#but my neighbors fucking car was blaring and i woke up from my dream . and you’ll never guess who was in it

[prettyboykatsuki]

something something riding a sex toy on your couch or bed and oliver physically picking you up and sliding you down on his cock with zero hesitation. you squeal and gasp and he just laughs. doesn’t matter that he’s standing, just tells you to hold on

[petri808]

Prompt- Marking/Monster fucker @bkdkkinktober Day 5

Izuku woke up with a start, hand clutching over the heart racing frantically in his chest to the darkness of a witch’s hour. The sheen of sweat coating his body glistened in the moonlight flowing over his bed, and his breathing raggedly trying to find normalcy in the pungent scent of sex still lingering in the air. But how if this was just a dream? A dream perhaps, yet the strongest since they’d started two weeks ago. The sticky dampness between his thighs indicating anything but fiction.

A slight breeze through the window sent shivers along Izuku’s body still sensitive to the touch… the touch— his touch… The red eyes and blonde shadow emblazoned behind his eyelids. Who was he? This thing, this person haunting his dreams and sending his body into realms of ecstasy night after night to leave him wanting and drained the next morning. He couldn’t wait to get back to bed after a long day of work, ready for more like a drug addict jonesing for their next hit.

“I want more…” Izuku whimpered into the silent room. Of strong hands dominating his toned frame, sharp nails… or were they claws? Regardless, the way they dug into his skin and controlled his hips forcing him to behave… Izuku reached into his boxers and began stroking his cock through this trip down memory lane. “Yes…” he whined, “more, I want more…” of heated bodies entwined, feeling so safe below that scarlet gaze, yet frozen by their stare— and the bites… he remembered the canines that sent his heart stuttering. Izuku paused mid-stroke to reach up to his nape. Yes, the tenderness was there again, but skin still unbroken.

To experience being filled and fucked by this gorgeous dream man. Damn, he’d do anything to make this real! Take him, mark him, a willing slave if it meant nights of endless bliss! “Please—” Izuku groaned. “Be real…”

Each night that passed by left Izuku craving more, and body left spent and tired the next morning. He didn’t know how dreams could cause so much exhaustion, but the intensity was definitely increasing. The logical part of his brain knew damn well this wasn’t good for him, too bad his lonely heart was winning the fight.

“Y-Yeah, I’m heading out right now sir— literally running out the door as we speak… Yes, Mr. Aizawa, I know it’s the second time this week I’ve been late, I… I need to get a new alarm, I think mines broken— oh… of course, sir, I’ll grab that on my way to the office for you.”

As he rushed out of his apartment, Izuku clicked off the phone, repeating his bosses order. “Double macchiato, add cinnamon, double macchiato add cinnamon, don’t forget— OOF!” The phone went flying out of Izuku’s hand as he smacked right into a solid object and bounced back, falling on his ass. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorr—” Izuku gasped.

“Tch. What a way to welcome your new neighbor.” The stranger held out a hand to help Izuku up. “Just be more careful next time.”

“R-Right,” Izuku stammered, “sorry, mister?”

“Katsuki Bakugou.”

“Mr. Bakugou, thank you— I-I mean sorry, again!” Izuku bowed before rushing away.

Blonde hair, red eyes… It couldn’t be! This was the first time he’d met his obviously solid flesh neighbor, so there was no way he could’ve dreamt up the beefcake! “Couldn’t be,” Izuku mumbled to himself. The man was very new, moved in maybe a week ago… ‘right around the time the dreams started escalating…’ He shook his head. Ridiculous. Those were dreams and this man was real— they couldn’t be linked. By the time he got to work, Izuku put the whole event out of his mind and focused on his job before he lost it.

A guy that hot was out of his league, so why not just live in his dreamworld?

“Ka…cchan…” The name wisps out from Izuku’s lips as clawed hands guided the sharp rocking of his hips, ground firmly over the man’s cock. “I can’t—” Izuku whined, legs trembling and starting to give out. “Please…” It was the first time of any of the dreams that the mystery lover had him doing the work.

But in the blink of an eye, Izuku found himself on his back once more, his lovers low grunts to his moans echoing as he was filled over and over in rapid succession. The man’s face stayed buried in the crook of his neck— till a cry rang out, Izuku’s own from fangs sunk deeply into his skin. Familiar, delicious white-hot ache flowing through his system, sending stars flashing beneath his eyelids, and red glowing eyes burning in his mind, filling his soul with a sense of wholeness his life was lacking.

“Mine…” the male growled, “forever…”

Forever…

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Ahhhh!” Izuku shot up in bed, drenched in the familiar sheen of sweat to the sound of a blaring alarm. “Fuck!” He groaned and dropped back down. Stupid alarm! But as amazing as these dreams were, they were seriously starting to drive him insane. His days were turning into endless cycles of unfulfilling work and fornication, work, and fornication— with a physical emptiness left in its wake.

As routine, he touched the painful spot on his neck expecting the same thing he’d endured for weeks— but this time, something wet and tacky hit his fingertips. “What the?”

Izuku scrambled to his bathroom, and there in the mirror— two fresh puncture wounds… a gasp broke free. “Oh, my god—”

That was the first time the dream blonde spoke to him. It’s deep raspy voice sending shivers through his body just thinking about it. But it was so embarrassing to walk into work with a large bandage on his neck to hide the wound! Lots of snickering and questions of who the lucky guy or girl must have been to mark him with a hickey. If only it had just been a hickey! All the other nights left the area tender for just a few minutes, and no evidence, but today the damn thing still throbbed. This was all becoming way too real for Izuku— and frankly, scared him a little. ‘Forever…’ The thought had even crossed his mind that someone was simply breaking in every night, but there was never any proof.

So, as he crawled into bed that Friday night, the throbbing spot on his neck a reminder, Izuku set his alarm to go off at 3am. If there was any truth to this nightly visitor, he was bound to catch him if could break free from the dream. This was it! He had to know what the hell was going on!

Izuku twisted in his bed, whimpering under the lustful gaze of his dream lover. “No, please…” he shivered as the long tongue teasingly flicked the tip of his over sensitized cock. His body was still coming down from a high that had left a sticky mess plastered all over his torso.

“Say it,” the husky voice demanded.

“Forever…” Izuku breathed out.

With a grunt, red eyes flashed, centered, and drove its cock all the way into Izuku. Growling, “forever mine,” as he leaned over to suckle the man’s mark with licks and tortured kisses. Each touch ignited the same soul-stealing connection that kept Izuku trapped and begging for more. Powerful hips rocked in measured cadence, filling the man over and over to finish what it’d started.

Izuku’s back arched and legs clamped around his lover’s waist, nails digging into the man’s shoulders as heat swirled and a familiar smoky scent grew in the room. He sensed his lover’s climax, could feel it coming like a sensor knowing a storm approached. Their connection… it felt so real… so good— different this time. Peaceful, no pain… “forever…” Izuku mewled as darkness overtook him.

