on your head.

You led him by his limp arm up the stairs to the room you two were staying in, although lately it had just been you. Sam didn't bother to put pajamas on, simply kicking off his shoes and falling face-first into the mattress. You giggled, setting your water down on the side table, and followed suit.

Sam peeked one eye open to look at you. You brushed his hair behind his ear. "You gotta take better care of yourself."

He smiled half-heartedly. "That's what I have you for," he teased. As you scoffed, he turned onto his side and pulled you against his chest. You snuggled against his warm body, face stuffed into his flannel, breathing in the scent of him.

You yawned, causing him to yawn as well, sending you both into a fit of giggles. You turned your face solemn again. "Promise me you'll come to bed when I do this week. At least."

Sam looked lovingly into your upturned face and kissed you on the forehead. "Promise," he whispered. His hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you close into his neck again.

You kissed the base of his throat. "I love you. I don't want you to run yourself into the ground."

He exhaled lightly. "I won't. I know you won't let me. And I know it's not your job to take care of me, but... I appreciate it."

Your arm curled around his side, rubbing his back. "I know," you said simply.

As the first pale fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, you and Sam had dozed off in each other's arms, breathing in tandem.

Finally resting.

divider by @saradika-graphics

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Tear of salt

Azriel x Mermaid OC

Word count: +6300

Summary: He sneaks into enemy territory to spy/assassinate someone and while sneaking through that person's manor he finds a large tank holding a sad mermaid.

Warnings: Azriel doing his job - killing; mentions of blood, wounds, torturing, starvation

Based on this prompt by @ghostedgrim @azrielappreciationweek Day 7: Free Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

Azriel crossed his room, attaching last daggers he had prepared, to his gear. He got a mission, a very easy one. There was nothing that could go wrong and he even didn't feel sorry for what he was about to do. Sneaking into manor of some bastard who was kidnapping lesser faeries and human children all around Prythian and selling them as slaves on continent, was way too easy for him. Azriel could have sent some of his spies to handle this, but after witnessing what was left of one of the victims, he wanted to do it personally. He wanted to see that bastard suffering as much as those children suffered before he would allow him to die.

The shadows swirled around his arms and wings, gathering at his ear. "It's time," they whispered in their silent soothing voices.

Azriel closed his honeyed hazel eyes, releasing a deep sigh through nose while shadows swallowed him. When he again opened them, he stood on a hill at the edge of the forest.

It was night, a valley bellow was plunged in impenetrable darkness as heavy dark clouds swimming across the firmament, hid all the stars and moon. Air was filled with a smell of rain and static energy of coming storm. Azriel didn't mind it though. He was used to the darkness and saw his destination almost as clearly as during the day.

At the bottom of the shallow valley stood a manor surrounded by garden and high fence. Only certain people knew about its existence or how to get there. It took him just a few hours to find the right people and follow them to this place and next several days he spent spying around, counting coming and leaving wagons. That bastard was so arrogant that he kept only a small unit of guards to secure such big estate. Killing him couldn't be more easier. Even from afar Azriel could say that whoever cast the wards around the estate, did a very poor job. He cracked through them the second he came without any problem and not a single soul noticed it.

Azriel waited for an hour after the last of the lights turned off in the manor. The wind was getting stronger, playing with his dark hair as he stretched out his wings. The guards were so negligent that they rather hid from the coming storm than guarded the place. This really couldn't be easier.

Azriel quietly slid on the wind down to the garden close to the servants entrance, but then he changed his mind and with smirk he landed on a driveway. There was no need to hide in the shadows, the darkness of the night covered his tall figure dressed in black perfectly fine. Rhys would certainly call him a show-off for this later. His noiseless steps led him up the staircase straight to the main entrance, hand casually resting on a hilt of his favourite dagger on his hip.

The shadows swam out from beneath the massive doors, climbing up his body to whisper into his ear. Azriel huffed when they told him that nobody was keeping an eye in the main hall nor anywhere nearby. How convenient. His blue siphons gleamed in the darkness as he reached for handle. It wasn't even locked. How could such amateurs manage to kidnap so many people and even had an audacity to think that nobody would notice and come for them?

Tugging his wings closer, Azriel stepped in and closed the doors behind. The main hall was literary made of white marble that covered not only floor but also walls and ceiling. Great portals on the both sides of the doors led deeper into the house. However, Azriel's attention was trained on the two staircases winding around an enormous tank. The bedroom he was looking for, was certainly up on the second floor. Though that didn't bother him so much at the moment.

A soft greenish light was coming out of the tank full of dirty water, the only source of light here. As far as he could say, Azriel didn't see any fish swimming in it. He couldn't explain it, but something was drawing him to that tank. With hammering heart he stalked closer, trying to get a better look of what was within the glass walls covered with slime. It took him awhile to recognize the shape of a great rock in its middle. At first he thought that the tank was empty except of the rock and kelps swaying in the dirt. He was about to return back to the purpose of his visit when he noticed a faint gleam of something metallic. Not metallic, he realized. A fish scale. Now when he knew where to look, he could see it. A long fish tail attached to a human-looking torso. He hadn't seen any of this creatures with his own eyes, yet he immediately recognized it.

A mermaid.

The only known mermaids lived in the ocean near the shores of Summer court, occasionally ranging water lines of Spring. They lived in well guarded communities, but once every few centuries there was a curious mermaid who came out from the water looking for an adventure on land. Their rare offspring with fae or human, however, were excluded from their community and had to stay on land. They usually had just little if anything of their mermaid ancestors anyway and they could be easily mistaken for high fae.

The mermaid was lying on her side, limp. Her eyes were closed, dark shadows loomed under sharp bones of her cheeks. Her skin had a sickly greyish tone, by the state of her starved body, she could be already dead.

Azriel clenched teeth and pressed his palm to the thick glass, its surface cold like ice. No wonder this room was so cold compared to the stuffy night air of late summer outside. His stomach hollowed, the pain wrapped around his heart like hand around tiny bird and squeezed. He felt sorrow for the poor creature who ended up imprisoned in this tank, starved to the death. That wasn't fate he would wish even for his worst enemy.

As leather of gear on his hand touched the tank, it caused the small thud echoed through the water. Mermaid's long eyelashes flickered and she so slowly opened eyes. Her gaze was empty, dulled with suffer and tiredness, sliding down the glass to the place he stood at.

When their gazes collided, Azriel gasped and took a half-step back. The jade like eyes struk him straight to the heart, sending waves of the sweetest pain to his veins. His heart expanded to create space for a golden thread that bounded him to the female in front of him.

Her lips parted, soft moan slipped from between them. She felt it, too.

However, the thread was weak, disappearing as the life gradually drained from her. It took some time until it fully formed and he got a straight link to her. Enormous hunger and pain flooded his system and he needed a moment to separate her feelings from his own. He couldn't do anything right now to help her, except of sending his strength and assurance to her.

Her hand, bones and tendons wrapped in skin, slightly moved toward him.

Azriel's jaw tightened as his gaze flickered to the second floor for a brief moment.

"I'll return for you, I swear. Just give me a second to finish that bastard. I'll make him suffer on your behalf." He only whispered the words, but water carried them to her and she weakly nodded.

Not wasting another second, Azriel ran up the steps, taking three at time. The game was over. There was no need to hide in the shadows, sneaking around. The rage was tearing through him, seeping from his pores like a toxic cloud. He was the Death and the Death was him. Nothing could stop him now. Every person who took part of enslaving and torturing of his mate deserved nothing better that slow death. Those who saw her and decided to do nothing weren't any better.

As if they felt it, several residents of the manor appeared in the hallway, blocking his way. Azriel didn't even as much as blink when his scarred fingers closed around hilts of daggers. He moved smoothly as a dancer, cutting a path through bodies. Once he got them, he didn't glance their way anymore. There was no need. He was trained killer, with every blow he delivered fatal injury. Some died immediately, some shrieked on the floor, blood flowing from the cuts like unstoppable river, others were drowning in it.

Azriel swiftly followed the lead of his shadows showing him the shortest way to the bed chambers of the head of this group. He didn't count the number of bodies he left behind. Spattered with dark crimson liquid, he smashed the door open - the real demon looking for his next victim.

The bastard was hidden behind his bed, trembling like a little girl with small knife in hand. Azriel wrinkled his nose as an odour of urine hit him. He snorted. That bastard pissed himself. If Azriel had time, he'd love to play with him to make him pay for all ruined lives, but his mate was weakening with every second he spent here. He needed to hurry up. He moved toward the hiding male who shrieking threw the knife at his head and tried to run away. A big mistake! No one could outran the Death.

Azriel caught the flying knife mid air and tossed it aside. The tendril of shadows wrapped around males neck, yanking him back. Careful not to break his neck, they lifted him into the air. The male was making choking noises, kicking feet around in attempt to find something, anything to stand on. Shadows squeezed his neck more firmly until his eyes rolled back in his head.

Azriel waited. The shadows loosened their hold before the male could die. It was their master's turn to strike the final blow. Azriel promised that he would make him suffer and so he did. He made a tiny cut to the artery on male's arms and watched as his life dripped out of him, drop after drop. When male in agony shuddered for the last time, shadows tossed him into the puddle of his own blood and swam to their master.

Spymaster turned on heel and ran back down to the entrance hall. He searched whole tank on his way down the stairs, but there was no hole, no opening. It was built only for one purpose and that enraged him even more.

Azriel put both palms on the thick glass, gathered all the power from his siphons and released it at once. The glass turned into fine dust, the mass of dirty and stinky water spilled on Azriel and all around the room. He shook himself dry like a dog, wiping the disgusting slime from his face and climbed inside. He waded in knee-deep dirty water to the rock in its middle, slippery algae binding his legs and making the progress harder. The mermaid just lay there helplessly, her chest heaved with difficulty, gasping for air.

Without hesitation, Azriel opened the upper part of leathers and stripped the T-shirt beneath it. He jumped up on the rock and started carefully wiping off the dirt from her face and especially from her nose, mouth and gills on her neck.

As soon as he was done, she took a deep breath, savouring fresh air. She tried to lift her head, but she was too weak.

"It's over now," he spoke lowly to her, his voice soft. "I know that you felt it, too. I won't let anything bad ever happen to you again."

He brushed her long wet hair from her face. Even with a thick layer of dirt on, she was the most beautiful female he'd ever seen. As the wild creature of depths of the ocean she was, she undoubtedly wanted to return home, but Azriel already knew he wouldn't be able to let her go. He would gladly follow her even to the bottom of the ocean. She was his mate after all, the missing half of his soul. They were made for each other. That had to mean something.

"Let's get you out of here."

He so carefully scooped her in his arms, but her tail was so long that it dragged behind. Shadows wrapped around the scales and lifted it up, helping to their master. Her head with still closed eyes fell on his naked chest. His body shivered in answer and he groaned. Only thanks to the years of discipline and restrains he didn't crush her in his arms. Right now she needed healer, food, care and love. He had to wait until she would be healthy and then they would talk about the bond.

Azriel released a deep breath and called in the shadows that obediently swallowed them. When Azriel opened eyes again, he was standing in the middle of Madja's office at healers center, the dirty water was dripping from their bodies on perfectly clean floor. Old healer was leaning over the table, her hands swiftly taking one pouch after another, mixing medicine with precision of many years of practice.

The shadows immediately flew to greet her. The healer didn't even as much as sigh in surprise when they touched her hands, helping with the pouches.

"Good evening, Azriel," she spoke in a tired voice. "I hope that you know what time it is and that the injury you have, is really serious."

She slowly turned to him, her moves sluggish after a long, hard day. She gasped when she noticed mermaid in his arms.

"I know it's late and believe me, if it wasn't a matter of life and death, I wouldn't bother you. But.. she needs immediate help and you are the only one I can entrust her to."

"At last you found the one," she smiled at him knowingly, her hands already picking up everything she would need. "Put her on the bed."

Azriel did as she asked and carefully set the mermaid down on simple bed for patients. When he made sure she is comfortable, he moved to the tail that hung from bed and gently scooped it into his arms, holding it off of the cold floor. Looking closely at it, he noticed quite big areas with only reddish skin without scales and his heart clenched. Even now he felt unbearable pain and hunger seeping from her end of the bond and he wished he could kill that bastard again.

Madja got to work, swiftly looking the pacient over. Azriel watched her while his shadows assisted to her. When Madja was done, she sighed and wiped her hands clean.

"She is heavily malnourished. That's the cause of the other issues like loosing the scales and tiredness. Looking at you two, I assume that the numerous inflammations are caused by too long stay in stagnant dirty water. The very first thing she needs, is a bath. I think it's something you can deal with. Just treat her carefully. Right now she is very sensitive, more sensitive to touch than your wings."

Azriel nodded. "Got it."

Madja put together all the medicines and ointments while explaining him how and when to apply them and what to expect in the following days. At last she told him to call for her, if her state worsened.

Azriel listened carefully, thanked to the old healer and winnowed with the mermaid to his apartment in the center of the city that he kept secret from his family. It was his place to retreat to when things started to be too much and he needed silence, peace and time to recharge.

The apartment was enough big to accommodate him and his wings, equipped only with a necessary basics like bed, closet with some spare clothes, bathroom, sofa near the hearth, small kitchen area where he could prepare a simple meal, and few shelves with books. It wasn't much, but it suited his needs. The whole building was located next to the park, with Sidra flowing behind it. That was the main reason why he decided for this apartment. None of the windows was directed to the street so it was a very quiet place, exactly what he was looking for.

His steps immediately led to the bathroom with bathtub enough big for giant Illyrian warrior. Some of his shadows return as soon as they heard about the bath to prepare it. Bathtub was full of warm water, the steam was rising from its surface.

Azriel hesitated for a moment unsure whether mermaids were fine with warm baths. He sat down on the edge of the tub, placing his mate on his lap. He gently took her hand and let it slowly inch after inch slip into the water. Mermaid groaned softly, but she didn't seem to be in pain. He lifted small hand up, inspecting it closely. The colour of her skin seemed to be normal, there were no blisters or redness, so he assumed it should be fine and carefully dipped her whole body. After that he took off his dirty leathers and shadows took care of them. It was so dirty that it was better to throw it away than to try to clean it. Shadowsinger dipped to the water, sighing with relief as warm liquid worked its wonders on his tired body. He made sure to wash himself properly before touching female opposite him. Then he moved to her, gently washing off the dirt from her body and hair.

The water turned muddy after the first wash, so he refilled the tub again and again until it stayed clear. Then it was finally a time for the most hardest and delicate work - to wash her tail. Shadows brought him a new soft toothbrush from cabinet under the sink and he started to gently brush one scale after the other. It took him hours to get from the top to the bottom, but he didn't mind it at slightest. For his mate he would do it even thousand times and gladly. When he looked at her clean tail from afar, it had a light sea green colour with metallic accent. However, looking closely at the scales, each one had a pearly iridescent colour. It was fascinating.

Mermaid was whole time unconscious, but the bond between them was growing stronger and steadier which was a good sign. Azriel checked on her every now and then to make sure he wasn't hurting her.

She was calm, her expression relaxed as he pulled her out of the tub, wrapped her in towel and carried her to the bed. Her hair was so tangled that he decided to just wrap it in another towel and deal with it later. Gently wiping her body he moved to her tail. As soon as the towel touched it, it started to melt beneath his hands like ice. Azriel's eyes widened in shock, panic gripping his heart. That wasn't suppose to happen, was it?

He quickly ran back to the bathroom to run another bath. When he returned, he stiffened on threshold. Instead of mermaid, a Fae-like female was lying on the bed, her long pale legs riddled with red wounds.

Azriel dropped to his knees, wiping tears away as he drew hands down his face. He stayed like that, watching her chest rise with every steady breath until he calmed down. She was fine. He cursed under his breath. Madja certainly knew this would happen, she should have warned him.

Sitting on the edge of mattress, he took out the ointments the healer gave him. Mermaid, now female, was completely naked in this form and it took everything in him to ignore the fact. He quickly finished this tormenting activity, bandaged the wounds and dressed her in one of his spare T-shirts. Once she was safely tucked under the blanket, all tempting parts covered, he released the breath he held entire time.

He needed a minute to cool down, so he dressed and went to clean the mess they made in the apartment. When he was done, he took comb, climbed on the bed and began untangling her long hair. Free from dirt and slime it was the deep shade of auburn, slightly wavy and soft to touch. By the time he braided her hair, gave her medicine from the healer and exhausted fell asleep next to her, it was already a lunch time.

The next few days he hadn't left his apartment. As Madja warned him, mermaid got a fever caused by infection in numerous wounds. Even the most shallow ones took twice the time to heal than it normally would. Azriel patiently replaced the bandages several times a day, applying the ointments on wounded skin of legs. He was worried, yet he couldn't but appreciate this opportunity. It gave him enough time to think everything over.

She was still unconscious, so she wasn't able to eat solid food, which left Azriel with only one option - soups.

When he tried to feed her the very first meal, he hit an obstacle. He tried every possible method of getting liquid into unconscious person he knew of, failing terribly. The soup simply spilled from her mouth or she started choking on it.