The distant sounds of morning slowly crept into Izuku’s consciousness. Soft bird chirping, the muffled roar of cars on a nearby street. He moved to bury his face in his pillow to block the sunlight, shifting his body from its side to his stomach— only he couldn’t. Izuku’s eyes pop open as the awareness hit. He wasn’t alone. Without moving his head, his eyes looked down at what was around his waist and saw arms, hands— someone’s hands?! Wait! His alarm hadn’t gone off either!

He forced himself to shift so he could see who was spooned up behind him and found blonde hair. The neighbor?! Izuku screamed at the sleeping male. “What are you doing here?! How’d you get into my apartment?!”

“If you’re gonna wake up your mate, a good morning would’ve been nice.” Katsuki mumbled against Izuku’s back. “After all I’ve done for you.”

“Y-You? I, w-wait, the dreams, h-how?!”

“Shhh,” Katsuki clamped a hand over Izuku’s mouth. “Go back to sleep, talk when I’m up.”

“Maft?!” Izuku mumbled back.

“Forever, remember? I need more sleep, now shush.”

“I wilf nats sh— ahhh—”

A blinding white light hit Izuku’s mind again, followed with a dull ache in his neck as Katsuki’s mouth clamped over the mate mark on his neck. “Oh, my kami—”

“Now do you believe me?”

Izuku looked over again at Katsuki’s face and noticed the man’s eyes were glowing red and fang tips glinted from his mouth. “F-Forever?”

“Forever.”

It was all real, and yet somehow… maybe this wasn’t so bad after all...

[were-all-idjits-here]

Still Alive, Part I: What About Dean?

Request from @totallyluciferr​ : the reader lives in a universe where Supernatural is fiction and they’re a big fan of SPN, so the reader is re-watching the episode where Dean and Castiel gets zapped to Purgatory, they suddenly get zapped to Sam and Amelia’s house. Then the reader tries to tell Sam that Dean is trapped in Purgatory and needs help. The reader ends up meeting and saving Dean. 

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: angst, cursing

A/N: this was meant to be a one-shot, but I have no self control and it got away from me and became super long. In an attempt to not make this 5000 miles long or make the end super rushed, I’ll be posting this in three parts. Hoping to have all three up by the 27th. @totallyluciferr​ thank you so much for being patient while I took forever to write this. Some mental health issues have made writing hard, but I want to make sure I take the time to get this done well the first time.

~~Read here on AO3~~

You noticed how heavy your head felt before you even opened your eyes. A hard, cold surface laid beneath you and you frowned. The last thing you remember was laying on the couch in your shitty apartment, trying to drown out your screaming neighbors on one side and the blaring music on the other with your favorite show, Supernatural. It had partially been working, even if you were annoyed at having to turn subtitles on to be able to understand some of what they were saying. You had almost nodded off right when Dean and Cas got zapped to Purgatory in the season 7 finale when there had been a bright white light. Had you fallen to the floor maybe? But what had the light been?

You groaned and slowly sat up, bringing a hand up to your head. Your forehead bumped something cold and you slowly opened your eyes, backing up a bit. You were suddenly very awake as you realized there was a gun pointed at you. You were even more awake when you followed the hand holding it up to the face and realized you were sprawled out on a nicely manicured lawn in front of Sam Winchester.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment before you broke the silence with a loud, “What the fuck!”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking,” Sam growled, still pointing his gun at you. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

You blinked, jumping as you heard the safety click off. “Take it easy. I have no clue how I got here. I was on my couch one minute and now I’m here and this can’t possibly be real and holy shit, I must’ve had too much to drink and oh my god you’re Sam fucking Winchester, I thought this was just a TV show, what the fuck is going on—”

“Okay, easy, easy!” Sam lowered his gun, but still kept it tightly in his hand. He frowned before holding out a hand to help you up.

You hesitantly took it and let him pull you to your feet. Sam clicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. He roughly grabbed your wrist and yanked you across the backyard, up the steps of the back porch and through a back door into a dimly lit kitchen. You recognized the house as Amelia’s from the show and realized you must be somewhere either in or close to the season 8 premiere. In or close to the season 8 premiere—holy hell, had you seriously somehow been Blue scadooed into the TV? That couldn’t be possible, no fucking way—

“Hey, hey, hey—breathe!” Sam suddenly knelt in front of you from where he’d been rummaging through the cupboards. You suddenly realized the faint wheezing sound you’d been hearing was coming from you and it felt like your heart was about to beat out of your chest. You grabbed the table for support, your palm coming down flat on top of a fork. The prongs stung your hand, confirming this was real. You wouldn’t be able to feel pain in a dream, right?

A brown paper bag was suddenly thrust in front of you and you panted into it gratefully. After a few minutes, you could feel your pulse and breathing slow.

“That’s it, nice and slow,” Sam said, taking a deep breath in and slowly blowing it out. You mimicked him for several minutes until you felt coherent enough to set the bag down on the counter. “Hold this,” Sam said quietly, gently putting the silver fork into your hand. When nothing happened, he handed you a glass of water next. “Drink this.” Again, nothing happened and Sam sat down across from you, seeming satisfied.

You let a deep breath out slowly before asking, “How the hell is this real?”

Sam shook his head. It took all your restraint not to laugh at the famous wifi-shaped wrinkles that formed above his brow. “I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, then down his face. “What did you mean you thought this was just a TV show? And how do you know my name?”

“It’s gonna sound insane.”

“I specialize in insane. Try me.”

You swallowed hard, taking another drink of water. “So, um…I came from this…world, I guess, where your and Dean’s lives are a TV show and you’re fictional characters. I was actually on the episode that shows the events that happened probably…six-ish months ago, fell asleep, saw a bright white light and then woke up in your backyard.”

Sam nodded. “Dean and I got zapped to some sort of universe forever ago where our lives were a TV show. We kept getting mistaken for the actors.”

“Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Why would you wanna watch our lives anyway? It’s just a bunch of darkness and death and despair.” His face seemed to sink at the last sentence and you noticed his dark circles and sunken cheeks. You glanced at the clock you noticed behind him to see it read 3:30am. So he wasn’t sleeping. It made sense after everything he’d been through.

“Well, I mean…at first, it was kind of cathartic, watching the good guys win, ya know? Then I just got so attached to you and Dean as characters—er, people, I guess, that I just kept watching. I just wanted to root for you and watch you win.”

Sam smiled sadly. “Well, thanks, I guess. Haven’t been a lot of wins lately.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, “I’m sorry. Thanks for saving the world and stuff.”

Sam gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, avoiding your gaze as he picked some stray paint off the edge of the kitchen table. “So…what did you mean when you said you were on the episode about events six months or so ago? What happened?”

You hesitated, realizing how fragile of a state he was still in. “You sure you wanna know?”