He was sitting helplessly on the edge of mattress, watching her. According to all the stories and little information his kind had, it was well known that mermaids were beautiful. Their physical appearance was hard to resist to and where their beauty failed, their voice managed to break even the strongest individual. Singing of mermaids was legendary. Depending on what the mermaid wanted, the effect of their song could differ. Azriel hadn't heard her voice yet he was already lost. Whether she wanted or not, she had him wrapped around her finger. Sleeping peacefully her features were soft, she looked quite young and like a good person. He assumed that she liked to smile a lot because corners of her mouth were permanently turned upward. He really hoped to see her smile someday.

However, her sunken cheeks were causing him a pain. When he was changing her bandages after waking up, he noticed a lot of details that early in the morning he missed out in agitation. Every time he touched her and felt no muscles, only bones and thin tissue under the skin, it hurt him like a stab straight into the heart. Desperately wanting to get the food to her belly, he was just sitting there, gazing at her, his eyes clouded with sorrow. There had to be some way how to do this.

Brooding over it, he didn't hear his shadows when they spoke to him at first. The darkness swirled around him, gathering near his ear, whispering. When he didn't answer, they tried to get his attention by cool gentle touches. It didn't work either, so they moved to master's mate, creating wall between them.

"What is it?" Azriel frowned, pushing them away.

"We are trying to talk to you. Why don't you listen to us?"

"She needs food," he stirred the cooling soup with spoon. "I'm trying to come up with some way to feed her."

"We might know about something you haven't tried yet."

"I tried everything," he shook head. "Maybe I need to ask Madja. I should write her a message. Will you deliver it?"

"Nope," they collectively dismissed. "First, try our method."

"Are you sure that it will work?" he raised a brow at them.

"For 100%! But if not, we will deliver the message."

"Fine, so what do I need to do?"

The shadows explained him their idea in detail. Azriel's eyes grew wider with every their word and he blushed fiercely.

"I can't do that!" He covered his mouth with hand, stuttering. "It's.. it's disrespectful to her.. I need her permission to do something so.. naughty."

"In this state, she will hardly give you permission. It's your only chance, boy. She doesn't have to know about it. Think about it!"

He hated to admit it, but they were once again right.

"It's going to be just feeding.. Only feeding.. nothing else," he grunted giving up and shoved spoonful of soup into his mouth.

His cheeks burnt with bright red colour as he leaned over sleeping mermaid. He gently opened her mouth and sealed his lips over hers. The jolt of energy surged through his body at that simple touch and he groaned, closing his eyes. He needed a moment, unable to move. He wanted to taste her, but thankfully his mouth were full of soup.

Come to your senses! It's feeding.. It isn't a real kiss, he scolded himself, taking a deep, steadying breath.

"That's it, boy! And now slooooowly," shadows were encouraging him, floating so close they were almost touching them. A growl rumbled in his chest and they recoiled.

"Fine!" If they had eyes, they would roll them now. "Just don't drown her." They flew back behind his shoulders and observed the situation from there.

Azriel sighed through nose. He let a few drops of soup slip from between his lips into her mouth and waited. Nothing happened at first and he was about to call it off when her throat worked under his tender touch and she swallowed. Female moaned and her brows knitted together as her lips moved slightly, looking for more. Happy, Azriel caressed her hair and let another small amount flow into her mouth.

Gradually, he fed her half of the soup in the bowl. It was quite a slow process, but how could he mind? Being so close to his mate, the bond between them awoke, pulsing in unison with their heartbeats. It came in handy in this situation. As her belly filled, the bond shone with satisfaction and Azriel knew it was time to stop. She had to start carefully to keep the food in. He put the bowl aside and pulled warm blanket higher, tucking her in. Mermaid frowned, her lips looking for more food.

"Soon. I'll give you more very soon," he murmured, caressing her cheek lovingly. "You are safe here. I'll give you as much food as you need. I'll give you anything you want, just.. give me a chance."

He hoped his prayer would somehow reach her and she wouldn't refuse the bond as soon as she opened eyes.

Azriel decided to feed her with small amount of soup every two hours and see how her body would react to that. And in between he gave her tea from herbs Madja gave him. It took him only a half day to turn this into a routine. His body got used to the repeating motions. Cleaning of wounds and applying ointments, changing bandages, little bit of tea with medicine, few mouthfuls of soup.

All of that required a lot of time and the short breaks between the individual actions, he spent gazing at his mate, committing details of her face to his memory or cooking some food for himself and soup for his patient.

At beginning, he always tried to feed her with spoon, but when it failed, he gladly pressed his lips to hers. It was like a remedy and while he was balancing between keeping it professional, detached, and giving in to his needs, he hardly noticed anything else. Two days later he didn't even bother with trying spoon anymore. The fever was finally gone and she seemed to be getting better, her starved body was healing, too. Yet she didn't awoke even once. As his mouth sealed over hers, he closed eyes, fighting his usual battle and imagining what could be.

Azriel didn't notice the startled move of hand nor felt the body under him tensed. He let small amount of soup slip into mermaids mouth and she swallowed. Suddenly pair of hands pushed him away. It surprised him and he started choking on the soup, coughing violently.

"W-what are you doing?" Her voice was still weak and full of fear, but she was definitely awake.

Azriel finally stopped coughing and took a deep breath, wiping away tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do anything bad," he put his hands up. "While you were unconscious, you couldn't eat and this was the only way how to get food into you.. I swear I tried everything else before.. you know.." The blush climbed up his neck, burning his cheeks. He watched her with plea.

"I-.. You are that male, the one who saved me.."

"Yes, it's me," Azriel nodded eagerly, biting on his bottom lip and waiting whether she would mention the bond.

"I have to thank you for saving my life. I was sure that I will die there and I really would die, if it wasn't for you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Her voice was the sweetest melody Azriel ever heard. He was trying to stay focussed, but with every word that left her lips it was harder and harder.

The bond in his chest stirred and flexed with expectation. He knew that she felt it, it snapped for both of them at the same time after all, yet he wanted to wait until she mentioned it. While he was waiting, they introduced to each other, sharing some basic information. She even told him about how they captured her and confined her in that gigant tank.

Several days later, Mer was enough strong to stand up on her own. She didn't need Azriel to help her anymore. Her wounds healed without leaving any marks and she was able to eat solid food. Not even once she mentioned the bond and Azriel had a bad feeling about it.

With each passing day she was getting restless. She often watched Sidra flowing under the window of sitting room, her gaze vacant.

"Where does the river flow?" she asked him for the third time that day.

"It flows into the sea beyond the city," he answered her patiently, his voice sad. "Why?"

"I want to go home," she murmured under her breath, but he heard it. It was the first time she mentioned it and his heart clenched in pain.

Azriel swallowed hard, preparing to hear something that would break him into pieces. "Do you want to return home, Mer?"

"Yes," she replied simply and finally looked at him. "When will you let me go?"

That hurt more than he expected. Balling hands into fists, he turned his back to her.

"I can't.."

He was hardly keeping it together. Shadows swirled around his shoulders as if trying to comfort him. His wings rustled as he abruptly marched to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of bed, putting head into his hands. Mother had a very strange sense of humour, punishing him by giving him a mate who didn't want him. The only person who was supposed to love him and stay by his side, wanted to leave him.

He felt unwanted his entire life, first by his own father, then in the camp by his own people and later even by the first love of his life. He was scared to love because people who really mattered to him, didn't want him in their lives. Five centuries later, it was still hard for him to comprehend that Cassian and Rhysand liked him, that they called him their brother and he dreaded the day they would stop.

Mer quietly followed him, watching him with puzzled expression.

"Did you save me only to imprison me again?" Her voice was calm, there was no trace of hatred or accusation in it.

He took a shaky breath and shook his head. He hadn't seriously cried since he was thrown into dungeons as a small boy. He didn't cry even when his hands were burnt and it hurt badly, but now he felt like doing so.

"I can't possibly let my mate leave me just like that.."

She sighed and walked over to him, crouching in front of him and pulled his hands away from his face. He looked at her in surprise. It was the first time she touched him. Ever since she woke up, she was refusing his toich. Now she was searching his face, her expression unreadable, her small but strong hands holding his.

"You know that we belong to different worlds. I can't stay on land for too long and you can't survive under the water. That's just how things are. We can't change it."

She was so calm that it was killing him. Was he really so unworthy? Was he really not good enough even for his mate, the one he was made for? Azriel was never pushy with people he cared for. He was always putting others, their wishes and needs before himself. He could count on fingers of one hands the times when he revolted and stood his ground. In this case, he didn't want to give up easily. He wanted to give it a try and fight with everything he had to change her mind, to prove her that this could work.

He closed fingers around her hands, holding them firmly and looked straight into her eyes with determination. Small sparkles whirled in them as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I always believed that the real love can overcome anything. That once I find my mate, she could love me despite of looking like this," he nodded to his scarred hands. "That she will see me, the real me under all the darkness and blood staining my hands and yet choose to stay by my side.." He searched her eyes, looking for a hint of agreement, a hint of longing, anything. "There's nothing I wouldn't be willing to do for you. Nothing. I would even try to learn to live under the water, if you asked me for that. Please, don't shove me away.. Don't refuse the bond.. Give me at least one chance to prove myself as worthy of you.. I believe that this relationship can work and I will do anything for that.. Please.. Just one chance.."

She listened closely. When he stayed quiet, waiting for her respond, she narrowed eyes on him, thinking about it. It felt like forever until she gave him an answer, his heart treating to explode with emotions that were wrestling with him.

"Fine," she sighed and nodded, squeezing his hands back. "Let's try it. But what if it won't work? What then?"

"I'm sure it will work, but if not, we will talk about it then. I won't give up though."

She smiled at him gently. "I think that you are good male. So don't take it personally, but I really need to go home. I mean to the water. The time I can spend on land is still quite limited because I am young. The longer mermaids live, the longer they can stay without water."

Azriel's brows raised. "Oh.. I didn't know that. I'm so sorry. Your kind lives in depths of ocean, secluded and we have a little to nothing information about mermaids. You are more like a legend from fairytale. I don't like to admit it, but my knowledge is limited. However, I will learn it all, I swear. Just give me time and guidance, please."

He helped her to sit on the bed and headed to the bathroom to prepare bath. When they visited Madja last day, the healer said that she should be okay from now on, but she needed to take it slowly and especially to avoid dirty water because infection could still return. She also had to keep taking the medication healer gave them.

When bath was ready he returned to bedroom and scooped her in his arms.

"I can walk," she protested weakly.

"And I know it, but as I told you before, I want to prove myself. Carrying my mate when she is sick and needs to take it easy, is my responsibility that I'll gladly do," he smiled at her. "I want to be a good mate. And not just now, it's forever."

She didn't protest at slightest when he offered to help her strip from his T-shirt that looked like dress on her and carefully lowered her into the bath. As soon as her skin touched the surface of water, the tail reappeared and she sighed in relief, diving in. Azriel watched her to swim in small circle, glad his bathtub was enough big, but he was already thinking about getting a bigger one. She emerged and watching him, she swam closer.

"Azriel?" she called at him and his attention immediately was fully on her. "Uhm, you know I'm not water spirit, right?"

He blinked, confused. "Sure. I couldn't possibly mistake you for one."

"I see," she pouted her lips, playing with water. "So you remember when I told you about my home. In ocean."

"Of course, I remember everything you told me," he laughed and then tensed as the realisation hit him.

"Salt water," he breathed out, blushing fiercely. How could it not occur to him sooner? "You need salt water."

Her head tilted to the side as she observed his embarrassed form. Azriel dashed from the bathroom and returned within seconds with small container of kitchen salt.

"Would this do?" he hesitated.

Mer burst in genuine laugher and the thread connecting them sang. Soon Azriel joined her, sitting down next to the bathtub. She swam to the edge and he took her hand, placing kiss on its back. When they calmed down, he locked his gaze with hers, serious.

"I'll learn it, I swear. I meant it when I said that I want this to work and I'll do everything I can for that. Please, trust me. Can you forgive me for the mistakes I'll do at start? I promise that I will get better."

Mer bit on her bottom lip and leaned closer. Her lips gently brushed over the corner of his lips in lovingly kiss. Flushed, she smiled.

"I want this to work too. Let's try it! Together."

[soapyghostie]

Cipher from fogposting here, I have been thinking about the reader living in the slasher / dbd killer house idea!

And what I would be interested in is how chores would be distributed 😂 who does what? Do they let Bubba cook?

(not sure if this counts as request, but feel free to ignore it if you don't want to write anything about this!)

Horror House

Since there is a big group of them that live together, the slashers have a humongous house so it’s right that everyone has to pitch in (at Norman’s demand).

Jason handles the house’s exterior maintenance, ensuring the walls and gates are secure, and also takes care of the yard work. He’s actually really good at gardening if you mean by growing a never-ending supply of deadly traps and pitfalls.

Michael is in charge of plumbing, but his fixes often lead to eerie, dripping sounds, and he also handles the house’s lighting, but only installs dim, flickering bulbs that cast ominous shadows (he purposely does that to scare the shit out of Danny, Billy, and Stu). His cooking skills are limited to boiling water, but he insists on making everyone eat his infamous Michael’s Mac ‘n Cheese of Doom. 

Freddy manages the house’s electrical system, but loves to play tricks with the lighting to try and scare the others (it doesn’t work). He also helps with running the house’s music and entertainment with his razor-sharp glove-uitar (Freddy named it that). It’s just him running his glove blades over the strings of an actual guitar and it doesn’t sound that great.

Bubba cooks meals for everyone alongside Hannibal and it’s some of the most fine homemade cooking you will ever taste. He also helps Norman with the house’s cleaning. He is actually very good at doing laundry. He makes sure each piece of clothing is neatly folded and put in the right person’s pile.

Nubbins assists Bubba in the kitchen, but mostly makes ruckus and gets in the way. He does actual gardening, but is not very good at it. The plants usually die within 3-4 days and maybe a week if he’s lucky.  

ChopTop does a lot of carpentry and woodworking, but his creations end up looking sinister and unuseful. He ends up antagonizing Bubba With his creations by chasing him and waving them around in his face. He also helps Drayton with finances, but only embezzles funds to make more of those twisted projects of his.

Drayton oversees the house’s finances and handles the house’s decorating using human skulls and bones (Norman and Hannibal had to take them down because it was making some of the other residents sick to their stomachs and relieved Drayton from decorating duty). He tries to help out with gardening, but it always ends with him chasing Nubbins around with a broom, leaving the garden unattended for hours (maybe that’s why the plants die so fast). 

Thomas takes care of the house’s leatherwork and upholstery, but uses human skin, and also handles the house’s security, but only installs traps and alarms that have led to endangering some of the residents. He’s actually a pretty good cook, but prefers to let Bubba and Hannibal do the cooking so he can keep his eye out for danger. 

Bo manages any machine or car maintenance. Since the slashers have to use reusable stuff, Bo is there to make sure that everything is intact and working. He tends to be out in the huge garage-like barn in the back of the house for hours, with Amanda, always fixing something.

Vincent oversees the house’s art and decor with the help of Brahms. He’ll spend hours down in the basement (his art studio) creating pieces to hang up around the house. He also handles the music being played around the house with his radio. He finds Freddy’s attempt at making music annoying. He’ll help out with the laundry sometimes too. He treats laundry like he treats his artwork.

Lester doesn’t stick around the house; he’s out of the house early to attend his roadkill pile. However, whenever he is home, Lester will assist Norman with taxidermy and chores. He’s only tried helping cook dinner once and almost burnt the whole house down. Let’s just say he was never let back into the kitchen again.

Norman takes care of a lot of the house’s cleaning and keeps the house pretty tidy for an extremely worn down house. In his free time, he does a lot of taxidermy to put up for display around the house to give it more personality. He can cook, but no one likes house cleaning so that takes up a lot of his time. 

Hannibal is the main chief of the house. He prepares exquisite, gourmet meals. He’ll prepare separate meals for anyone who is no in favor for his special ingredient, *cough* human *cough*. He also runs therapy sessions for anyone who needs it. He’s a great listener and gives great advice. He also helps with gardening every once and awhile if he’s not busy with other things. Nubbins is trying to find Hannibal’s secret to growing a successful garden because his plants last for years. 

Amanda spends her time designing and building traps for pests and rodents that are crawling around in the house. She’ll help Bo out with his projects if he gets stuck on something because she gets tired of hearing him groan and complain. Listen, the girl needs her concentration okay? 

Billy Loomis refuses to do almost anything that requires him to be responsible: Norman was lucky enough to even get him to clean his room. However, he does like to pull pranks on the other slashers and make mischief. He may or may not have gotten his throat slit open by Michael once for it though…

Stu works with the technology and gadgets of the house. However, he only uses them to play pranks on the other residents of the house and nothing really useful. Hannibal and Norman had to provoke his technology privileges quite a few times because the others were complaining. 

Chucky only exists to insult and annoy the hell out of everyone. What is he gonna do? He’s literally a doll. Actually, he does help with organizing stuff. If he sees something misplaced or moved, he’ll put it back into its original spot. He also helps his wife Tiffany out with her fashion work. 

Tiffany handles a lot of the house’s fashion and style. She designs and creates outfits for everyone so no one has to go clothes shopping. She is also another one who is a really good cook and helps out sometimes. Her specialty is baked goods and always makes the best desserts for after dinner.

Brahms helps with decorating. He’s very picky with how the house is decorated and wants the house to be decorated with only the finest things. Most of the stuff he hangs up is Vincent’s art pieces that range from canvas art to sculptures.

Billy Lenz looks after the ‘household’ cat (it’s actually his cat) Claude. He feeds,waters, grooms, and plays with the cat. He makes sure that no one has to think twice about taking care of Claude. He likes to keep Claude with him at all times because Michael tried to kill and eat him a few times.

Pyramid Head is the guard dog of the house. He makes sure the younger slashers aren’t getting too out of hand and staying out of trouble. The slashers are really trying not to draw too much attention to themselves.

Carrie helps out with chores and does most of the laundry. She uses her powers to make the clothes spontaneously combust and move things around to dust the spaces underneath objects. 

Jennifer takes care of the house’s beauty and makeup. She critiques the other slashers on their work ethic and tightness around the house (It’s much appreciated by Norman). She’ll make sure that everything is put in its proper place and looks presentable. She does Bubba and Carrie’s makeup a lot and is your go to girl for when prom rolls around. 

Danny surprisingly is a very efficient cleaner and will get random bursts of energy that has him deep cleaning the entire house. He will disinfect the entire house in an hour and a half, insisting that Norman takes a break for the day since that’s literally all he does everyday 24/7 3/65. He also cares for the firearms and weaponry.

[darkfluffydragon]

Cookie Run AU Ideas #8: Timeless Kingdom

what if Pure Vanilla Cookie, instead of being amnesiac outside with Black Raisin, was instead trapped in the Vanilla Castle time loop? But because of the Light of Truth, he's aware of it? he's been stuck there for...hundreds of years, watching his people die over and over again nothing ever changes no matter what he does and then finally, Gingerbrave shows up. I mean, PV may be nice but there are only so many times he can hear the same monologue before he gets reaaaally sick of it gonna join GC on the hate train and he physically isn't able to do anything "out of script". Every time he tries, he sort of 'loses control of his body', since it's a memory time loop you can't just change a memory and since he's a part of it, it'll force him to go along with it. To play his role. Gingerbrave and his friends probably wouldn't even realise he's not a memory at first, that the Pure Vanilla is the real one.

And an extra I wrote for the AU >:3

Pure Vanilla Cookie awoke with a start, his eyes snapping open to the familiar sight of his bed’s golden canopy. His head throbbed, and his mind felt muddled, a fog of pain and confusion clouding his thoughts. He struggled to sit up, the effort sending sharp jolts of agony through his body. As he gathered his bearings, fragments of memories began to resurface—the battle against Dark Enchantress Cookie, the ruins of his castle, and the faces of his friends, Golden Cheese Cookie, Dark Cacao Cookie, Hollyberry Cookie, and White Lily Cookie.

They had arrived to aid him, late, their expressions grim and determined. By then, he had already spent hours running through the chaos, trying desperately to heal his people. But no matter how hard he tried, the cake monsters kept coming, relentless and unyielding. He remembered the wounds they all bore. The exhaustion that clung to their bones as they fought to protect their home, their kingdom. With his magic reserves depleted, there had been a point where he had started reaching into the depths of his being, drawing upon his very essence—his life powder and soul to fuel his spells.

He remembered the final confrontation against her, he had used Dark Moon Magic, a power he had sworn never to touch. ~~The magic most natural to him.~~ The last time he had seen it wielded, it had led to the academy's destruction. But there had been no other choice. He had cast the banishment spell, lifting himself into the air as Dark Enchantress Cookie tore their Souljams, their very souls, from them. The explosion had ripped through the kingdom, the pain blinding and all-consuming. And then, nothing.

Now, here he was, awake once more. Why? How? As these questions swirled in his mind, he felt a strange sensation, as if invisible strings were tugging at his limbs. Panic surged through him as he realised he was moving against his will, his body tracing the exact path of his memories. He tried to speak, to cry out, but no sound escaped his lips.

“No! Run! Dark Enchantress is coming! Evacuate the cookies!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with desperation. But the words seemed to dissipate into the air, unheard and unheeded. The cookies outside moved about their routines, oblivious to the impending doom. Children played in the streets, vendors hawking their wares, and guards patrolled, all blissfully unaware of the threat looming over them.

The nightmare would unfold before him with horrifying clarity. His friends—the heroes—were nowhere to be seen. Instead, dark silhouettes had taken their place, shadowy figures that seemed to mock his efforts. Was it because of the Souljams? Could this memory not replicate them because of the artefacts which housed their power? 

The endless battle raged around him, the air thick with the stench of smoke and the cries of the wounded. Cake monsters swarmed the castle, their grotesque forms looming over the terrified cookies. Pure Vanilla’s attempts to heal his people felt like trying to stop a flood with a sieve. Every spell he cast seemed to evaporate into nothingness, swallowed by the overwhelming darkness.

The invisible strings tightened around him. It constricted his movements, squeezing his mind. His autonomy slipped further away with each passing moment. The fog in his mind grew denser, suffocating his thoughts.

He felt every wound, every drop of jam that spilled, every life that was lost. He could see the faces of his people contorted in terror and agony, and hear their screams echoing in his mind. His friends fought, their forms blurred by exhaustion and jam. Yet no matter how hard they fought, the cake monsters kept coming, an endless tide of destruction.

The sky would fill with magic circles, blue eyes of the runes staring down at the target as he used magic that he swore to never use, for the second time. He would see her malevolent grin, and feel the agony of the explosion that followed. 

And then, he was back in his bed, the cycle beginning anew. The loops continued, over and over, each one more harrowing than the last. As time stretched into eternity, Pure Vanilla Cookie felt his thoughts growing quieter. Centuries seemed to pass, each loop eroding a bit more of his will. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, and soon, he feared, he would no longer be able to think. In the moments of silence, his mind would turn to White Lily Cookie, the one he had loved so deeply. She had become Dark Enchantress Cookie, the architect of his suffering and the destroyer of his kingdom. Yet, despite everything, he still loved her.

The pain of that love was like rose thorns digging into his heart, a constant, aching reminder of what once was. He had loved her so dearly, had kept her transformation a secret from their friends, hoping against hope that she could be redeemed. But now, as he watched his beloved kingdom and its innocent people crumble time and time again, the anguish was almost too much to bear.

To love White Lily Cookie was to love a rose. To love her was to let the rose crawl up him, letting its hurtful thorns dig into his fragile dough. His jam would paint the delicate petals red, and once gone, wounds and scars would be left to taunt him of his foolish desire.

She had been gifted a bouquet of hearts, yet the only one his moon had taken was his own. She dangled the prize in front of him like a carrot on a stick, and he ran the race despite being the only competitor. She blindfolded him of the fact, and let Pure Vanilla run himself ragged until he could give no more. Then, she left. Left with everything that was Pure Vanilla, left him empty and hurting. Trapped. Left in all her gentle and loving glory, as her beautiful soul was tainted and twisted into the monster that had taken her place.

He did not care for the traitorous thoughts wondering if he was feeling the wrong feelings and thinking the wrong thoughts. He could not care, for he loved her nonetheless. Loved her poisonous, uncompleted promises. Loved her for the nights of waiting by the academy garden, gazing up at the sky, at clouds that would never part to allow him a glimpse of her smile. Loved her for the incomplete dances she swore she would return for, leaving him alone and abandoned in an empty ballroom. He loved her unconditionally. And for this, White Lily Cookie had become his greatest torment.

Each encounter felt like a knife twisting deeper into his heart. The sight of Dark Enchantress Cookie, her once gentle eyes now filled with malice, was a reminder of everything he had lost. She had been his moon, his guiding light, and he had loved her with a purity that he had thought unbreakable. But the darkness that had taken her was relentless, and it had shattered her, and him, beyond repair.

The White Lily Cookie he loved was gone, replaced by the Dark Enchantress Cookie who revelled in his suffering. She was the creator of his endless torment, the reason his kingdom lay in ruins, and his people were lost

What a fool he was.

Pure Vanilla Cookie, awoke in a bed not his own. His limbs were not strung by strings that cut into his dough, and his thoughts were…loud. Clarity such as this was so incredibly rare.

He took in the room, noting how the other cookies, the ones who had…saved him, were still asleep. Quietly, he slipped out of the room, his steps soft and deliberate, as if any sound might shatter this fragile moment of peace. The hallway was dimly lit, shadows playing along the walls. He moved with purpose, though his heart was heavy with the familiar ache of his memories.

Reaching the garden, he paused for a moment at the entrance, breathing in the cool night air. The scent of flowers and earth was a reminder of simpler times. He walked towards the patch of lily flowers, their white petals glowing softly under the moonlight. 

Sitting down among the lilies, he stared up at the moon, its pale light casting a gentle glow over the garden. The tranquillity of the night wrapped around him, and for a brief moment, he felt the weight of his sorrow lift.

His thoughts turned, as they always did, to White Lily Cookie. The moon reminded him of her—bright, beautiful, yet distant and untouchable. He remembered their nights in the academy garden, the way she would laugh and talk about the future with such hope. Those memories were bittersweet now, coloured by the centuries of pain.

The garden was silent except for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Pure Vanilla Cookie closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could almost hear her voice, see her smile. But then the image would shift, and he would see her as she was now—cold, dark, and filled with a malice that seemed impossible for someone who had once been so kind. He hated that he loved White Lily, a love that had once been pure and untainted. But he loathed Dark Enchantress to the point it hurt.

As the night wore on, Pure Vanilla sat alone. Though he could pretend that he was not, that there was another by his side. Perhaps…even four, all five of them together, underneath the starlit sky with the scent of campfire smoke in the air.  He did not know how long this clarity would last, how long before he would be pulled back into the muddy thoughts and fog. But for now, he rested in the peace of the garden, and the bittersweet memories of the one he loved.

Under the moonlight, surrounded by the lilies, he allowed himself to simply be. To remember, to grieve, and to love, even if it was only for a brief, stolen moment.

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe.)

In which Tyrus gets hungry after a battle.

~

See how the patient reacts when I but stroke the right nerve? Hear its comfort? Hear the very melody of mercy . . .

The words lingered in the corners of Tyrus’s mind, a creeping black mold. He felt sick and hopeless, especially after Malus Thorm’s disfigured body lay still beneath him, the ‘sisters’ killed one by one as well, only for the man strapped on the table to die anyway.

Cynda had warned Tyrus when the mission was planned, that his past younger self once worked at the House of Healing for a brief two years. He might even have met or known Malus Thorm—though in the end, he seemed familiar to Tyrus for a very different reason than he’d expected.

They’d come here to interrogate the man, to learn more of Ketheric’s whereabouts and the secret entrance to the Gauntlet of Shar. Instead, Tyrus barely allowed the supposed ‘doctor’ to answer Jaheira’s first question before he saw just how bad of a state their ‘patient’ was in, and interceded.

Now Astarion stood a few paces away, cleaning the blood from his knives without saying a word. Halsin stood back from the motionless victim on the table and solemnly shook his head. Cynda was busy healing the deep wound in Jaheira’s side. 

Tyrus’s own wounds were unhelped by radiant magic, but they had almost closed up on their own already. Still, he leaned back against the bookcase, trying to steady himself through the deepened hunger pains and lightheadedness that was only growing worse over the last two nights since this mission started. He’d managed two rats before they snuck under the hidden passage of the Last Light Inn, then crawled back up in an anxious old fisherman’s shack who led them to a secret backway into the morgue. Since then they’d battled aggressive oozes, a flock of undead, and a few Sharran guards, with little rest in between.

Not that rest would fix the issue, Tyrus knew, ripping his eyes away from the blood dripping down Jaheira’s ribcage.

“We need to find a hiding place and rest,” he said aloud whilst moving to the doors behind them, casting Arcane Lock to buy time before any other medical staff tried to enter the amphitheater. “We’ll go to the Waning Moon next.”

When he turned back, Cynda nodded toward the small side door Astarion had lockpicked to get them in. “We could try hiding back in the morgue, or one of the mausoleums outside,” she said.

Jaheira scoffed, then winced as Cynda’s hands lit up and the deep cut knitted back together. “Are you ready for another fight, then?” she countered. “There are still many guards and Justiciars patrolling the streets. Sharrans seem to be more active in these dark hours of night.”

“An unfortunate coincidence for us,” Astarion replied in a light tone, though he wasn’t looking at anyone as he flipped his dagger once and sheathed it. “Shall I spy out a short resting spot for us above?” he nodded at the second level and began heading towards it.

Halsin protested, “It’s not safe to go alone—”

“Much safer than trying to sneak with you lot clattering next to me,” Astarion countered in a bright, unbothered tone as he skipped up the stairs two steps at a time.

Halsin glanced over at Tyrus beseechingly, but he just shook his head. 

Cynda was the one to snap on a twig and alert the guards they fought, just before this fight. And if this encounter with Malus Thorm had shaken Astarion even half as much as it did Tyrus, then he wouldn’t deny Astarion a bit of space to process it. Even if he’d much rather be held and comforted right now.

Tyrus skimmed over the bookshelf titles, trying to distract himself. But his vision was coming in and out of focus, his mind and body too sluggish to even stand for long. He’d never fought this many times in so short a period, of course—even during their trek through the Underdark, he and Astarion had taken regular breaks and avoided or ran from any danger they crossed wherever they could. He hadn’t felt this depleted, so thoroughly and so suddenly, since . . . well, since Cazador.

The scent of spilled blood in the air grew stronger, suddenly. Tyrus stiffened, turning to find Cynda approaching with Jaheira’s fresh blood still on her hand. Tyrus took a quick step back, hardly able to focus on his sister’s words, “Did your wounds heal alright?”

He couldn’t call himself nearly so experienced at ignoring blood as Astarion was, even if his damaged mind stopped him from enjoying it. So Tyrus used only the air remaining in his lungs to answer, “Just like usual,” with a shaky nod.

But then Cynda took a step closer, a hand reaching out—and Tyrus flinched, voice desperate as he pleaded, “Don’t come near!”

Cynda froze. Halsin and Jaheira both looked his way. Tyrus wished desperately for Astarion, but he wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, Tyrus,” Cynda said, her dark red eyes round with concern as she began backing away. “We . . . we all just need some rest and replenishment right now, I know. Can I do anything?”

“I’ll be fine,” Tyrus quickly shook his head.

His sister gave him a sad little smile and a nod. Then she turned and moved over to Halsin, taking both of his hands in hers as she whispered quietly to him.

Tyrus sighed and turned away, wishing for his own hand to be held, to be consoled and reassured by the one person who understood why he felt so shaken—and whose proximity wouldn’t worsen his hunger pains right now.

Tyrus sat on the steps as his sister and Jaheira checked the area for clues, trying to breathe through the feeling and not recall Malus Thorm’s sickly sweet voice, his purring placations so similar to ones that still regularly haunted Tyrus’s mind and heart. He blinked back tears and cast Find Familiar, telling himself he would finally drink this time, and without retching or crying or shaking . . .

The small white cat he summoned on the stair next to him looked up at Tyrus with wide, innocent blue eyes. It didn’t fight when Tyrus picked it up—but he only held the creature close and stroked its fur, blinking and blinking until finally, he gave up and let the tears fall.

“May I ask something?” a low, gentle rumble of a voice asked, pulling Tyrus out of his deep melancholy.

He quickly rubbed away the tears and blinked up at Halsin who, even standing four stairs below, managed to tower over Tyrus. His strong-jawed, handsome face was lined with concern, though what Tyrus noticed more at the moment was the mouthwatering vibrancy and huge quantity of blood pumping through Halsin’s veins.

Tyrus felt his fangs begin to unsheathe and winced, holding the cat a bit tighter as he nodded in answer.

“Thank you,” Halsin said with a smile, then sat himself down a few steps lower than Tyrus—which was just enough distance that Tyrus could still focus on Halsin’s words as he nodded at the animal in Tyrus’s lap, “I hope I’m not interrupting supper.”

“Oh, no—I mean, I thought about it, but . . .” Tyrus stuttered, then shrugged, stroking a hand down the sleek fur of its back. Since Tyrus learned the spell for himself, he still had yet to actually do more than pet the cat. “I’ll find something soon, I’m sure.”

“Astarion’s mentioned you struggle to drink blood,” Halsin said with a gentle smile. “I’m sure, with how many injuries we’ve all sustained, I’m not the only one with an appetite right now.”

“We won’t make it a problem for anyone,” Tyrus said, glancing over at Jaheira and Cynda who were quietly speaking to each other across the room. “I was just—overwhelmed, a few minutes ago. We’ve both had ample opportunity to practice restraint, I can assure you.”

Halsin nodded. “And I notice you shapeshift into an animal most nights for Astarion,” he pointed out. “I’m sure that keeps his strength up—though he’s explained to me that it is not something he can offer in return, correct?”

The old memory of Astarion in lion form intruded then, crying and clawing in protest as Tyrus held him in his greedy grip. Whimpering and bleeding in the closet for minutes afterward.

Tyrus blinked around more tears. Too sickened by the memory alone, he gently placed his familiar down and silently instructed it to go and keep watch for Astarion’s return. 