His dark circles seemed even more prominent now. “When we…lost Dean?”

“Yeah,” you barely whispered.

Sam nodded, biting his lip and looking at his lap, renewing his efforts to pick at the table. The two of you sat in awkward silence for several minutes.

“I’m sorry you had to watch that,” you finally murmured.

“Yeah, me too.” He paused. “I’ve seen my brother die before, but it always felt like I could bring him back, ya know? This time…there isn’t even a body left to bring back. He’s really gone for good this time.” He sniffled. “But, I’ll figure out how to get you home, don’t worry—”

“Dean’s not dead,” you blurted.

Sam’s head shot up and he stared at you bug-eyed. “What?”

“He’s not dead. When monsters die, they go to Purgatory, which is where Dick went. That’s where Dean and Cas are. They’re still alive.”

Sam squinted suspiciously. “Says who? The show?”

You nodded. What followed was a long string of questioning from Sam about events from the show, no doubt trying to find out how accurate it was to his real life—which still felt insane to say; you still weren’t completely convinced one of your neighbors’ drug fumes hadn’t floated through your vents and triggered some sort of acid dream—and you answered them to the best of your ability.

By the time 45 minutes had flown by full of questions, you sighed. “Look, Sam, you said you’d been to my universe, so you know it’s a real place. I passed all your tests, so I’m not a monster that’s trying to drag you out of your apple pie life. How long has it been since Dean and Cas disappeared?”

“Six months,” Sam answered, his face still skeptic.

“Okay, so Dean was trapped in Purgatory for a year in the show. There’s a portal in Purgatory that lets humans escape, since they’re not supposed to be there. I don’t know how the hell we would do it, but if we can find where he emerges from Purgatory and somehow get a message to him, we can get him out.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply when a woman’s voice behind you suddenly said, “Sam? What’s going on?”

You spun around to see a sleepy Amelia standing in her PJs, looking at you blearily with wary dark eyes.

Sam glanced at you, then smoothly said, “She was on her way home from a friend’s sleepover and got lost. She stopped here to ask for help. I know her address and I’m gonna drive her home.”

Amelia frowned. “You were on your way home from a friend’s sleepover at almost five in the morning?”

“Things were getting a little too rowdy for me.” You hoped you looked and sounded convincing. “They’re big partiers and I guess I didn’t realize how big till the drugs came out and…” You did your best to look sheepish and shrugged. “I noped out of there.”

“Oh, yikes,” Amelia said. She looked at Sam. “You’ll be back soon?”

“Yeah,” he answered, grabbing a familiar set of car keys off the counter behind him. He stood and gave her a parting kiss. “Go back to bed. I’ll join you soon.” He motioned for you to follow as Amelia trudged back up the steps to the bedroom.

You stood in awe for a moment as Sam led you to the garage. The Impala. Baby. You gently reached out and touched the immaculate black paint, feeling a strange sense of calm as you looked over the car. Sam watched you from the driver’s side. “Big part of the show, I take it?”

“It’s practically its own character,” you replied. “If something happened to Baby, I’d probably cry.”

Sam chuckled as he climbed in. “Dean would’ve loved you.”

You climbed in after him, making sure to take care with how you shut the door. You sighed as you settled down on the leather seat. This felt good. This felt like home. “Would, Sam. He’s still alive.”

Sam glanced at you warily before opening the garage door and firing up the engine. He didn’t reply as you backed out of the driveway and sped down the road. “There’s a motel about five miles away. I’ll get you a room for a couple days while I figure out how to get you home. Don’t worry about the bill.”

“I don’t want to go home, Sam, I want to find Dean.”

“Listen, this isn’t a life you should want just because some TV show romanticizes hunting. Hunting isn’t some noble, epic good versus evil battle. It’s brutal and all it has is death and darkness and pain. You lose people all the time, there’s risk of you dying all the time, you see things you can never unsee—”

“Yes, I know, I do watch the show. I’m not saying the life is like that, I’m saying you’re doing something. You’re saving people and through that, proving your worth. Plus it’s not like I don’t have my own trauma, you know. My life home is shit. I don’t even have anyone or anything, a shit apartment, a shit job—”

“I’m not saying you don’t have your own trauma or that it isn’t as valid. But you seriously think this is better? If it weren’t for Amelia, I wouldn’t have anyone right now either.”

“But Dean’s alive, Sam! We can save him!”

“Just stop talking about it, okay?”

“Why won’t you believe me? I aced your quiz back in the kitchen.”

“I just don’t know if I believe you. That’s a show, it’s Hollywoodized! This is real life!”

“Do you really not believe or do you just not want to believe me?” Sam didn’t reply, but you could see how white his knuckles were as they gripped the wheel. You had always been frustrated with the fact that Sam didn’t look for Dean in the show, but had always held a level of sympathy for him. That level was quickly evaporating. If it was Dean you were talking to, he probably would’ve taken any chance—no matter how small—that his brother was alive and done something with it. You saw the motel fast approaching out the window and knew you were quickly losing your chance. “How many times as Kevin called you, hm? Kevin needs help, I have proof that your brother’s alive and we can save him and you’re seriously just gonna sit here on your ass—”

The Impala’s tires screeched as Sam made a hard right into the motel parking lot, barely putting the car in park before yanking the keys out of the ignition. “Stay here,” he growled before slamming the door closed behind him and stomping into the lobby.

You fumed in your seat, pulling out your phone to find that you did have signal. You quickly opened the Notes app and jotted down the place where you remembered Dean emerges from Purgatory in the show before you forgot. Since someone wasn’t interested in helping you, maybe you would just have to make a visit yourself. But he wouldn’t escape for another six months. How the hell were you going to speed that time frame up? Witchcraft, maybe? But you didn’t know anything about hunting. If you tried to contact a witch, you would end up dead for sure.

Just as you were googling where the nearest library was, a knock on your car window made you jump. Sam stood there, still fuming and holding two keys in his hand. You rolled your eyes and got out, following him into room 205 on the second floor. He slammed the door behind you, pointing a long finger at you. “You stay in this room until I can figure out a way to get you home—and you are going home. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

“So you’re trapping me here? Should I assume both of those keys are for you then?”

He handed over a key, along with a credit card to your surprise. “This is for clothes and food. I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get you home.” He handed you his phone next. “Put in your number and name.”

You begrudgingly complied and handed him your phone to do the same.

“Stay,” Sam said again as he made his way towards the door. “You’ll thank me later.”

“What about Dean?”

Sam sighed, pausing in the doorway. “We’ll see. But there’s no way he’s still alive.”

“I’m telling you, there is.”

You saw Sam’s shoulders heave for a brief moment. “I’ll look into it.” With that, he slammed the door behind him and you heard the click of the lock, completing your cage.

[jessie-sam-and-ash]

I've had a pretty bad fever and slept for quite some time. Now i just woke up and checked my phone.