“I thought I might instead,” Halsin continued. Tyrus’s head whipped toward him at those words, wide-eyed and a bit horrified. But Halsin looked perfectly at ease as he shrugged his huge shoulders and said, “At least, for the duration of this mission—though if all goes well, I might be open to other occasions as well.”

Tyrus swallowed hard. “Halsin,” he whispered, “I would never ask . . .”

“Which is why I offered,” Halsin said, smile widening. “I wouldn’t want my heart’s dearest brother to be left vulnerable at a time like this, especially with an easy way to help. We need you at full strength. Just tell me how best we might make you comfortable, and avoid any problems that make it hard for you.”

Tyrus had to fight the urge to stare at Halsin’s neck or start inching closer. Now on offer, his blood seemed to carry a tangible taste in the air, taunting Tyrus.

He was glad he was no longer holding the cat, his fingers instead digging into his thighs as he rasped, “It–it tastes good, I just . . . I just feel like I’m hurting something, whenever I do it. Makes me sick, I . . . I’ve already hurt so, so many people—” his throat closed up, the rest of Tyrus’s words choked off.

And just at the reminder, the sweet scent of Halsin’s blood took on a sickening quality. Tyrus swallowed down a roll of nausea, looking down at his lap again, all at once imagining the drained, disfigured rabbit corpse in his grip, Cazador Szarr’s voice creeping from the darkest shadows of his mind: No sensations, not even the sweet embrace of lovers, bring us true satisfaction any longer . . . nothing, compared to that taste in your mouth . . .

“You won’t hurt me,” Halsin replied with a confident tone, dispersing some of the shadows. “I am no stranger to pain—I even enjoy it, in choice circumstances—and unlike your spell, I lose none of my faculties or intelligence when I take wildshape. So long as you stop once I revert back into elven form, there shouldn’t be lingering effects either.”

He was right. Tyrus had never allowed himself to consider this option, but a wildshaped druid would be much better equipped to retain rational thought and resist fighting him than an animal or polymorphed individual, and wouldn’t risk draining their true health in the process either.

In theory, it was a perfect solution. 

In practice . . .

“Do you think Cynda would mind?” he had to check next, giving a furtive glance towards his sister who, for all her acceptance of Tyrus and Astarion, had already shown to be endearingly protective of Halsin.

But just then Cynda was leading Jaheira towards the back doors into some sort of office, giving Halsin a meaningful nod and Tyrus a soft, loving smile before she closed the door behind her.

Halsin stood and walked back down the stairs, gesturing for Tyrus to follow. “As long as you’re willing to try . . . she actually suggested it, a few minutes ago.”

Tyrus felt his lingering reserves fade. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know how he’d argue further. And he didn’t want to—he stood and walked down the stairs, swallowing hard as Halsin waited for him with a gentle smile. 

The druid said nothing once Tyrus reached him, just bent forward, his back in a tall arch . . . then landed on all fours with a swirl of bright green light, and a large cave bear with kind, intelligent eyes stood there in his place.

“You and Cynda are far too good, Halsin,” Tyrus whispered, shaking his head ruefully before he finally gave in to the Hunger.

Then Tyrus closed the remaining distance, burying his face in Halsin’s furry neck.

It tasted wondrous. The blood of a thinking creature still, Tyrus realized distantly as his fangs sank in and the first drops landed on his tongue, the flavor earthy and animalistic but carrying the richness and vitality that normal animal or polymorphed blood simply lacked. He retracted his teeth and drank deeper, arms moving on instinct to cling to this creature and continue feeding. 

The bear tensed a bit at the bite, but otherwise just let out a snorting breath as Tyrus drained it, standing perfectly still. Willing. Not fighting Tyrus, not crying out, even responding with a soft, soothing rumble when a desperate whimper escaped him. Tyrus felt tears prick in his eyes yet again and clung harder, sweet relief sweeping through his body when Halsin didn’t so much as cringe away, but stayed firm—even leaned against Tyrus.

Till he drank so much Halsin grew faint, of course, the bear’s legs swaying and then crumbling under it. Tyrus knew he could pull back—he probably should, with the druid sure to change back at any moment—but he fell to his knees with it and stole a few more mouthfuls, stroking a hand through the great bear’s fur just before green light flared in his half-lidded vision and Halsin’s form shifted.

Tyrus leaned back and swayed as a wave of euphoria washed over him, even stronger than what he’d experienced when he first tasted a thinking creature’s blood from the charmed, thrombophilic victim. Power and energy coursed through him—life essence, this time with no terrible side effects to anticipate, only the brief wonder whether the vitality surging through him was enough to start his dead heart beating again. 

Halsin wasn’t limp and drained under him either, only sighing as he shuffled his large limbs to sit more comfortably on the floor. 

“Are you alright?” Tyrus tried to check, though he couldn’t quite focus through the blissful rush of blood energizing him, from his senses to his thoughts to his connection with the Weave itself.

“Yes. That was rather . . . relaxing,” Halsin smiled, feeling at his neck—where not even a bite mark remained. “Too tired for wildshaping again till we rest,” he reported, “but otherwise, perfectly whole.”

“There’s a little room in the attic where we might sleep away the day,” Astarion’s voice interrupted from a distance.

Astarion’s light feet were nearly silent as he walked back down the stairs, Tyrus’s familiar trailing behind him with a perked tail. Astarion came to a hesitant stop at the sight of both Halsin and Tyrus sitting so close on the floor, however, his dark eyes glancing between them. “Unless we’ve already started a cozy nap here . . . ?”

Tyrus stood up quickly—and then swayed, grateful when Astarion dashed forward and his arms were suddenly there to steady him. “I’m fine,” Tyrus assured before his lover could worry, feeling a blood-drunk smile briefly twitch at his lips. “I . . . I’m much better, actually, thanks to Halsin offering his blood just now. Thank you, Halsin.” Then Tyrus looked over Astarion in return, asking in a soft murmur, “How are you?” 

Astarion’s lips thinned, his eyes shifting away despite how quick he was to reply, “Halsin’s blood, hm? Darling, I’m much better now, knowing you’re not starving anymore.” He let go of Tyrus and asked Halsin curtly, “Though it seems you lost track of the other Aman’del you’re so fond of?”

Halsin stood, his smile unwavering as he said, “I’ll let them know we’re finished,” and moved toward the back room.

Any minute now Tyrus’s spell on the doors could get dispelled—so the group didn’t waste further time before hurrying up to the second level, following Astarion to a small pulley elevator they took up to the attic, and then up a ladder to a small, circular study isolated at the very top of the hospital. They found thick drapes to cover the east-facing windows just before dawn broke, sitting in silence for the first hour or so as alarms and shouts echoed through the building, the dead doctor and nurses discovered.

But they weren’t discovered. Eventually Cynda took to exploring the room, showing Tyrus any books of interest she found, while Jaheira sat in one corner and sharpened her swords with a deep frown. Halsin was deep in meditation the second he laid on some old folded drapes, and Astarion sat back against the wall and closed his eyes with his hands in the official position for the same, though Tyrus seriously doubted he was actually trancing.

It wasn’t until all three mortals had finally laid down and seemed deep in sleep or trance, that Astarion’s eyes opened and found Tyrus already watching him.

Through Message Tyrus asked, Are you actually alright? I wanted to crawl out of my own skin the moment he started speaking. 

I’m glad you had a big bear to comfort you, then, Astarion replied in a barbed tone. Tyrus gave him a single look, however, before Astarion’s prickly exterior wilted. He certainly didn’t remind me of anything good, no.

I’m sorry, Tyrus replied. Can I do anything . . . ?

Astarion let out a soft huff. You do plenty. Then he hunched in on himself, admitting, I am jealous he could be there for you like that, darling. You look so much better now. How I wish I was able . . .

I do too, Tyrus admitted, but it’s alright. You are there for me in every way that matters.

Astarion scowled, unconvinced. Am I? He got onto his knees and crawled over to Tyrus and, once there, wrapped his arms around Tyrus’s waist. As Tyrus held him in return, he felt Astarion’s forehead fall to rest on his collarbone. I want to give you everything . . . but here we are, with nothing but danger and new horrors to boast of. I want to see you content, healthy, happy. I want to be the one to make it so. Astarion blew out a breath and leaned back, regarding Tyrus sadly. And yet I ran off. Left you for Halsin to comfort.

And found us the perfect hideaway, Tyrus pointed out, enjoying the little scoff Astarion gave him in response. I’m only sorry it meant I couldn’t comfort you, my love, he said, cupping Astarion’s smooth cheek. That was . . . an ugly reminder, to say the least, of the kennel. 

Astarion shuddered underneath his touch, his eyes slotting closed. Finally, he nodded. Jaheira may be angry we got no information, but . . . I didn’t want to hear any information from such a despicable person. He opened his eyes again, searching Tyrus’s face. I’m glad you finally restored your health, darling. Is there anything else I can give you?

Tyrus smiled, repeating an old request out loud: “Hold me?”

Soon enough they laid down on a dusty rug, Tyrus curled up against Astarion’s side with his head on the other man’s chest. And it was strange, he knew, that the one person who should remind Tyrus of all the horrors he’d survived, was still the one he yearned for above anyone else when he felt haunted by memories, or worried about the present, or scared for the future.

For all that he’d needed a few minutes to himself, Astarion held him just as firmly back now, running fingers through Tyrus’s hair until they’d both settled and managed something close to four hours of a trance. 

It took a bit longer for the others to stir. Cynda, the last to rise, sleepily stretched out her limbs from where her small body had curled up in Halsin’s lap, just as Jaheira checked behind the drapes and declared the sun had officially set.

Everyone besides Astarion and Tyrus quickly consumed their rations, then all put on their armor before pulling out an old, annotated map of the town. Cynda was to plan their pathing for the tavern that night, Jaheira to estimate how many guards they might expect, Tyrus and Astarion to plan the stealth and potential fighting strategies needed—but before all such plotting began, Astarion looked over at Halsin and placed a hand on his large forearm. “Thank you, by the way,” he said in a quiet, fervent tone.

Halsin nodded at Cynda, who was smiling at them both. “Even those of us who count many as family need the occasional reminder: we need not suffer alone,” he said.

[unholyhelbig]

I for one would not mind more werewolf kate

Title: Once Bitten, Twice the Idiot [6/?]

Summary: After reader is attacked by a strange animal in the woods, her world is flipped upside down. Now she must navigate a new life filled with strangers and myths.

Trigger warnings: Hunting, the actual werewolf transformation, restraints (hands, legs, neck), bloody & Gore, pet names, let me know if I've forgotten anything pls.

[Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six]

[A/n: I was really fucking sad when I wrote this, and for that, I apoloigize. This isn't a gentle chapter, so please read with caution. And as always, I did not proof read].

Main Masterlist | Ao3 | Request Prompts

A rot of leaves coated the forest floor, filling your lungs with an unsettling pungent scent. The world had blurred edges, somehow caving in on itself with each passing second. The trees whizzed past you, an ache that once covered your entire being had ebbed away the faster you ran.

There was such an intoxicating scent that led you blindly. It was floral and sweet and screamed above all the deteriorating vegetation. You’d run so far, so fast and without hesitation. What was that? You needed to sink your teeth into it, to taste it. You would simply die if you didn’t.

It was a girl. Yes. A girl.

She was running too, but not nearly with enough speed as you. She stumbled over fallen logs and branches dug into her skin. They created gashes of dripping red that made you salivate. She was cornered against a fence, fingers curling around the chain link.

You regarded her, taking a moment to register the hot pain in your chest. How far had you followed her? It was ways from home, you knew that much, but none of that seemed to matter. No- because she was right in front of you, and she was captivating.

In your excitement, you took a careful step forward and a small noise escaped her throat. Her eyes were frantic as she took in your hulking and animalistic stature. She was afraid, and part of you was too. Something had led you to her, to this sadistic chase that had cornered you both.

Her blood tasted sweet just like her scent. Your teeth crushed bone, tore through tendons with such a simple ease.

She was yours.

Sweat had soaked through your sheets and clung to your bare legs, even as you shot up and pulled in a helping of air. Your skin buzzed as if it were set ablaze with fever.  The waning moon cast a sickly pale light against the room. Your heart pounded ruthlessly against your chest.

That dream had left you antsy, and horrified. You never remembered your dreams but this one was vivid, almost like it was a memory. The coppery taste made your mouth dry. You were restless, wide awake despite the red numbers on the clock indicating that it was just past 3:00am.

You couldn’t hear anything through the walls that had been doubled down in strength despite your enhanced senses. The house was as good as silent, though you figured it statistically impossible for everyone to be asleep.

The hallway was dark compared to your room, filled with moonlight. You padded a few steps before you stopped in front of Kate’s door. It pained you to be here, begging for some type of comfort. The dream had left you rattled. Afraid.

It was getting closer to the full moon and your thoughts had been plagued with the pain that you’d read about so diligently. Scanning the inked words on a yellowing page was nothing compared to the experience of it all.

Swallowing your pride, you knocked twice, knowing that she could hear you. It took Kate a few moments to untangle herself from her blankets. You could pick up on her stumbling her way across her room until she swung the door open.

The girl tried to be suave, giving you a tired smile as she leaned against her doorframe. Her hair was sleep-worn and springing in various directions. She wore a pair of boxers with little purple arrows against the fabric and a tank top that was riding up enough to expose the smooth expanse of her stomach.

“Hi,” You swallowed the dryness in your throat, pulling your eyes from her muscular frame. Her cheeks were blooming with a fond pinkness. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You didn’t want to admit that you were freezing, that the sweat you’d produced during the odd dream had dried taught against your skin. A shiver worked its way through you, and you crossed your arms over your midsection, trying to preserve what warmth you had left.

Kate lilted her head and stepped to the side without a second thought. She beaconed you into her room. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the light of the moon. Her comforter was drawn back, pillows scattered against her bed. She must have been engulfed in a deep and comfortable sleep, one that you had broken.

It helped, not being able to see the looming structure of the moon. It made you squirm, but the scent that engulfed you, the pure warmth of Kate’s mere presence, calmed your nerves. When she shut the door softly you knew that you were safe with her.

The wolf, that’s what Wanda had called it, knew what it wanted. She said that there was a blind trust that would flow through you with the girl that you’d crawled to and that feeling was only multiplying as the full moon got closer and closer.

“Don’t… say a word.” You turned to her, crossing your arms over your chest.

Despite your warning, she smiled wolfishly at you, lifting both of her hands with an innocent shrug. She looked adorably miffed by exhaustion, and that thought annoyed you more than anything. God, you really should hate her. But she looked so warm, so accepting and every inch of your body was howling for her skin against yours.

Kate settled back into bed and peeled back the duvet with an expectant look on her face. Why were you fighting her so hard? Clearly, you were tired. You’d knocked on her door and you hadn’t done that without reason. If you wanted conversation, you would have found Peter and interrupted his late night gaming.

Or maybe even Natasha who couldn’t sleep, just like you. But you did value your life, just a little bit. So Kate it was, a magnet that drew you in. The more exhausted you got, the harder it was to pull away. And really- she had been trying. Right?

Almost as if on instinct, you took her up on her offer and slid into the encompassing warmth of the duvet. There was the scent of lavender, of freshly washed sheets and the metallic breath that she drew in, almost as if she was just as shocked as you were at the action.

Kate cautiously lowered the blanket and the two of you stared at the little glowing stars on her ceiling. You hadn’t seen them since the fifth grade. America didn’t’ have the deep green celestial patterns, but instead a garden of pulsing orange and purple, and yellow flowers.

You could feel the heat of Kate’s shoulder close to yours. You were so cold, even under the blankets and she seemed like the only source of comfort from the dream that lingered so heavily on your mind.

“Do you think…”

The words died in your throat. She turned her head to face you, and after a few moments of building up the courage you turned your cheek against the pillow too, staring into a cloudy grey stare that was marred with sleep, pockmarked with questions.

“Will I ever be able to see them again?” your voice was pinched with emotion. It was fear, the both of you recognized it. Her eyes glossed over, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth to stop it from trembling. You felt emotion well up in your own chest. “I know things will never be normal again, but do you think there’s a chance?”

Kate swallowed the thickness in her throat, voice barely a whisper. “I do.”

You nodded and dislodged the tears that were fighting for dominance. Kate didn’t’ hesitate to reach up and wipe them away with her gentle touch. Her thumb was calloused, but soft. A whimper escaped you as you leaned into her touch. Kate shivered at the contact herself.

“I get why I’m here and I’m grateful for it. The last thing I want to do…” you trained off, listening to the shuttered sound of her breathing. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, ever.”

“You won’t, y/n.”

The immediacy of her statement brought you comfort. It wasn’t necessarily a reflex, but a belief that she felt deep in her core. You clenched your eyes shut and scooted closer until you felt the full effect of Kate’s presence.

The movements were gentle as you slotted yourself against her, hand laying on her stomach and moving over the softness of her shirt. She held her breath for a moment, instinctively wrapping her arm around you. You pressed your nose against the naïve of her neck, slick with tears of her own.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She quivered with guilt.

You were starting to understand, against your better judgement, why this had happened. Kate found you for a reason, and that tension, that discomfort, that was your wolf fighting for a way to get to her. And you had.