2DAYS?!!? I slept 2whole days???? What the hell?!?

Why didn't mom wake me up? This isn't like her at all. Did sje give me my meds in my sleep? Ugh who cares now. I'm feeling better. 48hours of total black out was just what i needed. But god am i hungry now....

Wtf why won't the door open? C'mon it can't be seriously locked!!

*shuffling and grunting in the hallway*

Hooooooooold up. What's that??

*i peep through the keyhole* *terrified gasp as i stumble backwards* *outside, in the hallway, there's this ugly decomposing WALKING corpse* its a prank its a prank its gotta be a prank

*but the stench tells otherwise*

I need to get to the kitchen else imma starve here.....the door's clearly locked. The window! Imma sneak out the window!

*carefully i stand on the outer window still. The street looks awful, cars abandoned in the middle of the road, some even turned upside down. And lots of those....things walking around* they can't be zombies could they? Zombies aren't real....

*i climb down the water spout as quietly as possible* *luckily the kitchen window is open and no one seems to be inside*

Alright. First lemme close the door then eat something. Need to make a list of what i have and how long it'll last..... where's mom and dad? Hope they're safe. *I stop a sniff*

*after closing the door i find some milk and cereal. It seems electricity hasn't gone out yet since the fridge works* *as im about to take a seat, my foot hits something, sending it across the room* *its a phone. Mom's phone* *i turn it on. Messenger is open. She didn't get to send a last text....to me: 'pls be safe and don't open the door. You got t survive for us. We hold thm off as good as we cdkxfkflldk '*

They......they....no way. No no no no no!!! Could they be.....the zombie i saw in the hallway. I need to get a better look. But then what? What if it's them? Can i really...? I have to. It's not a matter of 'can' or 'cant'. They wanted me to live. This is what i will do. But first, provisions.

*i count some cans of food, an unopened pack of cereal, some veggies and what's left of mom's chicken soup* *it should keep me going for a few days until i make a plan to go out* *got several water bottles and a pack of beer*

*i take the small axe mom uses for chopping bones for soup* *i take a deep breath and slowly open the door*

*i look left and right: front door is wide open, will have to close it. The hallway seems empty for now, need to check the living room* *i quickly close the door and head towards the only other room*

Shit. SHIT!!! NOT dad! No no no nooo.....

*i struggle to not scream at the sight: dad, one arm missing, is sluggishly walking through the room, grunting to himself. Face mauled so bad i can barely recognize it, slowly decomposing. The smell is unbearable*

I can't do it. I can't do it. Dammit! I can't! No you bitch, you must!! That's not your dad anymore. The dead are supposed to stay dead. You gotta do it. You got this. Just get the head, smash it as hard as you can.

*i slowly make my way across the room, careful to not make any noise, need the moment of surprise* *im close enough. I raise the axe and...............strike* *the sickening sound of bones breaking fills my ears, the wet slosh of the axe leaving the skull makes me sick to the stomach* *the zombie falls to the ground* *i nudge it with my foot. It doesn't move. I killed it*

*shaking i tiptoe my way upstairs* *time to deal with the other one*

*it saw me! It runs towards me, still slower then a normal human* *i shriek and in the last second swing the axe* *the head tumbles to the ground, soon followed by the body* *im shaking terribly at this point* *fall to my knees and start crying*

Im sorry im sorry im sorry!!!! Mom dad im sorry!! I had to, i have to live for you. Forgive me! Im sorry! Im sorry! Please oh please let this be all nothing but one of my sick dreams!!

*sobbing and exhausted i fall asleep on the now blood soaked carpet*

.

.

.

.

It's been a week. Im outta food officially. Can still eat what's in the fridge but it'll go bad soon. I shouldn't go too far into the city before i have better weapons and know more about these shits. Hmmmmmm🤔 neighbor's house it is.

*i put my black hoodie on and some sneakers* *armed with the axe and a backpack im ready to head out* *the street seems empty. Yesterday a car's alarm started blaring somewhere down the road, attracting the zombies. I wrote about this in my little notebook: sensitive to sound*

*i bolt out the door and only stop in front of Jim's house* hope he's not dead in there too.

*i find the door unlocked and slip inside* *silence. No sign of zombies roaming* *i head to the kitchen and start searching*

*nothing useful* guess he managed to leave and took everything he could.

*i look around the house some more. I manage to find a bigger axe*

*getting out. Halfway back i stop in my tracks. A zombie's walking nearby. According to mom's behavior they also are attracted by movement* *BUT NO ONE COULD'VE GUESSED THEY ARE ATTRACTED BY SMELL TOO HOLLY SHIT* *he smelled me and charged* *i ran all the way home and slammed the door shut*

*panting* fuck fuck fuckkk. Gosh that was close.

*i go to the living room where i layed mom amd dad's corpses* *the stench is terrible. Im keeping the windows half open all the time* guess you two don't have any ideas on how to keep these fuckers away huh? They see me, they charge. They smell me, they charge. What the hell should i do? God you guys stink, i should bury you some time.

Or maybe..........? Hmmm might work. Let's test it.

*i take mom's head by the remaining hair and go to the front door where i can hear the zombie scratching at it* *i open it ajar and put the putrefying head in front of the gap* *i hear the zombie sniffing then grunting, then it goes away* interesting...

*i close the door again and throw the head on the couch* *i run upstairs to my room and grab the notebook: 'zombies are attracted by sound, movement and smell. They recognize eachother by the smell of decay. Using enough of their blood or flesh etc can keep them away. Need to see if you need to act like them too' *

.

.

.

Today i ate the last of that salad. Need to search for more food. Most neighbors either left and took everything good or didn't have anything canned and is now spoiled. I should try to make my way towards one of the stores. I should prepare.

*i go downstairs. Take dads large coat off the clothes rack*

Hey mom, dad. Im sorry but need a favor from you two.......

*i take the big axe next to the couch and start butchering one of the corpses* *blood and chunks of flesh fly all over the place* *when im done, im left with a bloody paste of guts and rotten meat* *using a glove i then smear the coat with the smelly paste* *i feel like gagging* this should do..

*i put the coat on, take the axe and my trusty backpack*

*with shaky hands i open the front door and step out into the blazing sun*

It's time to head out.

[fallenesspoetry]

The [Uninvited] Guest

AO3 FFN

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Raymond Reddington(/)Donald Ressler

Warnings: Light swearing, season 4 and season 5 spoilers. Set before season 6.

Summary: Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, shows up at Ressler’s doorstep on Christmas Eve.

Child’s-palm sized flakes of snow were collapsing on the windshield of a black Chevrolet Tahoe. Its wipers swished back and forth, sweeping the icy drops with a hissing “Swoosh!” over and over.

Skyscrapers, grey and dirty by day, molded in nightfall, flickering in reds, yellows and greens. Brakes screeched and honks blared below, the street grey-and-white from mud and snow. Coffee shops signs invitingly winked with crisp lettering at every corner, ready to welcome a passer-by for a cup of hot latte.

Just when Tahoe left tail light flicked orange, a red right blinked. The SUV braked at the crossing, giving way to pedestrians. Those had definitely underestimated today’s weather—a trench coat wasn’t of great use; one’d better wear a woolen hat and wrapped themselves in a scarf. 

Washingtonians hadn’t expected this year’s winter to have learned some tricks from her Russian sister. Snow plows could hardly keep the road clean and spread salt on the sidewalks. The freak weather made all the sane folks chill at home, watch TV and, maybe, have a beer or two.

All, but Donald Ressler, the Special Agent with the FBI. Another day, another psycho on the streets. Thugs didn’t give a damn about Christmas, so the task force closed a case. It had definitely boosted their boss’s mood, so everyone got a Christmas day off.

Donald took the FBI’s civillian SUV to drive home because his own car would stuck in the Gulliver-like snow mounds. Anxiously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Ressler glanced either on his watch or the traffic light.

Christmas Eve was around the corner, almost hitting him in the forehead.

The twenty-fourth of December. Seven o'clock.

If he could, he would rather spend Christmas with his mom and brother. But the skies snorted at him, producing a flow of non-stop wet and sleazy cotton candy. He’d be lucky not to get into a blizzard on his way home.

The phone buzzed in his jacket’s pocket. Ressler slipped a curse. Red light had already turned green, so he hurried to push the gas pedal at the impatient “Beep!” from behind.

Someone must have really needed him, judging by the unsteady vibration tickling his chest every ten seconds.

Whoever this was, they could wait. He’d be of no use to anyone if he crashed right now.

Ressler cast a quick glance at the rear-view mirror. His heavily gelled hair was now messy and tousled like he’d just woke up. A few stray strawberry blond bangs fell onto his forehead. Pandas envied his eyes’ dark bags—sleep deprivation was his best friend these days. Steering his way through, he unconsciously licked his full, chapped lips, dehydrated from the AC’s hot air.

Someone hysterically honked behind again. To his left a reddish Mazda rushed to blinking green at the intersection.

Jerk.

In no time Donald braked at red light. The dick of a Schumacher had already halted there.

“Suck it,” Ressler muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes on the traffic light, he resisted to show that dick the middle finger.

Donald rubbed his sore eyes, their green-tobacco hue gleaming in the tail lights of a car in front.

One could squeeze him like a lemon and he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Shower. Dinner. Bed. 

A workaholic Holy Trinity.

The light changed to green.

About time.

Already dreaming of his comfy quilt and pillow, Ressler accelerated. Chevy’s engine gratefully purred when he smoothly shifted the gear, speeding up.

The vibration in his left inside pocket was almost aggressive. And the snowfall inherited dogged vibes from his cell too: he could barely see anything on the road, snowflakes splashing over the windshield with a nasty slurping sound.

Passing a Chinese take-out to his right, Ressler finally took the cell out of his pocket.

Nick’s Pizza.

Pizza delivery, my ass. He knew who hid behind that caller ID.

“Yes?” Ressler angrily blurted, pressing the cell to his ear.

“Good evening, Agent Ressler.”

He would have recognized this voice out of hundreds, no, thousands of people. Silky smooth, always with a hint of a genuine laugh at everything. But most of the time it was he, Donald, the guinea pig of the mockery.

The infamous Raymond “Red” Reddington. 

Each time Red gave the task force a case, Donald, his teeth gritted, would cut a deal with his own conscience. The Bureau threw a scumbag behind the bars; Reddington—got rid of an annoying competitor.

“Shouldn’t there be a Christmas tree for Christmas?” Reddington politely inquired.

Tahoe jerked, almost sliding in a dangerous proximity to a street pillar, but Ressler steered her right back in a moment.

“What…” he bit his tongue not to slip a curse, “tree?”

“Green, Donald. My God, these walls… No wonder you’re so uptight.”

Who the fuck he thinks he is?!

Ressler didn’t breath a sound. He dug his fingers into the steering wheel so hard it hurt.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. Besides, no one of sane mind would look for me at your place.”

If he could, he’d bribe any amount of mercenaries if it spared him of this arrogant, self-absorbed, ridiculously wealthy prick.

Fortunately or not Reddington was the adjunctive informant to the FBI. It meant he was his responsibility, regardless how badly Ressler wanted to barbeque his guts. Ressler would always do his job even if the only mention of Concierge of Crime made his stomach turn with disgust.

“I’ll be there in two hours,” Donald growled, hanging up, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

If the blizzard went on like that, he’d be home way past Christmas.

*

Ressler parked the car, trying to wrap his mind about the fact Raymond Reddington broke into his apartment.

It’s Christmas, for God’s sake!

Muttering curses, Donald picked up his laptop bag and three pizza boxes from the backseat.

He sauntered to the front door and turned the doorhandle. The hall met him with the usual epileptic blinking—one of the bulbs hadn’t met its end yet.

Cleaning the mailbox of ads and bills, Ressler threw the latter into the bag with pizzas.

The elevator softly beeped behind his back.

Donald got in and pressed “10”. The elevator creaked up to the tenth floor much longer than usual, its snail-like speed driving him crazy.

It suddenly stopped, the door opening at the seventh floor. A man stepped in, wearing a grey coat and a red hat. His snow-white beard and thin rimmed glasses reminded Ressler of Santa Claus. The man’s hands were busy with two green and bushy Christmas trees.

Really?!!

Life had a twisted sense of humor.

Somewhere a cell rang.

Not mine.

“Yes, honey,” the stranger said, trying to make one of the trees stand straight on the floor. A trace of unwavering obedience was heard in his voice. He glanced at the changing floor number. “Just as you asked—” His forehead sank into a confused frown. “But, dear…”

A spiteful hissing of the man’s wife on the other end reached Donald’s ears. Nerves of steel? Endless love? He hadn’t even raised his voice to argue.

“I’ll figure something out… Yeah, okay.” He let a weary sigh. Noticing Ressler, he asked, “Want a Christmas tree?” There was so much hope in his voice that Donald felt sorry for him.

But he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. And yet nothing in his apartment said “Merry Christmas!” except three pizzas—cheese, pineapple and anchovies—and a six pack of beer he had bought before.

There was a box with Christmas lights somewhere in the kitchen. And another box with Christmas toys in the closet.

“Yeah, why not.”

Donald reached for his wallet.

“Nah, it’s Christmas,” the man said. The elevator halted on the tenth floor. “Woah, we’re neighbors. Merry Christmas!”

“You too.”

Ressler had almost took the keys out of his pocket when he reached the door to his apartment. A second later he realized that Reddington had already to be inside. 

He simply turned the handle and entered. It took some time and effort to secure the Christmas tree straight up, but he managed. It stood perfectly still so far, leaning against the wall. He also put his laptop bag and pizza down.