The tears that wet her shirt, the ones that coated your cheeks, they were those of relief. You curled into Kate, taking in her scent, the two of you gripping onto each other like a vice, eventually drifting towards a fitful sleep, shadowed by stars.

There was no such thing as privacy in a house with eleven people. Not when so many of them had a strict regimen of exercise, and healthy eating. There was a stark difference from life at the dorm where people rarely arose before twelve in the afternoon unless they had class, and even that was a gamble.

Instead, you stirred to the sound of a blender and the hushed voices of an indiscernible conversation. That was followed by a very discernible sound of a cell phone camera. Even without advanced hearing, you clocked it in moments.

A small groan escaped you. It was much too early to wake up. You had never been more comfortable in your life, your nose pressed flush against the crook of Kate’s neck. She shifted in her sleep, pulling you closer with an adorably tiny breath.

“Go away,” she grumbled, the words vibrating against your palm.

 You tightened your grip on the fabric of her shirt. God, it was so bright. They’d pulled the curtains back and the sun was in full force. Despite the comfort, there was no way you’d drift back into sleep. That fact alone was solidified when you bolted up at the clearing of someone’s throat.

An odd hurriedness shot through your spine, forehead knocking against Kate’s chin and leaving a throbbing spot in its wake. The girl that was under you let out another small noise at the back of her throat, rubbing her jaw while depriving the world of her stormy stare.

Natasha Romanoff leaned against the doorframe of Kate’s bedroom. Wanda had been very clear about the rank in the house, and it was of no shock to you that Natasha was pretty high up there. It was why her simple sound of alert had made your entire body tingle. You knew- your wolf knew- that she was in charge, and that she was there for you.

“I checked your room first,” She stated matter-of-factly. “Obviously, you weren’t there.”

Your cheeks reddened at the predicament you’d found yourself in, and the fact that you were sure you’d heard the click of a cell phone camera. It was almost like your parents walking in on a sleepover that got a little too cozy.

Kate sat up groggily, testing her jaw a few times, “Good morning, Nat. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“You can go back to sleep. I’m here for y/n. We’re going on a run.”

The wary look you got from the girl in bed next to you wasn’t exactly easing your nerves. She must have gone through this before, and she would truly object if she thought it was something you couldn’t handle. Instead, her hand found yours under the safety of the duvet and gave your fingers an encouraging squeeze.

You knew better than to object to Natasha, so you followed her orders and changed into the closest thing to workout clothes that you’d packed; a pair of royal blue gym shorts and a t-shirt that was from your last trip to the west coast. Sun, fun, and Sand.

She waited by the edge of the front yard, lifting a perfectly sculpted brow at the shirt, but didn’t say anything in acknowledgment. “We’ll do six miles up, and six miles back.”

“Up?” You squeaked out, finally earning a genuine grin from her. She started to jog ahead of you, and it took you a few moments to register that you were meant to follow her. “Back?”

The two of you kept a steady pace under the heavy hand of the sun. You felt sweat slick the back of your neck, legs screaming out in protest. You weren’t much of a runner, and had admittedly eaten one too many boxes of instant mac and cheese. But your body seemed to mold to the pace with no problem. Your muscles strained for just a moment before relaxing into he burn.

“I’m sure you’ve heard from everyone in the house how they handle a full moon.”

“No, actually,” You panted out, “everyone seems to be keeping their distance.”

“We haven’t had anyone new join our pack for years. Certainly, never this violently. Can you blame them?”

No, you really couldn’t’. They had all been so welcoming and understanding. Even Kate to a certain degree. None of that eased the fear and you figured it wouldn’t’ until you actually lived it, until every single bone in your body rebroke and reshaped until you were this insatiable creature that would seek nothing but blood and carnage. It was inside of you now, you felt it just below the surface, and that terrified you.

Your chest was beginning to burn viciously, but Natasha was showing no intention of slowing down. There was an odd need within you to please her, to make sure that you kept up with her pace despite how hard it was getting as the slight incline became a little less slight.

The woods had thickened around you both and you let out a relieved breath when she trotted to a stop on the dirt trail. The collar of your shirt was damp, and you pulled your arms behind your head to fill your lungs with more sticky air. Natasha smiled fondly at you.

“Kate tapped out about three miles back.”

“This some sort of test?” You asked, working your hand through your hair.

“A test, a tactic. Whatever you want to call it. Some of us believe that if you wear yourself out before a transition, it’ll be less excruciating on the day.”

“I read about that the other day, though, they didn’t use the word excruciating.”

“That’s what it is. Don’t let anyone sugar coat it for you, kid. It’s going to hurt and you’re going to feel every second of it.”

You plopped down on a fallen log, pressing your fingertips to your temples. You clenched your eyes shut and felt your heartbeat pulse through your entire body. Never in a million years would you figure you’d be here. Natasha’s scent strengthened when she gave your shoulder a squeeze, prompting your eyes to open.

She was rimmed in the early morning sun, ringlets of russet hair fell over her shoulders. “Come on, I didn’t make you run all the way out here for the hell of it. I want to show you something.”

Before you could object, she started down the path again, this time in a brisk walk. You let out a groan and hauled yourself off the log. When you got to where she had been, you saw nothing but a thick wall of greenery and wood. Natasha was nowhere in sight.

You closed your eyes and tried to pick up the scent of her, the detergent and the lavender and the sandalwood. Upon your second inhale, you picked up in a general direction and frowned. This was all too surreal, you were physically sniffing out a near-stranger that had led you deep into the woods.

Still, you felt a blind trust as you went off the path and continued to track her down. She was about thirty feet into the woods, standing over a pile of leaves, arms crossed over her chest. You felt yourself warm at the proud half-smile she gave you.

When you reached her, Natasha knelt and pushed back the mix of muck and leaves. It revealed two metal doors that reminded you of a summer you spent with your aunt in Alabama. It was unbelievably hot and muggy, and they had a storm shelter that was carved from the earth, the walls damp and stocked with different canned food, though you had never seen a can opener. You didn’t think to bring it up as the two of you huddled close and listened to the howling wind and rain.

“This was a long-game murder plot all along, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not into the long-game.”

Her words weren’t exactly encouraging. The hinges of the doors screamed loudly from disuse and a musty scent washed cruelly over the both of you. Your nose scrunched and Natasha grimaced but didn’t say a word. An automatic light buzzed on, allowing you to see the opened space below.

It was exactly like the storm cellar, and it’s cool interior was a brief solace from the heat of the day. There was a divide a few steps into the space, a steel wall with a door in the center, sloppily welded but with enough strength to stop a beast the size of a mid-sized Sudan.

This door creaked too, and Natasha let it linger open for a moment, staring softly at you, and then back at the room. There was safety in her stance. You knew that she had the full ability to slam it shut and lock you in, but had a deep realization that she wouldn’t.

Another light was on the ceiling, casting a circle of deep yellow. There was a deep smell of dust and dirt, but there was something hard and metallic under that. Your eyes darted to the chains that were attached to the wall, large iron things that were screwed into extra support.

More than that, were the stretching claw marks that pockmarked the walls. They went deep, past the dirt and into the cement. The pads of your fingers ran over the one closest to you. Each mark stretched further than your touch. Chills shot up to your elbow, a breath lodging itself into your throat.

Your other hand clenched your stomach, digging into your ribs. Something significant had happened here. Several significant things. Tears started to form against your eyes and the worst part was, you had no idea why.

“Those are Steves,” she said quietly, joining you within the confines of the cell, lifting her chin to another set of marks. “And Tonys.”

There were dozens of markings, all different shapes and sizes. Some were digging into the clay walls, and the floors. There were distinct scent markings on each one and you found yourself able to identify ones that belonged to Yelena, and Peter, and even Bruce. They’d all changed here at least once.

Natasha crossed the room and shifted the door until it was only slightly ajar. You straightened up, heart pulling against your throat. The door was minced with deep slashes. You shoved your hands into your pockets to keep them from trembling. They almost ached.

“You feel something, don’t you?”

Words didn’t form, couldn’t. You couldn’t pinpoint the emotion that tore through you. It was akin to longing, but it was more than that. It was like the creature that was so restless within you wanted nothing more than to claw its way out and find the person who had made those marks. They were desperate and sad, and horrifying.

You closed the distance between them and pressed your touch against the deep gashes and fought back a pained cry. You dug your teeth into the back of your free hand to quell it, but a pathetic sound still escaped you.  

“Kate knew that something was wrong a few months before she escaped. She was experienced, knew as much as one could know about their wolf. But there was an unrest”

“She doesn’t like places like this.”

Your words were small. You remembered what she had told you, about how she had turned the first time alone and, in a room very similar to this one. You got the stark impression that she would never want to do something like that again. So, it begs the question of why these marks were so fresh. So fearful.

“No, she doesn’t. They scare her, make her panic before the moon has any effect. But she was conscious enough to know that if she wasn’t here, then she would end up hurting someone. It just proved not to be strong enough of a failsafe.”

Kate had felt an unrest weeks, maybe months, before she had escaped and sunk her teeth into your flesh. A wash of guilt pulled at you. You’d been giving her such a hard time, pestering her and fighting her every step of the way. She’d been in immense pain.

When the pads of your fingers touched the scratches, you felt only a fraction of the longing she must have. Grimacing, you turned away, crossing your arms over your stomach to shield you from the reality of your harshness.

You needed Kate.

“Is this where I’ll be tonight?” You asked, so softly Natasha almost didn’t’ hear it.

She nodded in response, the silence mulling between you both. A small breath escaped you, pained and held within your lungs for an abnormal amount of time. You crossed the room, picked up one of the leaden chains and weighed it against your own strength.

“I can be here with you, if you’d like.” Natasha said, filling the quiet “Or if you’d rather Steve… Wanda.”

You turned to face her, grip tightening on the chain. “Kate?”

“Kate.”

Her eyes were no longer shrouded in their silver, sullen beauty. As the sun began its descent, there was a strange tangerine glow that overtook them. It started at the center of her pupil, small whisps of neon color, and then started to ebb into the confines of her iris.  

You focused on them. If you thought too much about the days leading up to this transformation, then you would work yourself into a panic. You were taking things one at a time today, and that included jogging back to the compound and shyly admitting to Kate that she was the only one you wished to have in your vicinity tonight.

Though, you hadn’t thought much about the logistics. The two of you trapped in a single cell. Yelena had walked all the way out here, keeping a silent eye on the tension that lingered against both of your frames. It wore your stance down, mind racing with the ‘what if’s’.

“Once I close this door, neither of you will be released until daybreak.” Her thick accent carried a sharp edge to it that made this finite. “There is an emergency radio, Kate knows where it is.”

They’d thought of everything, really. Yelena had handed over a sheathe of needles and a small vile that you knew had to be tranquilizer. It smelled acidic and nitrate in nature. Even your rational, human side, cringed away from it.

With a final nod that conveyed good luck, and a strong, ‘I’m rooting for you,’ Yelena exited the cell and slammed the metal door behind her. From there, she retreated, and another lock was put into place after she’d slithered a coil of chain around the outside doors. Your heart picked-up it’s pace, never one for confined spaces.

Kate seemed to hear the uptake and closed the distance between the both of you. One hand found your waist and you allowed her to give it a reassuring squeeze. The other cupped your cheek, guiding your stare. “Hey, listen to me. I know this is scary, but I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You believed her partially because you had no other choice. Her eyes were mostly orange now, glowing enough to cast a strange shadow against her face. You wondered dumbly if yours would do the same. Something was boiling inside of you, making your entire body sweat. It felt like you were in a sauna, breathing in the hot steam after water was poured listlessly over black coals.

“I’ll talk you through everything, until neither of us can talk. Then we won’t have to.”

“Okay, alright. That sounds good.”

She nodded at you and began to unzip her sweatshirt until the teeth of the zipper released their hold. She was wearing a black sports bra and matching bike shorts, stretchy material that hadn’t set her back too much financially. They would be torn to shreds by the end of the night, regardless.

Kate’s stomach was toned. It was tanned and showed all the stamina of a beast. You tried not to let your eyes linger for too long, tried to ignore the small trail of hair that dipped below her waistband. Despite herself, Kate smiled at you cockily, but moved her hands to your own jacket.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed the dry metal taste in your mouth. “I don’t think my fingers will cooperate right now.”

 She let out a small noise in response and pulled your jacket from your shoulders, leaving you in much of the same. She’d promised earlier that the two of you would go out and get clothes that you were more comfortable in, but this suited you just fine. Her pupils dilated, rushing them in more sherbet color. A stuttered breath escaping her and fanning against your bare collarbone.

“What? Oh my god, is it starting?”

You didn’t feel any different, still extremely hot to the touch and a little riled up after getting a look at Kate’s mostly-bare form. Color petaled her cheeks. She was actually blushing. Even in the dim lighting of the cell, that much was clear.

“No, no. You’re just…” She shook her head, trying to clear it “really beautiful, is all.”

“Oh,”

More blush, her eyes slipping down to the floor. “Yeah. I should probably get you secured, though. It’ll be more comfortable to sit.”

You understood exactly what she meant. Your heart was thrumming through your entire body at the compliment, though you both welcomed the distraction of a task. This task was securing locks around your wrists, and your ankles. Large iron things that could stop a lion. They were bolted into cement, digging into the foundation.

You kept your back against the damp wall, allowing Kate to fiddle with the mass of restraints. She fastened the first cuff on your wrist and looked at you expectantly. “Is this too tight? We want it to be a little loose. You’ll fill out when the transformation is done.”

“It’s alright,”

Kate diligently fastened the other three; one more around your opposite wrist, and two around your ankles. The only thing left was a chain that was intended to click smugly around your throat. She stared at it warily, eyes meeting yours.

“This one isn’t comfortable, and after tonight, you won’t need it.” She stated, using her hand to brush a stray hair from your eyes. Something was coiling in your stomach now, an unrest. A parasite that seemed to want to bubble out of your chest. “Your body will be in fight or flight mode. All of your senses will be heightened more than they are now and you’ll want to get out of these.”

“And if I do?”

“If you do, you’ll have to go through me.”

She fastened the chain around your neck, listening for the heady click. Just like the others, she adjusted and pulled on it until she was satisfied with your capture. A slight noise pushed past your lips. It felt like you had a stomachache, a cramping that would send you straight to a heating pad on any other day.

“I know, baby.” She soothed, the pet name slipping past her. She frowned, then lightened her stare. “I know it hurts. I’m right here. I’m with you.”

Her words soothed you. She backed up and sat cross-legged in front of you. There was an admiration of her control. Sweat prickled against her upper lip and at her hairline. It was an indication that you weren’t alone in this. Though, Kate Bishop had more practice, pain was eternal.

“You said I’d have to go through you,” your words were trembling. It took a few moments to force them into existence, but Kate was patient. Your legs and arms were starting to ache, just a dull thrum that reminded you of destroying your muscles to wick them back together again. “What… did you mean?”

Kate smiled and you swore her teeth were pointed at the end. Your vison was starting to blur, and you blinked away tears that dripped from your chin. “We’re not going to fight, or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. I think our wolves- well, I think they’ll get along just fine.”

“Kate Bishop, are you insinuating something?”

“Me? No. Never.”

She let out a grunt, her hand going to her ribcage. There was a dull pop that jolted through her body and you clenched your eyes shut for a moment. Not wanting to see her in pain. Not wanting to see what was next for you.

You didn’t have to wait long. The pressure started to build in your forearm first, a tight pain that shot from your fingers all the way to your elbow. Almost as if your bone was straining against itself, and it was. The crack and splinter of it threw you off your balance with a dizzying amount of discomfort.

A scream tore through your throat, toes digging into the soft, damp floor. Kate let out another grunt of discomfort, dropping her elbow to the ground. Her chest was heaving, pulling air in greedily before releasing as if she never wanted it in the first place. Her efforts were punctuated by a deep and primal growl that took you back to the night in the forest.

All of your limbs were tightening now, two pops from your ribs and an extra one in your ankle. You were doubled over in a blind torment. Your cheek was pressed to the ground, the scent of dirt filling your senses. There was blood here too, so thick and potent that it was if it gurgled against your own tongue.

“I’m sorry,” you thought you heard her through your own strangled cries of pain. Her voice deep and words miffed by the growing teeth pressing against her gums. “I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck!” You cried out, the last bit of human semblance you could form. Your own words were minced with agonizing cries and a rumble from the center of your chest that sounded anything but human. It was feral. It was hungry.

Your vison pulsed around the edges, darkness creeping in. You shakily lifted your hand, watched as your flesh became shrouded with gore. It was shredded, dark gray fur sprouting over your knuckles as your skin fell away entirely. Once human nails had been replaced by claws, dripping with your own blood and muscle tissue.

They shined as if you had been baptized once more. Teeth- your own teeth, filled your mouth as they were pushed out to welcome new ones. You’d spit them to the ground, relished in the sweet taste of the blood that filled your mouth, only for you to spit again.

There was a howl, one distant that made your entire body stiffen under its command. You weren’t wailing anymore, and neither was Kate. The two of you had silenced, breathed hard and tried to find your bearings. Your collarbone widened, seemed to stretch like the rest of you. The restraints were tightening as you grew. As you changed.

Another howl cut through the air, this time you had the urge to answer with one of your own. At least, that was the last humane thought you had, before everything went black.

[mantisshrimpfrommars]

TMA x Dracula story

I´m working on a little fanfic that is like a crossover of The Magnus Archives and Dracula (the book). I dont know if anyone is interested, but if you are, please read what i have so far and tell me what you think and if i should continue writing it:)

(This part is mostly Jonathan Harker´s POV, with just a bit of Martin at the end)

Summary: The story takes place after the end of both stories, so spoiler warning for that. What happens when two strange men appear on the streets of London, one of them seemingly in the process of bleeding out, during Jonathan and Mina´s evening walk?

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Jonathan Harker:

The air was quiet and still, not a bird to be heard nor a man or a dog. The moon sat proud in the sky, gazing down at the streets below, casting long shadows, silvery and soft, as Mina and Jonathan walked arm in arm down the streets of the city. Late evening walks had become a common occurrence for the couple in the months following the death of Dracula, when sleep had failed them, and nightmares ran rampant in the house of the Harker’s. Now, nearly a year later, the habit still brought them peace and quiet in a turbulent world. This night had started, like so many before it, with a sleepless sigh and a kind hand. Not a word needed to be uttered before Mina took Jonathan´s hand in hers and led him silently toward the waiting door. “Thank you, dear,” he whispered after a while, not willing to disturb the reverent stillness. Mina said nothing, only brought his hand to her lips for a brief and gentle kiss.

They walked onward, through the sleepy streets of London. It seemed almost like a spell had been cast on the world, leaving it dream-like and quiet. Like the streets themselves were holding their breath. Suddenly Jonathan stopped as a freezing chill ran down his back, leaving raised hairs in its wake. The air seemed wrong to him in some way, and the shadows seemed to darken and stretch toward them. Everything had become too quiet, too dark. Mina looked at him with concern clear in her eyes: “What is it, my love? Are you alr- “

Her words were cut off by a sudden burst of energy, like a thunderstorm condensed into a single moment, coming from an alleyway just up ahead. A flash of light and sound, there and gone, leaving nothing but a muffled voice behind. Jonathan looked at his lovely wife, trying to keep the panic out of his eyes. She was looking right back at him with an expression that perfectly mirrored his own. She hesitantly gestured toward the alley. Jonathan nodded and drew out a small knife he kept on his person at all times. It was no kukri knife; no, he would never get away with that. Just something small that brought him a sliver of peace.

As they approached, the voice became a bit clearer. It seemed to be that of a male, muttering something so full of sorrow and desperation that Jonathan´s steps quickened just a beat. He glanced around the corner and froze. The first thing he noticed were their clothes, which was stupid and irrelevant, but he could not help it. He had never seen such peculiar clothing before. There were two of them, there huddled on the ground. A large man, all soft curves and soft wavy hair, and a smaller one, lying in the other´s arms, who looked almost brittle with his too-thin frame and long grey-streaked hair. Then it finally registered. The blood. Red ribbons, rushing from the smaller man’s chest in blooming fury. The larger man´s hands were stained crimson with it as he tried to stop the never-ending current. He was crying, sobs wracking his large form as tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the pools of red beneath. “I´m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t go, Jon, please. I can´t do this without you. I´m sorry”.

Mina was quicker, as always, to register the situation. She rushed forth, removing her coat and pressing it to the mans wound: “Jonathan, we need to find Van Helsing, or maybe Seward. He´s going to die!”.

Jonathan shook off his shock. “Yes, of course. I don’t think we have much time. I think it best we bring him to the Professor. It is not too far, and I am sure he will know what to do”. He approached the pair of them, laying a comforting hand on the larger man´s shoulder: “Excuse me, sir. What´s your name?”

The man glanced at him, startled and confused, like he had not been aware of his presence. “M- Martin. Martin Blackwood”.

Jonathan smiled encouragingly. “It´s very nice to meet you, Mr. Blackwood. My name is Jonathan Harker, and this is my wife Mina Harker,” he said, gesturing to Mina. “We are going to try and help you. We know a doctor who I’m sure will be able to do something for your friend. It´s not far. Can you carry him?”

----

The trip to Van Helsing´s place seemed much longer than it should have been, but that was probably to be expected considering the circumstance. They must have made a strange sight to any onlookers, the four of them. It took several rounds of knocking to finally rouse the Professor. Finally, the door opened, just a crack, revealing the night-cap and spectacles of their dear friend: “Friend Mina! Friend Jonathan! What are you doing here so late into the night?”

Mina gestured urgently to the strange pair behind them: “I am afraid that it is a bit of an emergency, Professor. Can you help him?”

It was like a switch had been flipped as Van Helsing went from ´Friend´ to ´Doctor´. He gestured for them to enter, lying the injured man down on a bed in one of the spare rooms. Then he ushered them all out and shut the door behind them. No-one was to interrupt him, save for an emergency. This left Jonathan and Mina alone with the strange and grief-stricken man in the drawing room. The man, Martin, stood still for a moment, before collapsing into a chair, like a puppet with it´s strings cut. He seemed to be all out of tears, only staring blindly at the wall in front of him. A cloud of misery and hopelessness seemed to envelop him, so thick and oppressive they could all but touch it. Mina sat gingerly on the chair beside him: “Mr. Blackwood, right? Van Helsing is a great doctor, and I´m sure he will do everything he can to save your friend. He´s in good hands”. She did not say that he was going to be all right, as she knew full well that she had no right to make such frivolous and empty promises.

Martin looked at her dully but tried for something resembling a smile. It came out as more of a slight wince, but the sentiment came across either way. “Thank you,” he said, voice much softer than Jonathan had anticipated. “I really appreciate your help. Sorry for dragging you into this whole bloody mess”.

This strange man´s gaze wandered around the room, taking it all in, before finally landing on Jonathan. He smiled lightly, which felt horribly out of tune with his eyes, which seemed like endless pools of tiered resignation. When he spoke again his voice seemed almost dream-like: “I really thought that that was it; that was the end for us. I mean, I guess it still could be… for him”. He fell silent for a moment. “I really don’t know what I would... Here, now, whatever this is…”. He trailed off.  

Mina smiled sadly at Martin: “How about a cup of tea, while we wait?” She stood up as the man nodded numbly. “I will be right back. Jonathan, would you mind accompanying me for just a moment?”. Jonathan just nodded and followed after her. As they got out of earshot, she spoke up: “You know as well as I do that there is a not insignificant chance that the small one is going to die, that is a real possibility that we need to consider. Want do we do then?”

“What do you mean, my love?”

Mina sighed: “I just mean that, well, they don’t seem… how should I word this? They don’t seem to be from around here. I´m not entirely convinced that, were the other one to die, that Mr. Blackwood would have any place to return to.” She looked hesitant for just a moment before continuing on: “Also, well that was quite queer back there at the alley, wasn’t it? I don’t think that the events that have played out this evening were … natural. And please don’t tell me that I am just being paranoid after all that happened last year. You must admit that what we saw was strange-“

Jonathan put a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled encouragingly: “you know I would not do that, Dear. And I do agree with you, it was very peculiar. Mr. Blackwood does seem like a nice fellow, but we can never be too careful. Maybe it would be best if we kept an eye on them. After all, we are rather more experienced with the supernatural than the average person”.

“Yes, exactly. With what we know and have seen, it rather feels like we have a responsibility when it comes to the strange and peculiar. And I am in no way claiming that Mr. Blackwood and the other man are anything like that Monster, but as you say, we can never be too careful”, she said. Then Mina, beautiful and perfect Mina, leaned forward and kissed him right on the lips. Jonathan´s mind went blank, head filled only with his wonderful wife and her soft lips on his. In that moment, like so many that came before it, he vowed to do anything and everything he could to make her happy, no matter the cost. Eventually, the moment ended as she moved away, leaving him a bit dazed and blushing as she continued on toward the kitchen: “Please make sure our guest is alright, Dear. I will be right back”, she called over her shoulder.

---

The night stretched on and on as they waited, anticipation and dread building steadily until it had taken the whole house into its crushing embrace. The teacups lay empty and abandoned on the table in front of them. The only sound to be heard was the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the sitting room, a testament to the hours as they marched on one after the other. And still the door remained shut. Jonathan had tried to fill the oppressive silence with small talk here and there, but it didn’t really feel appropriate in these circumstances. The tiredness seeping into his bones encouraged him to lay his head on Mina´s shoulder. Her hands were quick to envelop him, which did nothing to keep him from falling into sleep´s embrace. Finally, moments after the clock had announced the break of dawn, the door opened and out came Van Helsing, tired but satisfied. The change in Martin was immediate as he stood up, staring pleadingly at the man.

“He is alive”.

---

Martin Blackwood:

Jon was alive. He was alive. Martin could finally breathe again; the awful crushing, suffocating feeling finally relenting its grip on his lungs. He gasped in greedy lungfuls of air, until his chest felt close to bursting. He was alive. He was alive. Everything would be alright. They could figure out where, or more pressingly, when they were together.

Martin felt the soft pressure of a hand on his shoulder and looked up. The woman, Mina, was looking at him with unbearable sympathy clear in her dark eyes, like he was something fragile; a cracked vase full of water that could fall apart at any moment. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes and was sure he looked utterly pathetic. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his breath, trying to gain some semblance of control. Then he looked resolutely at the strange doctor, Van- something or other, and spoke: “I need to see him”, then choked out a soft “please”.

-------

Thanks for reading this, please let me know if anyone would be interested in reading this. And if you have some constructive criticism to help me improve my writing, that is always welcome:)

Sorry for any spelling/gramatical errors; english is not my first language

(Thank you very much, @s-ourbuns , for catching the typos. If you have more notes, please let me know:))

[deviantlair24]

Yes Mistress (fem Human x Fem Vampire)

You walked down the streets of London, your dress slightly torn, exposing one of your legs and your shoulder. 

Most people ignored you, some offered their assistance, while some, those you were looking for, saw a vulnerable woman, easy pickings in their minds. That’s what you wanted them to think as you led them back to your home, back to her. 

She had picked you up off the streets, offered you power and companionship in exchange for devotion. 

The devotion you gave freely, she had shown you a new world, a new way of life. 

Now you sought to please her, bringing her a worthy meal from the dregs of society, the worst sort of men. 

You heard two following you as you grew closer to your home, turning into the alleyway. They laughed, excited for what they thought they were about to do while you smirked, knowing what was truly awaiting them. 

You stopped as you grew close to the door, putting on an innocent facade as you turned towards your would be attackers “Why..Why are you following me?” You asked, your tone filled with anxiety as you shook, playing the scared maiden. 

They laughed cruelly at each other “Come now, you're practically asking for it?” The larger one said, sneering as he looked you up and down. 

“No proper lady would be in such a state” The other said mockingly, thier words sending a chill down your spine. You were happy these men would be off the streets soon. 

You shakily backed away before you ran into the townhouse, grinning when they followed behind you, chasing you through the house until you reached the parlor where she was waiting by the fire. 

“Mistress, I brought a worthy meal” You said softly, grinning towards the now wide eyed men, though they didn’t look worried yet. 

They both felt assured of themselves, what could two women do to them? In their minds this evening had just gotten better, that was until the door shut loudly behind them as if the wind had slammed it shut. 

The candles and oil lamps flickered, the very fire keeping the room warm seemed to die down, casting the room in shadows. 

“What the fuck is happening?!” “What did you do, you cunt?”

You just grinned, hearing their fear brought nothing but satisfaction, men always thought they were the predator until it was too late. 

You couldn’t help it when you said “You were asking for it” before you heard their screams, relishing in them as your mistress drank her fill. 

Once she was finished the candles lit back to their normal flame, light returning to the room revealing two dead bodies lying on the ground at your mistress’s feet. 

She stepped towards you gracefully, her beauty pulling you in like a moth to a flame as she smiled at you, a pleased glint in her eyes. She affectionately stroked your cheek, fixing a lock of your hair that had gone out of place retrieving the two men now dead. 

“You did good, love. Quite a good catch tonight, I am very pleased with you” she said softly, her words making you stand taller. You were so proud to have pleased her. 

“I am glad to have pleased you mistress. They were detestable men, they should be glad to have met such an honorable end to have helped sustain you.”  You said, watching with glee as she crinkled her eyes, a look of genuine fondness in her eyes. 

“My, you always find a way to charm, love. When I gift you immortality, you must keep that quality” She said flirtatiously, taking her seat once again and motioning for you to sit beside her. 

You found your place on the floor comfortably, lying your head against her knee as she read from a novel and you watched the flames. 

That is how you stayed for an hour before your mistress hummed, catching your attention “I’ve grown peckish love” She said softly over the crackling of the fire. 

Without hesitation you lifted your wrist, watching aptly as she began leaving light kisses along your arm before she sank her fangs into your skin. 

You let out a moan at the feeling of her bite, heat emanating from your arm and filling your entire body. Your mind filled with a pleasant hum as you leaned back your head in pleasure, exposing your neck to her. 

She pulled away from your wrist, with a satisfied gasp before she pulled you into a heated kiss, you responded with fever, your body craving any friction she was willing to give as her venom worked its way through your veins. 

The taste of your own blood on your lips only served to make your arousal grow stronger, the salty taste tasting strange on your tongue. It was something you had only experienced with her, something that now made your body grow hot with arousal as your tongues battled for dominance. 

You easily surrendered to her, enjoying the kiss until you had to break away, still needing air to breathe, unlike her. She didn’t seem to mind as her lips traveled down to your throat, kissing and biting against the skin until you felt her sink her fangs into you as she began to take the blood from your veins. 

You moaned wantonly as she drank from your neck, venom working through your system like the best kind of drug. 

Your mind sang with pleasure and delight, your body growing more aroused by the moment until you were letting out needy little whines that she just couldn’t deny. 

“You’ve been so good to me, love. Allow me to reward you” She whispered gently in your ear, her voice soft, the only sound over the crackling and popping of the fire. 

The heat of her breath as it whispered across your skin made you shiver “Yes! Please mistress” You begged with a needy whine, letting out a contented sigh as she guided you into her lap so you were facing her. 

Her hands ran up and down your thighs, sending pleasant shocks up your spine as she brought you into another kiss. 

Without thinking your hips began grinding down against her making her grin into the kiss, one of her hands finally reaching where you needed her at the apex between your thighs. 

She pulled away from your lips with a wicked gleam in her eyes “You're always so good and ready for me, no wonder you attract such attention, you're irresistible” she told you, watching as her words made you preen. 

A moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back, her fingers finally circling your clit, her other hand gripping a handful of your ass beneath your skirts as her lips went back to your neck. 

She relished every moan and whimper from your lips as her fingers circled your clit before she thrust two of her fingers inside you, reaching for the spot inside that would have you seeing stars. 

Your sounds went from soft whimpers and whines to loud moans as she began giving you pleasure that only she had ever been able to show you.

She reached a spot inside you that had your legs shaking as you came around her fingers, making sounds that belonged in a brothel as you clung to her. 

She whispered sweet nothings in your ear as she worked you down, her hand running up and down your legs as you lay with her, resting against her as you lay in a pleasure filled haze from both her venom and what she had done to your body. 

“Rest now, love. I will take care of you” were the last words you heard before you fell into a satisfied sleep in your Mistress’s arms. 

VERSION ON PATREON (FREE) - HERE

Full story - 1.3K Words

Vampire, Blood, Aphrodisiac, Fem x Fem

[biandiecast]

Unique Benefits Of China Die Casting For LED Light Housing

When it comes to producing LED light housing, the choice of manufacturing process can greatly impact the quality, cost, and performance of the final product. China die casting has emerged as a popular solution for this application, offering several unique advantages that make it a preferred choice for many manufacturers.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Fifty-Three

(AO3 counterpart here.)

The rest of the Gathering was spent mapping out the plan in detail, with even apprentices piping up to offer suggestions or ask questions that led to discovering holes in ideas that were quickly filled. It was a dark sort of unity to experience, a harmony of first-degree murder and danger. Fireheart wasn’t sore about that. He’d take any chance for the Clans to be friends as tightly as they were in this moment.

It was a particularly long Gathering; the leaders announced the ending late in the night when the moon was about to disappear behind the Houses. ThunderClan was not tired as they ran home, feeling the rush in their blood of a long-time nightmare finally being forcibly put to rest. No one spoke on the return trip, but the air sang with excitement and determination.

“There you all are,” Willowpelt said when Fireheart pushed through the tunnel and ended his race to camp. “What in the world took you so long? Not the dog, was it?”

“Yes and no,” Fireheart said. “Is Dustpelt home?”

“Right here.” The new deputy poked his head out of the elder’s den and trotted up to him, the elders themselves slowly following. “The hunting patrols have been back for a while. What happened?”

Fireheart unconsciously kneaded the sand. “We have a light of hope for us, and all the Clans. If anyone’s asleep, please call them out here.”

Dustpelt gave one brisk nod before twisting around and hurrying to the warriors’ den. Fireheart made his way to the meeting stump and stood atop it, his tail dancing energetically.

Soon, every member of the Clan was outside again, and quickly they clustered around the stump. Those that had stayed here were casting curious looks at the Gathering-goers, who were just as visibly excited as Fireheart was, but were not saying a word.