The hallway smelled of home baking.

Neighbors? If it was Reddington, he’d rather eat his badge. 

The Concierge of Crime in the apron? Ridiculous.

“Ah, Donald, here you are. I was getting worried you’d stuck in there,“ Reddington’s sneaky voice caught him off hard. 

The badge slipped from Ressler’s hand, but he managed to catch it. He felt Reddington’s eyes on him, so he muttered something about the weather.

Reddington knowingly nodded, his eyes shifting to the Christmas tree, almost five feet tall.

“Ah, the spirit of Christmas isn’t dead, is it? Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in.”

“It’s my apartment,” Ressler growled, taking off his shoes.

Whenever Reddington was around, Donald felt a worthless, miserable loser. It wasn’t true; he had been on top of his class in college and at the Academy. He had spent countless hours undercover and conducted a series of successful operations.

The one and only time the luck had turned its back on him was the Concierge of Crime’s assassination in Brussels.

It cost him dearly—he had to work his way back for almost a year to restore his reputation.

Few years later Raymond Reddington surrendered to the FBI, demanding to speak exclusively with the man who had spent the prime years of his career chasing him all over the world. 

Soon enough Donald spent more time napping on the jets to Cuba, Mexico and Prague than at his bed. His fiancé, tired of the competition, left him. He couldn’t blame her, though.

Now Reddington looked much better in person than his sketch in the database. Well-groomed, not a wrinkle on the round face, though he was over fifty. He was slightly overweight whim made him quite appealing. Some agents called him “Reddybear” behind his back.

Ressler could argue that Reddington’s reaction depended on his appearance or age. And as much as he wished to ignore it, it had saved his life once.

However, if he had the chance, he would rather shovel the Christmas tree star up into his ass.

Is he glued to floor or what?

Reddington still stood there, his thin lips twisted in a cheeky grin.

What the..? Whatever.

Donald took off his black coat and hung it on the rack. After a day of nonstop run-and-chase even a vagabond wouldn’t want to wear his coat. He had almost let a low grunt seeing Reddington’s ash-colored cashmere coat on the rack next to his leather jacket. 

Reddington was a sucker for luxury and wealth. He would always show-off wearing his three-piece suits and rarely stepped outside without a fedora.

Tonight wasn’t an exception.

“Donald, you’d better wear a scarf next time. You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

Almost rolling his eyes, Ressler watched Reddington leave the hallway. He took the Christmas tree and went into the living room.

What the hell…

To say he was surprised was an understatement.

“I asked Dembe to give me a hand. He wanted to help with the Christmas tree, but since it’s your place, I think you should be doing it.” Reddington took a sip of whiskey from the tumbler in his hand.

Ressler missed half of the sentence Reddington was saying, trying to take in what had just happened to the living room.

“…We left the bedroom untouched. Unfortunately, the nightmare you call ”wallpapers” is still there. However,” Reddington grinned, “you don’t invite the guests straight to bedroom, do you?”

Donald had an urge to show the exact destination he’d love to invite Reddington. Part of him wanted to strangle the bastard for what he’d done, but the other part was actually grateful. A tiny bit. Just a bit.

The room had indeed become much better: an old and tattered couch was replaced with a new, wide and comfy along with two armchairs. The walls were painted in a pleasant sandy yellow instead of the old wallpapers peeling off at the corners. There was a couple of plant pots on the windowsill—Donald had no clue where they came from. He wasn’t a plant-friendly guy, so he’d bet a hundred bucks those were dead in a week. 

Now the living room was much cozier than before. His coffee table remained at the same place, and yet it was fixed up, scuffs and scratches gone. A neat pile of The Washington Post and car repair mags had been left exactly the same way Ressler did this morning.

“You like it?” Reddington asked, a hint of genuine care heard in his voice.

Reddington and care? I must be delusional.

“Yeah, thanks. But why?”

“It’s Christmas. Of course,” Reddington gave him a foxy smile, “I’m not expecting anything in return. Gifts make me uncomfortable.” He took another sip. Swirling the tumbler, he said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. I usually prefer the taste of a much higher price tag, though… I hope you don’t mind.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Donald, you’re a picture of hospitality.”

“I’m not the one who breaks into the apartments on Christmas.” Ressler pointed at the Christmas tree. “A hand, please?”

To Ressler’s surprise, Reddington actually helped him to put up the Christmas tree.

“Thanks. Where’s Dembe?” As far as he remembered, Dembe was Reddington’s shadow to follow him wherever he’d go. “I owe him for this one.”

For a moment Reddington’s eyes seemed to get wet with tears.

No, just a trick of light.

He and Reddington shared the same eye color—a rich green-tobacco. Each time their eyes met Ressler felt extremely odd and uncomfortable.

As if you were looking into your own.

But the difference was, one would want nothing but to escape the hard, assessing stare, picking every detail, every change you hadn’t even suspected of.

Reddington had a massive amount of dirt on everyone—CEOs, politicians, bankers, defense contractors… You name it. He also knew the whereabouts of the most dangerous outlaws no one had even heard of. Nothing slipped from him. He told Ressler once that almost all people were an open book for him. It was true.

At times Ressler was terrified at what Reddington could’ve read learned about him. He wished to erase a lot of stuff for these years of the game Reddington and the Bureau had been playing.

The fact that most of his memories involved Reddington, the man who forsook his flag and country, drove Ressler nuts.

At first he was desperately looking for the “Why me?” answer. Somehow he wanted to believe it was he who made Reddington surrender.

What could possibly the most boring person like himself do to make Concierge of Crime seek the FBI’s protection?

So he let it go.

“He’s with his granddaughter,” Reddington answered.

“Oh.”

It was beyond awkward. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Reddington had the blues.

Could he, really?

Reddington’s eyes faded, and he seemed rather stiff. For a moment Ressler missed the Reddington who’s used to cite one of those smart-ass quotes or crack a joke. Obviously, the favorite subject of ridicule was he, Donald. But eventually Ressler simply rolled with that.

Unexpectedly for himself he wanted to soothe him somehow.

Soothe?!! Soothe him?!!

Reddington was the FBI’s asset, an informant. And an extremely dangerous criminal. His empire thrived on money laundering and arms dealing. Any competitor met his maker in a shot. Literally. And though Reddington had never killed an innocent man, it didn’t change the fact he had blood on his hands.

So why it feels like shit?

The man before him wasn’t the Concierge of Crime, but a man, drowning in sickening, almost suffocating loneliness. The one Ressler knew too well.

At least there was one thing they had in common—building bulletproofs walls around themselves. Anyone who’d try to pass was immediately brushed off, with no further regrets.

The fact Reddington hadn’t hopped on his private jet to Monte Carlo, but came over to the person who hated his guts, was quite telling.

Reddington and those like him didn’t have friends. Allies, partners, acquaintances… Anyone but friends.

The very first year of Reddington and the Bureau’s symbiosis was memorable. Ressler caught a bullet into his thigh and lost lots of blood. And, as fate would have it, he got locked up with Reddington. And he, to Donald’s utmost surprise, performed a field transfusion which saved his life. Ressler was lucky they shared the same rare blood type—B negative.

Suddenly Ressler realized a thing.

Reddington considered him a friend. At least, in his twisted paradigm. If to roll with the snarky comments, Reddington must have a sort of admiration for him. He even told him that in person. But Donald would rather swallow a bullet than admit he respected Reddington.

They went into the small kitchen. There were two bags from the Sticky Fingers on the counter. The mix of ginger and vanilla in the air reminded Donald about his mom’s baking. He’d sell his soul for her pie with berries and wallnuts.

Donald put pizza boxes on the counter and then looked into the first bag.

Ginger-honey biscuits, ginger biscuits, chocolate muffins, pretzels, cupcakes, donuts. The second bag was with pies. One of them Donald instantly recognized—his Mom baked exactly the same. The other one was a meat pie.

“I didn’t know what you like. There must be baklava somewhere too.” Reddington put a teakettle on the stove, ignoring the electric one just on his right. “If we want to have Christmas dinner on time, we’d better dress the green lady up in the living room first.”

Concierge of Crime making tea in his kitchen! It’s like a snowstorm in Ecuador.

But there he was, in flesh and bone, humming some Christmas carol.

“You said it was urgent. I’m all ears.” Donald opened the drawer, taking out the box with Christmas lights. 

A number of conflicted and particularly twisted emotions was itching within him right now. The change of the subject seemed the perfect way to cool down.

“Ah, indeed. Must have slipped my mind.” Reddington paused. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

“The FBI works for you already. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but it’s a fact,” Ressler said, trying to untangle the lights’ cord with the bulbs. 

Somehow Reddington knew the exact place Ressler kept the cups and dishes. He unpacked the pie and one of the pizzas and put them in the oven. Then—arranged the muffins, cupcakes and pretzels on the plate. The rest of the goods he hid in one of the cupboards where Ressler kept bread.

Reddington found the teapot Donald hadn’t used since college and added the tea in it.

“Forget the FBI. I need you. You’re the best man for the job. Especially after Laurel’s death.” 

At this point Ressler would love nothing more but to strangle Reddington with the Christmas lights’ cord and, maybe, lit it up. 

Laurel Hitchin had been his nightmare for more than a year. Deep down he knew it had been an accident.

I didn’t mean it, for God’s sake!  

But he didn’t call it in.

Instead, he called a cleaner. 

Like the last piece of thrash on Earth. 

Of course, the luck had turned its back on him. Again. So he, once an honored FBI agent, did a number of unforgivable, horrible things. Bribing witnesses, blackmailing, moving the dead bodies, covering up murders, fabricating evidence… He did all that to keep his secret safe. 

“I was ready to go to jail. I didn’t need your help. And I didn’t ask to burn Prescott alive!”

“That’s why I need you, and no one else,” Reddington put a cup in front of him and sat at the table. “You trust no one but your gut. You’re walking on a tightrope, yet at the end of the day you make the right choice. And you can’t be bribed.” Reddington gave him a wide grin. “And, finally, you’re damn good at what you’re doing.”

“As hundreds of other agents.”

“Donald, don’t be shy,” Reddington took a sip of tea and bit at the ginger-honeyed biscuit. “M-m… Perfect. If you like honey, you’re going to like this one.” Red took another sip. “Think about it.” 

Ressler wanted to refuse at once, but Reddington raised his index finger. Apparently, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

“You have a week.”

Ressler sighed deeply. The cup warmed his hands, but on the inside he felt colder than an iceberg.

He didn’t realized the room was getting filled with the smell of prunes and apricots mixed with pineapples, until it’s aroma tickled his nose.

“Better do a raincheck on that.” Reddington stood up, and went to the oven. 

And Donald was left to fight with his own conscience.

To work? For him?!

The system he always put his trust with had been rotten to the core. It stank of corruption and cover-ups. More and more cases got tossed away if some moneybag threw in some cash here and there. And one could do nothing.

But what Reddington was offering… It crossed everything he woke up for in the mornings.

To seek justice for those who couldn’t do it on their own. And to punish those who deserve it.

But hadn’t he crossed the line one couldn’t go back?

The world wasn’t no longer black and white, good and evil. 

Because Reddington showed him there was much more to it.

And hadn’t he become everything he loathed?

A crooked cop.

There was no way to change that, no matter many scumbags he’d lock up.

No way to erase it. No way to make amends.

Reddington stared at him. There was something in his eyes Ressler couldn’t identify yet.

Empathy?

Understanding?

“I know what you’re thinking, Donald. And no, there are plenty of men capable of a killing job at my hire. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. At least out of the respect how much you value someone’s life.” Reddington paused, looking Ressler straight in the eye. “Even if it’s as miserable as mine.”

Ressler winced at the memory he had once caught a bullet for Reddington.

“You’re my responsibility. No matter how badly I hate your guts, it’s my job to protect you.”

“I know, Donald. And I’m ready to do the same for you.” 

Reddington gave him a long, piercing look. It seemed he was put under the microscope. Ressler could swear his whole body grew Alaska-like cold on the inside.

Donald withstood the overwhelming, almost stripping stare. Though the tide of doubts within was already coming up, ready to gargle him.

He didn’t know what to say. To he honest, he’d always been allergic to this elaborate and confusing mechanism they called a human soul. That was the reason he had almost flunk the exam on profiling.

Reddington theatrically clapped his hands.

“My goodness, the time! Donald, decorate the Christmas tree. We have one hour left. But please, don’t fall from the ladder like last time. Remind me, what was your disguise?.. Ah, the museum curator. An early Picasso hit you really bad on your head, didn’t it? Fun times, fun times indeed…”

It took Ressler a real effort not to roll his eyes on him.

This year’s Christmas seemed fun. Sort of.

Well, at least there was one thing he was still sure of.

You won’t get bored with Raymond Reddington.

[lynchkavinskyparrish]

My piece for the @trcexchange and @soniiq. Hope you like it!!

The Truth About Cats (read on ao3)

What starts as bird envy turns into Kavinsky accidentally dreaming a non-standard pet of his own. K knows nothing about cats, but experience is the best teacher and there's no better way to learn than by starting big.

Ch. 1

Kavinsky rarely slept deeply (he rarely slept at all, but that was beside the point), which meant that he woke up the second he felt a weight on his bed. Within moments Kavinsky was sitting up, gun cocked and loaded, ready to shoot. It had become his standard reaction to being startled awake. It had scared many a hungover party guest, but he was grateful for his quick reaction time. He hadn’t had to use that particular skill as of yet, but he’d been found vulnerable and utterly defenseless while he slept too many times before to take any chances. Besides, the people who mattered knew better than to enter his room, let alone wake him.