“I’m sorry we’re late coming home,” Fireheart began. “You have Ravenwing to thank for that, and I mean it genuinely.” Ravenwing didn’t quite flinch from that, but he did lower his head a little sheepishly. “The Clans have all reported seeing only one remaining dog, and humans are walking around looking for it. We came up with a plan to weaponize them to kill the dog, and every Clan is involved in this—”

Before he could finish his sentence, ThunderClan burst with noises of surprise and delight. He waited for them to quiet down before continuing.

“ThunderClan has been given the option to sit this one out and recover from everything that’s happened to us,” he said. He felt his eyes crinkle. “But I told the others, and I’m sure you would too, that we want to have a paw in on ending this dog’s haunting of our homes.”

“Damn right!” Sandstorm shouted. Her fur flared with bloodthirsty excitement, her claws out and catching the very last bit of moonlight. She looked ready to run out right now and kill the beast herself.

Several calls echoed her, some jumping in place and others growling their eagerness with a lash of their tails. From the back of the crowd, Brightpaw stood taller than she had since she was attacked, her single eye blazing hopefully, even as her own tail shivered nervously.  

“I thought so,” Fireheart said with a purr. “So here’s the plan:

“Each Clan will have a scout ready on their border, checking for the dog and for humans. When the dog is spotted, WindClan will send out a cat to lure the dog onto RiverClan territory, if there are humans around with a rronakrak. If they’re closer to ShadowClan, the dog will be led that way, but we’re banking on RiverClan’s fields, since that’s where the humans have been the most. ThunderClan’s part in this is to serve as bait, pass on the chase to the WindClan cat, and follow after them and the dog as backup. We stand the most chance to distract it with aggression if it’s taking a bit for the human to show up, but—” He leaned forward, emphasizing his words “—we are not to engage it in anything but a chase. No one needs to die being a hero, and if it’s too much for us, we can fall back and let the other Clans deal with the rest.”

“What, no being torn apart for strangers?” Teaselfoot asked with joking sadness.

“No being torn apart for our neighbors, even if they are our friends,” Fireheart said firmly. “The Clans are going to wait four days for the dog to make itself known and for an armed human to show up. If it doesn’t, but we have the human by that time, we’ll send our fastest cats and best trackers to find it and engage the dog, then lead it to the human. WindClan and RiverClan have cats waiting on their borders for our signal, and ShadowClan is watching the Aulmir. We signal them as soon as we see the dog, and once we’re all ready, we start the plan. Does that all make sense?”

He was replied to by many nods and verbal confirmations. Tension settled over the crowd, mixed with eagerness to see this mission through.

“Good,” Fireheart said. “Then let’s rest up and be at the ready. If anyone wants to be the scout, speak to me. If not, I’ll choose one tomorrow.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Fireheart blinked in surprise, now seeing Darkstripe glaring at him from the back of the gathered cats.

“Is there a problem?” Fireheart asked politely, trying to fight back irritation.

“Yeah, there is,” Darkstripe growled. “You’re commanding us all to take part in a death trap.”

Mousefur turned her head to him, unusually annoyed. “We all agreed to do it, Darkstripe. The other Clans gave us an out and we aren’t taking it as a group.”

Darkstripe twitched his lip at her. “You’re just doing it because our ‘leader’ makes it sound like it’s such a good idea. All it’s going to do is kill us, and you’ll lament that you ever listened to him.”

“Darkstripe…” Fireheart took in a breath, trying to speak calmly. “You don’t have to participate with us, if you don’t want to. It’s an option for everyone.”

The dark tabby sneered at him. “And what, make myself look like a twit-headed coward because I’m the only sensible one?”

“You’re more than a twit-headed coward,” Greystripe growled. “You’re a slitprick and an idiot.”

Darkstripe whipped his head around to glare at Greystripe. “Excuse me?”

“And you’re being extremely obvious,” Ravenwing said sharply. “Quit being so petulant about everything just because Fireheart’s in charge. Are you that sore about it—?”

“You don’t know a thing!” Darkstripe snapped, bristling. “None of you do! You just accepted a kit not even two winters old as your leader, when he’s nowhere near qualified and doesn’t do a single thing right!”

Fireheart sighed. You are being obvious.

“Don’t yell at them,” he said, jumping down from the meeting stump and heading into the crowd that quickly parted to let him through. “Talk to me. I’m your issue.”

Darkstripe bared his teeth, claws in the sand as Fireheart approached. “I don’t need to waste words on you. None of us do. You’re weak and soft-hearted and a traitor, and you should’ve been kicked out of the Clan half a year ago.”

Fireheart restrained his own anger, simply meeting Darkstripe’s glare calmly. “I understand what you’re actually upset about. You haven’t been subtle about it. But it had to be done, even if I didn’t want it to.”

Darkstripe’s pale yellow eyes bored into Fireheart’s green, for once maintaining contact. “You don’t know a thing about anything. You or your stupid friends. You ruined everything.”

Fireheart let out a breath and tried to keep his tail from twitching. “I know how you feel, Darkstripe. You and I are both hurting—the whole Clan is, even if we aren’t allowed to talk about it. But Arpam—”

“DON’T YOU DARE CALL HIM THAT!” Darkstripe’s fur stuck out at every angle, his back arching. “He wasn’t your father!”

Ah.

Realization, perfect understanding, struck Fireheart’s mind. But sympathy, for once, did not strike his heart. Instead, long-boiling frustration suddenly chilled, icing him to the core of his bones and biting into his tongue, poisoning his words.

“And he didn’t even pretend to be yours,” he said coolly. “You still haven’t realized it, have you?”

Darkstripe stilled, confusion distorting his enraged face.

“You weren’t anything to him except a clingy, annoying former apprentice.” Fireheart’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. He could feel the chill coming out of them. “Didn’t you ever notice that he never started a conversation with you? He only spoke when you forced him to—otherwise, he was busy talking to Goldenflower. Or to me. You know, the one he chose as family.” Eyes narrowed a bit more. “You, though, made him afraid to start a family at all. We talked about that a couple times, when we were in the woods on father-son walks. He told me himself. All you did was cause him trouble and make him look bad as a mentor.”

Every single eye in camp was on Fireheart, and the shock emanated out of them, prickling his fur. He didn’t care. His gaze was zeroed in on Darkstripe’s growing confusion and faltering anger, and, deliciously, swelling self-doubt.

“That—” Darkstripe started. “That’s not true at all—”

“Then why didn’t he so much as look at you during the trial?” Fireheart took one step forward. Darkstripe scrambled backwards. “Why didn’t he ask you to defend him? Why weren’t you the one who stayed by his side, comforting him as he took his final breaths?” Mockingly, Fireheart widened his eyes in realization. “Why, that’s right! You were hiding in camp, cowering, because big mean Bluestar told you to shut up, weren’t you?” He enunciated his words with careful emphasis. “You never crossed his mind at all. He looked at Sandstorm before he even thought of you.”

Several attempts at words spat from Darkstripe’s mouth, but he had nothing. He almost looked afraid as Fireheart continued.

“But I was there,” he said. “I was the last thing he ever saw. I stayed by his side through everything, and when he left camp, I was the last one he looked at. I was the one who he adopted. Who made him want a family. Who he rescued before I could get hurt by one of his traps. Who he loved as his very own son.”

Darkstripe started shaking, every hair trembling individually.

“Isn’t that sad?” Fireheart tilted his head, his voice maliciously soft. “A kittypet meant more to him than you ever did. How do you plan to live with that?”

A dark grey paw flung upwards, claws out, like Darkstripe was about to hit him. His teeth were bared, his pale yellow eyes blazing, his ears pinned against his head. He was wheezing out his rage.

Fireheart looked him straight in the eyes, his own half-closed in a stony challenge.

Go on, his gaze said. It won’t change anything. He still didn’t love you.

Darkstripe almost hyperventilated, mouth open like he was about to speak…

Then he whipped around and stormed away, almost rushing to the camp entrance and disappearing through it in an instant. His steps and hard breathing faded quickly.

Through the stretch of silence that followed, Fireheart closed his eyes and took in a long, steadying breath. The chill released its grip on him, his stomach and bones warming again.

Ravenwing was the one to break the silence, sounding both awed and horrified. “Fireheart…”

“I know.” Fireheart breathed out and opened his eyes. “That wasn’t very kind of me.”

Sandstorm looked the way Darkstripe had gone, her eyes glittering. “That was kinda awesome. You should have done that a long time ago.”

Fireheart twitched his whiskers mirthlessly. “I should go after him—”

“Absolutely not,” Dustpelt said, stern. “We need you to stay safe while the dog’s out. He’ll come back on his own.”

The Clan muttered small agreements, things like “let him throw his tantrum” and “we need to rest”. Fireheart observed all of them, marveling how no one looked remotely sorry for Darkstripe.

Frankly, he wasn’t either. He didn’t know if he liked that.

“Alright,” he said aloud. “Let’s call it a night and rest. We’ll be ready tomorrow.”

---

Darkstripe did not come back on his own. In fact, he didn’t come back at all.

A night passed with no sign of him, even from Teaselfoot, who was stationed as a scout. He didn’t sound particularly sorry to report that the tabby was completely gone.

“Maybe the dog killed him,” Greystripe said hopefully.

Fireheart thwapped him with his tail, but was silent himself. He marveled at the total lack of concern on his Clanmates’ faces.

Another night went by, and then another. Still no Darkstripe.

There was no trail to follow: no blood, no stray hairs, no marked trees. Mousefur thought she caught something by the road, but no one was keen to investigate more thoroughly, not with the dog around.

“I should send someone to find him,” Fireheart said to Goldenflower as the two sat and ate together. “He could be in trouble.”

“That’s what he deserves, honeymouse.” Goldenflower rested a massive paw on his. “You did the right thing by getting him to leave. I’m sure he’s in the Houses or the Aulmir by now, and good riddance to him.”

Fireheart stared at her. “You really don’t think he’s worth looking for?”

“I don’t,” Goldenflower said. Her eyes had a glint of anger in them. “And even if we found him, he wouldn’t come back. He shouldn’t. He was never built for Clan life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, he was a cuckoo chick from birth.” The matriarch sighed, her back-fur visibly forcing itself to relax. “Always arguing, always about to get into a fight, always picking on smaller and younger cats. His… mentor…. was the only one he ever respected. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he never got better.” She lowered her voice. “Truthfully, he was the only kit I’ve ever taken care of that I didn’t like.”

“Huh,” was all Fireheart could say. He looked down at his mole, processing. “He… must have been pretty awful. He never seems happy about it, though. He’s always some degree of miserable.”

“And it was entirely his own fault.” Goldenflower’s claws carded the sand below her stretched-out legs. “I can assure you his father and his brother loved him and the whole Clan treated him kindly. He was never grateful or aware of it. He just dedicated his life to being a—”

She cut herself off, tightening her jaw as Bramblekit and Tawnykit ran by, chasing each other. When they passed, she shook her fur out and looked fondly at Fireheart.

“He didn’t know a thing about what he was saying,” she said sweetly. “You’re going to be a wonderful leader, more than you already are. This Clan is happy to follow you.”

Fireheart knew a cue to change topics when he heard one. He gazed around camp, watching everyone talk or eat or groom themselves or each other.

“I’ll do what it takes to keep everyone safe and happy,” he said softly. “I just hope we can make it past this dog.”

“We will,” Goldenflower assured him. “You’ve got the other Clans to help us, too.” She gave him an amused look. “And you’ll finally stop putting off doing your leader ceremony and getting your name.”

“Wh—” Fireheart twisted his head sharply to look at her, almost hurting his neck. “I’m not putting it off! I’m just waiting until everything’s settled down and I can leave safely, that’s all!”

Goldenflower purred a low trill. “Of course, love. Of course.”

Fireheart nudged her jokingly, not budging her one bit. “I’ll get it done. It’s just taking a bit.”

“Mmhmm.”

Fireheart stuck his tongue out at her and she chuffed. The two fell silent and returned to their meals, the Clan buzzing on around them. Fireheart kept looking around as he chewed, trying to find any concern about Darkstripe.

There was none.

Not even from him, either.

[1toreyouapart]

Exorcizamus

Summary: Life on the road, hunting the things that went bump in the night was a lonely life, admittedly. But having Ruffilo by his side made it all a bit more bearable. They had set out as children, led only by Jolly, to hunt the thing that had killed his best friend, and nearly them as well. Noah couldn't do it without him, honestly. Ruffilo was the brains and he was the brawn in the whole operation.

Adeline was a small town girl. Working to live and living to work. Until she found herself being hunted by the very thing her dad had always told her was just pretend. When the brothers save her, her understanding of the world is flipped upside down.

CW/TW: all things paranormal, death, swearing, smut (updated as it is written to include specific warnings), talk of religion, horror, demons. Child death mentioned. As always, if I forget anything please don’t hesitate to let me know!

Road to Milwaukee

PRESENT DAY

Miles of road stretched ahead of them, the headlights the only light around. Another day, another monster to get rid of. Ruffilo was passed out, head lolled back against the seat. An old journal lay open in his lap.

Ruffilo had been doing more research on Azazel. Five years and no sign of the fucker. Honestly, he should have killed him right then. Before worrying about the girl. But instead he had grabbed her, pulling her out of the demon’s clutches, screwing up his one chance of taking out the demon that had started him and Ruff on this road.

The life of a hunter, while never boring, was hard. It was lonely. No real chance of making friends. What was the point when you could die at any moment? Forget any relationships. This wasn’t a normal life. Hunter’s didn’t get to settle down and have a wife and kids. They didn’t get to have a place to call home. Always on the move. Sleeping in their cars or at some shitty little motel.

As he drove memories of how him and Ruff ended up this way plagued him. What had turned into a simple game of hide and seek turned to them watching as that yellow eyed freak eviscerated their friend. A child. They were all just fucking children. But demons didn’t care about that.

Turned out their friends family were all hunters. His parents had crossed the demon at some point, and that had been his revenge. God. He would never forget the sound of his mother’s screams. Grief washed over him at the memory, a deep ache forming in his chest. Him and Ruff hadn’t been the same since.

Noah pressed on the gas, picking up the pace. The sooner they got to Wisconsin, the sooner they could dispose of whatever monster was plaguing the town, and the sooner they could get back on the hunt for Azazel.

Ruff stirred in the seat next to him, a hand almost hitting him in the face as he stretched. He flinched, casting Ruff a weary look.

“Watch it, man.” He grumbled.

Noah turned his attention back to the stretch of road in front of him. Jesus, he was tired of this. Part of him wished he could just retire from the life and live a normal life. But life couldn’t be normal. Not when he knew what went bump in the night. When he knew what those things did.

“How far out are we?”

“Couple hours.”

Ruff shifted next to him, putting the journal back in his bag and pulling out the folder he had compiled on this case. Noah’s eyes flicked over to him, eyes catching on the picture on the folder behind it. The girl they had saved five years ago. Interesting. He would have to ask him about that later.

“Run me through what we’re walking into again.” He shifted, training his eyes back on the road ahead of them. He hadn’t seen a car or even so much as a house in miles now. It was eerie.

“Dude apparently went on a killing spree. Friends, family, and co-workers all say they don’t believe he did it. That he’s innocent. Man’s body was later found in his bathroom at home.”

“How do we know this isn’t just some guy who snapped?” He questioned. Wouldn’t be the first time they had shown up just to find it was exactly as it appeared.

“Girlfriend insists it couldn’t have been him. That he was actually with her at the time of the first murder.” Ruffilo hummed, flipping through statements.

“Interesting. How do we know she’s telling the truth?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Well, this is where it gets interesting. Police are saying it was suicide. But he was found with his throat slashed.”

“Interesting way to go if you’re gonna kill yourself.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Nobody ever chose to go out that way. Typically it was hanging, cutting wrists, a gun to the head. Pills. But he had never seen a suicide victim slit their own throat. There was definitely something weird going on in Milwaukee. He glanced down at the speedometer. 70mph. Smirking he pressed on the gas even more. It was time to get there and figure out exactly what the fuck was going on.

Tags: @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @lacy1986 @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @concretejunglefm @ichoosetenderomens @dontwantthemoney @missduffsblog @enemiestolovershoe @concreteangel92 @chey-h

[walkersbeloved]

and i still call home that house in nebraska

cw// angst, brief kissing as a corpse, mentions of bone displaying.

Hours after his death, Brendan returns to the tracks to bury his beloved.

words: 1.6k

Isaiah 14:12-17

How you are fallen from heaven,

O Lucifer, son of the morning!

How you are cut down to the ground,

You who weakened the nations!

For you have said in your heart:

‘I will ascend into heaven,

I will exalt my throne above the stars of God;

I will also sit on the mount of the congregation

On the farthest sides of the north;

I will ascend above the heights of the clouds,

I will be like the Most High.’

Yet you shall be brought down to Sheol,

To the lowest depths of the Pit.

“Those who see you will gaze at you,

And consider you, saying:

‘Is this the man who made the earth tremble,

Who shook kingdoms,

Who made the world as a wilderness

And destroyed its cities,

Who did not open the house of his prisoners?

“All the kings of the nations,

All of them, sleep in glory,

Everyone in his own house;

But you are cast out of your grave

Like an [g]abominable branch,

Like the garment of those who are slain,

[h]Thrust through with a sword,

Who go down to the stones of the pit,

Like a corpse trodden underfoot.

You will not be joined with them in burial,

Because you have destroyed your land

And slain your people.

The brood of evildoers shall never be named.

Prepare slaughter for his children

Because of the iniquity of their fathers,

Lest they rise up and possess the land,

And fill the face of the world with cities.”

The March air was unusually chill as Brendan stepped out of his car. It was dark, almost pitch black except for the gentle light the moon casted above.

His hands shook as he opened the trunk and pulled out a shovel. He didn’t know what had come over him, but he couldn’t stand the idea of being stagnant right now. It played in his head like a show reel, the memory of Simon’s death, haunting him with every aching breath he’d taken since that afternoon, and he certainly couldn’t sleep in this state.

So here he was, back at the place Simon had led him to with his bike. He could see it in the distance, in the same place he’d parked it merely 10 hours before. The sight of it felt like a stab to Brendan’s decaying heart.

He refused to look at it as he made his way up the mountain and to the tracks, shovel slung over his shoulder.

His feet felt heavy as he walked along the path next to the tracks. There was no way to know where Simon’s body had fallen in the aftermath, it could be anywhere from 3 to 30 miles away from where Brendan was.

But Brendan kept walking. He kept walking until his feet ached in his shoes and his muscles burned. He could feel as skin broke inside the leather and blood soaked his socks, but he refused to stop.

It took him an hour to find Simon’s body. It was flung on the side of the hill, tucked away in tall blades of grass as if the earth was trying to protect him from the cruelty of nature.

Brendan collapsed beside him. His body was laid on its side, obscuring his face from view, and he was terrified to move him on his back. He thought that if he had to see Simon’s face in any state of ruin, if it had been left any less perfect than when he’d last seen him, he might die.

But he persisted, grasping Simon’s shoulder with a careful touch and rolling him onto his back.

His face was bruised, lip busted and cheek split. His eyes were open, that brilliant shade of blue peering into Brendan’s soul just as it had in life.

Disgust and an overwhelming sadness welled in Brendan’s chest at the sight of him. Many people had died in his life, many of whom he loved, if not killed by his own two hands. Grief was not an unfamiliar concept to Brendan Brady. In many ways, it was intertwined with his soul, following him like a shadow. It was the one thing he’d known since the beginning.

But seeing Simon felt a lot like seeing an angel fall from Heaven, wings charred and halo cracked. It was designed to make you weep, to make you mourn, it went against God in every way and yet it wasn’t enough to stop it.

Brendan often wondered as a child if God cried when He kicked Lucifer from Heaven. Now he wondered if He cried when He took Simon from the earth. Took Simon away from him.

He brushed a strand of Simon’s hair away from his face, hand trailing along his split skin. There was nothing left of the Simon he knew in life here. But maybe there had been nothing left of that Simon for a long time.

There, in the dark of the night, with no one around but himself and the corpse of his love, Brendan allowed himself to speak freely, to feel freely.

“I fear this was always how it was going to end, Simon,” Brendan whispered, thumb brushing against his cold bottom lip. “For the both of us. We aren’t meant to last long, you and me. We were both born of rot, forced to endure a life of pain, before…well, this.”

He laughed bitterly as he began to weep. “There’s no happily ever after for people like us. We were put on this earth to hurt each other. To teach each other. I just—“

Brendan’s words stuck in his throat, but they echoed loudly in his head mockingly, a bitter reminder that he would ever escape the truth no matter how hard he tried.

I just never thought I’d fall in love with you.

It was a truth that ached. His heart was split in two, divided between two men, it was just that one half was now dead.

Brendan bent down and kissed Simon. His lips were cold and unmoving, unable to reciprocate the only honest kiss they would ever share.

The cross around his neck dangled between them, tapping against Simon’s chin in some mockery of a holy blessing. He unhooked it with shaking hands before placing it around Simon’s neck.

The silver pendant rested against his chest and Brendan touched it gently. He hoped it was enough, this small piece of him he was leaving behind with his angel.

His fingers touched the middle of Simon’s forehead, the center of his chest, his right pectoral, and then his left, muttering a quiet prayer underneath his breath. And then he used his palm to close Simon’s eyes. It almost looked as if he was sleeping.

And maybe it was a hollow gesture coming from someone like himself, but a part of him hoped it would aid in Simon’s return home where he belonged.

Forcing himself to his feet, Brendan picked up the shovel he’d tossed to the side and began to dig into the soft earth, losing himself in the task. His vision blurred and his ears rang with each panting breath he took as the hole grew deeper and deeper.

The grave was shallow when completed, partly from exhaustion, and partly because Brendan couldn’t stand the thought of Simon being far away from him. If he left the grave shallow, all he had to do was dig him up when needed. Could feel his decaying skin against his body, and when Simon was nothing but bone, he could take them home and keep them with him.

Maybe he’d reassemble him, bleach the bones white and display them like a deceased pet.

For a moment, Brendan considered crawling into the grave with him. He’d cover them in dirt and let the air seep from his lungs, force himself to feel every second of agony as he died slowly alongside his love, and relish when the light flickered out of his eyes and the maggots began to eat their skin.

Instead, he forced himself to pick Simon up from the grown and lay him gently in his grave, caressing his face and kissing him one last time before he covered the hole with dirt.

It ached to cover Simon’s face, to know this would be the last time he could see him as he was when he was alive. He wanted to preserve him. Keep him pristine and perfect. Capture him the best he could and force the rest of the world to marvel at his beauty and weep at his loss.

He forced those thoughts away and moved from the gravel, stumbling back the way he came until he was walking down the hill and to Simon’s bike.

He forced himself to look at it this time, tracing the cracks in the leather and scratches on the surface with his fingers. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Simon sitting on it, the way he looked when he’d ride it.

Swallowing around the bile in his throat, he grabbed Simon’s helmet from the handle and moved towards his car, throwing the shovel in the trunk before climbing in the driver's seat.

He clutched the helmet close for a moment, kissing the top of it as if it was Simon’s head, smelling of sweat and soil.

Later, he’d go to Simon’s old apartment, rummage through whatever he had left behind and take it home with him. He’d bury himself in Simon’s clothes and his cologne, force himself to use his laundry detergent so the scent of him would never fully fade.

Simon would be with him forever. In whatever way Brendan could force him to be.

[blindbatalex]

I hung out with @k-ky all day and she literally activated the sleeper carraville agent that lives inside my brain at all times. I really and truly do not have time to start on a whole new WIP right now, so please enjoy this little 1k teaser in the meanwhile.

By the time Jamie parked the car and trudged to the house, the front door was already open with Gary looming behind.  Between the dusk falling quietly outside and the hallway light he had not bothered to turn on, the way he would not meet Jamie’s eyes, he resembled a ghost.  Jamie ignored the raw spot the thought touched in his chest—the still too fresh panic a call from the hospital saying that your friend collapsed tends to inspire.

“Traffic was mad.”  He chuckled as he walked in.  It sounded strained and echoed ominously in Gary’s minimalist, unpleasant house.  “I should have honestly taken the train.”

Honestly, if Gary had died and come back as a ghost, he would be a poltergeist.  An annoying, self-righteous, argumentative poltergeist that drives property values down by his sheer potential to drive any people unfortunate enough to buy the house up the wall.  Neither did he bother to so much as crane his neck to look at Jamie as he led them into the bowels of the house.

“Thought you’d changed your mind.”

Jamie rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, well, it was a close thing,” he huffed, and regretted it instantly when Gary’s step faltered.  It was a fucking joke.  After everything they have been through, did he, could he think–

And while he meant no disrespect to the witches, Jamie struggled to understand why they had to drag him into the curse they rightfully wanted to cast upon Gary.  Bloody hell.  “But if you died, who would I rib after every time United bottle yet another game?”

With that they reached the living room.  Gary sat down on the sofa and for the first time since Jamie came in, deigned to meet his eyes.  It wasn’t just the light, he definitely looked haggard.  His ugly face pale and with deep bruises under his eyes.  He wasn’t happy either, judging by the thin line of his mouth.

If anything I am shocked that it took you this long to get yourself cursed, the way you carry on, was what Jamie wanted to say but someone needed to be the adult in the room so he held his tongue, choosing to plop himself down on the sofa next to Gary instead.  He wrapped a firm arm around Gary’s shoulder and popped his feet on the coffee table.

“Get your feet down,” was all the thanks Gary could be bothered to give, alongside a vicious poke at his ankle with his big toe.

“No, you get your feet up.”

“I don’t know how you live in Bootle, but we for one have standards here–”

“No, you idiot, we ought to maximise the surface area, innit?”

“You mean–?”

“Press our legs together, yeah.”

Whatever little colour there was in Gary’s face drained at Jamie’s words.  It was daft—it was so mind-bogglingly daft that Jamie had no words for it—but then again, they were ex-footballers for God’s sake.  They had spent 30-odd years watching their teammates strut around naked in the showers, getting pulled into hugs and shoving and, in Gary’s case, cuddling up with Beckham to watch telly.  Sure the two of them did not hug, and Jamie did not cuddle with blokes, but given they were where they were, neither was there any reason for—this.  To act like petulant children.  Or prisoners on death row.

Jamie glared at him, withdrawing his arm.

“I’m sorry, do you want to die?”

Not really, but I want to cuddle with you even less, the dark look that crossed Gary’s face seemed to say. 

The git. He just had to be so stubborn about everything, make life as difficult as possible for whoever was trying to give him a hand.

Jamie closed his eyes, breathing through his nose to try and get a lid on the anger he felt burning in every cell of his body.  Honestly, who in their right mind would pick an argument for example with a coven of witches on the definition of what constituted witchcraft in the first place?  

But when he explained the curse, and what seemed to keep Gary alive, his mum had smiled and said– he is lucky to have a friend like you then, isn’t he?  And Beckham, who for some reason felt he had the right to give Jamie a call, let alone to order him around, had said– cut him some slack will you, it’s a bit awkward for him.  And yeah, if Jamie put himself in Gary’s shoes, he could see why having to–

“Look,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes still shut.  “I don’t like this either but you are my friend and I happen to care about you.  You scared the hell out of me, Gary.  And if this is what we have to do to manage until we find a way to break the curse, I’d–” His voice betrayed him, crushed under the weight of a singular truth.  Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at Gary.  “I’d do anything, alright?  And I think you’d do the same for me, if our places were swapped.  So.”

Gary nodded, very faintly.  Is it so awful, Jamie wondered, having to cuddle with me that you made me say all of that out loud?  Even at the hospital, when he was quite out of it, he had tried to protest, to push him away.  Said, I can’t.  

“Take off your shoes.”

Cut him some slack.  Yeah.

Jamie did as he was told.  Besides, for one of the few times in his life, he wasn’t sure he had any more words in him left.  Gary was already taking off his own.  

When he was done he put his feet up on the coffee table and Jamie followed suit, shifting closer towards him to bring their bodies flush against one another.  With one hand he turned the telly on while the other arm he wrapped around Gary’s shoulder again.  Gary for his part even made a tiny effort to lean into the touch this time, whether from guilt or self-preservation, Jamie could not tell.

All these years they’d known each other—and Jamie could count the number of times they hugged on one hand.  In Valencia, after that defeat, once.  Once when Jamie had been hammered out of his mind in London—though that was more Gary taking on his weight as he half-carried Jamie back to the hotel than anything else.  He’d been warm beside him then, too, like he was now, strong, a little soft, just—good.  

The two of them fit.  There was no use thinking about that.  They certainly did not fit in this way.  He could smell Gary’s aftershave, feel his shoulders rise and fall with each breath.  It felt awful--a force threatening to rip apart the walls of his cells.

No wonder, he thought, no fucking wonder.

Next time, he would make sure to get laid before coming over, so his body would not mistake affection, at once mechanical and friendly, for genuine desire.

For Gary N.eville?

Come on.

[mythicalmagical-monkeyman]

Waoh, hey look guys. Mateo angst :3

Anyways under the cut like always lol

Summary: Mateo tries to find his mom in the dream world It does not go as planned

Additional Tags:

Mateo misses his mom guys 😔, Garcia family feels, Light Angst. No Beta. Setting: made up dream realm. Inspired by a PJO edit

Mr. Oz had always said to avoid the dream realm that the Night Bureau had nicknamed “The Adult World”. Not that there inherently seemed to be anything too bad about it, it was just that as Mr. Oz described the world, it was where “creativity went to die!” 

While that was probably a bit of an overstatement Mateo could see why Mr. Oz would say that about the realm. It was the blandest thing Mateo had ever seen. 

The entire world was cast in monochrome colors with the only spice of color being when occasionally a bright red would sweep across the area like there was an unseen police car driving around with its top light on. Additionally there only seemed to be three types of buildings in the realm, suburban houses, low lying glass boxes that upon glancing inside seemed to be tiny one floor office buildings, and bars. That was where the variation ended; however, as every building between the three types seemed to be practically identical, every house was exactly the same, every small office building, and every bar. It made Mateo’s inner artist scream for some type, any type of color or originality. 

Yet as much as Mateo wanted to leave he had come to the realm with a mission in mind, and curiosity was what made him a dream chaser right? 

He ignored the small Cooper in the back of his mind that was yelling at him that, no it wasn’t curiosity that made him a dream chaser but in fact his creativity that did. 

Let him have this.  

Locator in hand, Mateo walked in the direction the little compass arrow was pointing him in which he hoped wouldn’t lead him into something he definitely didn’t want to see. He’d gotten lucky so far so hopefully that luck would continue. 

Eventually Mateo found himself approaching a park, he didn’t think this realm would even have a park, but that’s where he found himself, the arrow of the Locator pointing under a large arch that marked the entrance. 

Mateo glanced around taking in the dead grass and squinted up at the sign on the arch that proclaimed the park as, “DOF kPKFVb slhcL”. There’s no way that could’ve been right, what weird dream magic had backfired and caused the sign to come out as gibberish? 

Mateo didn’t want to dwell on it though, he pushed aside the uncomfortable feeling rising in his chest and continued on into the park.

He’d just find her and get out of there as fast as he could. 

The Locator led him on but oddly as he continued on the Locator arrow started to spaz out, vibrating, and spinning wildly like what it was trying to lead Mateo to was all around him or that she didn’t want to be found. 

Mateo shook his head and smacked the Locator against his other hand but its arrow just continued to spin aimlessly.  

Mateo sighed angrily, “Right, of course it wouldn’t be this easy, thanks for nothing,” he gave the Locator another wack before slipping it into his pocket. Guess he was just going to have to do this manually. 

He began to wander around the park keeping his eyes open for anyone but the park seemed creepily empty to the point where after walking around for what he assumed was an hour and still not seeing anyone he was just about ready to give up. 

That was until he heard a sigh. Mateo stopped short and glanced around and spotted through the trees a man sitting alone on a bench. 

Curious, Mateo ducked under the tree branches between him and the man and approached. 

Even before he had fully reached the other man Mateo realized who it was. 

“Dad?” Mateo asked softly, rounding around the side of the bench and taking in his father. 

His dad sat half bent over, his hands clasped and head bowed towards the ground. Instead of wearing his usual work uniform or even pajamas his dad sat there in a light blue t-shirt, jeans, and sandals, a green flannel jacket sitting in his lap. 

Mateo recognized that jacket. It was his mom’s. 

Mateo’s breath caught in his throat as his face scrunched up as a sudden wave of sadness washed over him. 

“Mom?” 

He didn’t even realize anything had slipped through his lips until his dad looked up. 

“‘Teo?” His dad wondered, his face caught somewhere between concern and confusion. 

Mateo didn’t meet his dad’s eyes, instead he felt all of his attention being locked on the jacket. 

“Mateo? Que you doing here?” His dad tried again, his initial shock of seeing his son having passed.  

It took a few seconds but Mateo managed to force himself to look his dad in the eyes. 

“Dad, why do you have mom’s jacket?” 

His dad glanced down to look at the jacket in his lap and seemed to jump a little at seeing that he had it. He then sadly ran a thumb over a piece of it. 

“Ay, Maria,” he muttered. 

Quietly, Mateo sat down next to his dad and watched him while his dad’s attention was transfixed by the jacket. 

Mateo wasn’t sure when he finally found the words and spoke up, “Dad? Can I ask you a question?” 

His dad slowly looked back up and Mateo couldn’t help but note the lost look in his eyes, “I-I don’t know why I have this,” 

Once again his dad ran a thumb over the jacket and Mateo felt himself pausing before he asked, “Do you ever dream of mom?” 

“Ah,” his dad breathed and as he trailed off, the lost look in his eyes persisted, like he was remembering something from a long time ago. Or at least trying to. 

He then gripped the jacket in a fist and held out an arm, beconning Mateo in for a side hug. 

Mateo obliged and leaned into his dad, tensing awkwardly a little. His dad rested his chin on top of Mateo’s head and gave him a squeeze. 

“I miss her kiddo,” his dad muttered, “I truly do but … but it was her choice to leave, and I can’t change that. Not this time,” 

Mateo inhaled shakily at that and the tension in his shoulders disappeared as he curled into his dad with a small sob. 

Why’d life have to be so unfair?