That made the unexpected touch even more alarming. As surprised as he was, it took him longer than usual to comprehend what he was seeing. He felt he could be excused for the delay because it had been a long time since he'd last dreamt something unintentionally. Thankfully, what had appeared on his bed was one of the less terrifying of the unintentionals. It still could have had some weird dream power, but he doubted it. It just seemed like a normal cat.

So far, the only abnormal thing about it was its brilliant purple eyes and its size. If what he gathered from how it was draped over his legs was accurate it weighed about 25 pounds and, as his eyes adjusted to the night, it looked to be the size of a small dog. Upon closer examination Kavinsky realized it was neither a small dog nor a big cat, but a normally sized jaguar kitten.

Kavinsky considered killing it while he still had his gun aimed but ultimately decided against it. He lowered his weapon when the creature rolled on its back and swatted at him playfully. That gave him pause and he finally decided to turn on the lights. It had been a while since he’d dreamt anything unintentionally, but it had been at least a decade since he’d dreamt anything even remotely nice unintentionally.

For a moment he just sat there mystified, but eventually he gave in and reached out to pet the cat’s stomach like it wanted. It – a she apparently – immediately latched onto his wrist. Her claws were sharp, and K went to pull away, but she just grabbed his wrist back in and started licking at it. He’d never had a pet before, and he knew fuck-all about cats, but he doubted she was being anything but friendly.  

It was only when Kavinsky saw her golden coat start to gain more black spots that he noticed he was bleeding. He finally liberated his arm from her grasp and looked at it. As he held it up the blood started flowing in rivulets. Bloody wrists and he were well acquainted, though, and he’d grown to like the way his arm looked dripping with blood. After a minute or two he looked away from the sight his wrist had become and tried to take in everything about his new creation. With some intensive thought he was able to determine what had probably caused the dream.

The previous day had been fairly innocuous, but for some reason Ronan’s pet raven was all anybody seemed able to talk about. At first it hadn’t been a big deal - Kavinsky had known about the raven for a long time and thought it was cool enough - but by the end of the day he’d had as much as he could tolerate. People were way too impressed by a stupid bird. Lynch could have created any animal he wanted, and he’d chosen the fucking school mascot.

For a while that had been that, but then it wouldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he’d never created a living being. Sure, he’d forged a couple, but he’d never made one from scratch like Ronan fucking Lynch had done twice over (the dream monsters didn’t count for shit).

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it bothered him. He’d taught Ronan about dreaming. He was in all ways more advanced in the craft than him. Yet now Ronan was the one receiving endless amounts of attention for some pathetic piece of shit dream-bird. He realized the obsession must have seeped into his subconscious or something and made him dream the cat, but he still had no clue what to do with it.

He supposed it wouldn’t be much different than a regular house cat, but he wouldn’t have known what to do with that either. Obviously, she’d need food and a place to shit, but that was the extent of his knowledge; but, while he hadn’t gone to sleep with the intention of taking on any form of responsibility, he had to admit having a jaguar was pretty fucking cool. The awesomeness of it could, quite possibly, make the work worth it.    

He still had no desire to clean up cat shit, but he figured he could dream up some sort of magic plus-sized litterbox and be done with the issue. Then he’d just get steak or fish at the store or something and be good. It seemed simple enough, after all it was just a pet, what could go wrong?

Ch. 2

A lot.

A lot could go wrong apparently.

He'd had the thing for just one weekend and she'd already destroyed his bed. It wasn’t even just torn up either. No, the mattress had literally been shredded while he’d been at school. Scattered in pieces. No longer existent but as a memory.

He wasn’t going to lie, it was pretty damn impressive, but it was even more inconvenient. To punish her Kavinsky had made her go into the backyard, but when he’d gone to let her in, not five minutes later, she’d been gone. Before he’d even had a chance to panic, she’d jumped back over the fence and padded up to him innocently, but she wasn’t alone.

Or, more accurately, she’d brought back a souvenir from her travels. She threw the Chihuahua’s corpse down at his feet with pride and he instantly recognized the gaudy collar. He’d hated his neighbor's yappy little dog from day one, but he hadn’t necessarily wanted it dead and he definitely never wanted to deal with its mangled remains. It was soon a non-issue, though, as the cat grew impatient with him and decided to eat it herself.

K didn’t have a weak stomach, but it was hard not to gag at the sight. Still, her eating it meant he didn’t have to clean it up and he wouldn’t have to worry about feeding her that night, which had become quite the ordeal.

Not only would she only eat certain types of fish and the most expensive cuts of beef, but she also ate A LOT.

Like a metric shit ton.

Money wasn’t an issue (thank god), but that didn’t mean he liked running back and forth to the store every other day.

To make matters worse he hadn’t even had a chance to show her off to his friends yet. Everyone had been too busy with some bullshit or other to stop by but, thankfully, that was about to change. He'd finally gotten everyone to agree to meet at his place that night and had to admit he was proud of his creation.

She may have been a piece of shit that ripped everything apart when he was gone too long, but she was also growing quickly and looked dope as fuck. He planned to start taking her out with him soon, but first he had to dream up some official-looking paperwork, because he just knew that he'd need it (especially considering how many cops had grudges against him). Once he got that done though he planned to take her everywhere. Lynch and his stupid bird would see his cat and piss off.

Just as he was debating whether the irony of getting a Jaguar would be worth abandoning his Mitsu, he heard Jiang's car pull up. The screech of his tires as he slammed to a stop was only slightly less telling than the K-Pop blaring from the car’s speakers. He didn’t bother moving from where he sat nursing a blunt on the couch is his basement, knowing his friends would let themselves in.

Apparently, the noise of the other cars had been covered by Jiang’s obnoxiousness as he heard all of them as they entered his house. They all rushed down the stairs, as carelessly as always, and spilled into the room. Swan immediately went to fall onto the couch next to K, and had to throw himself away at the last second when he heard a menacing growl

For a minute nobody spoke. Kavinsky had nothing to say and the others were having trouble comprehending what they were seeing. Eventually Skov broke the silence, “What the fuck?!”

Before K could supply a response, Swan added onto Skov's statement. “Yeah, man, why the hell is there a fucking tiger on your couch?!”

K couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “It's a jaguar, moron.”

Jiang interjected before Swan could start a fight and said, “Not the fucking point, Kavinsky.”

At that K lit up, letting his apathetic guise fall to explain the glory that was his cat. “She's fucking awesome, right?”

Swan sounded hysterical when he said, “She almost fucking bit me!”

“Well, you almost sat on her.”

“So, I deserve to become lunch?!” When K just shrugged uncaringly, Swan grew even more agitated, pulling at his hair. “What the fuck, K?”

Skov translated Swan's question. “Yeah. Why do you have a damn jungle cat in your basement?”

Kavinsky snorted. “Because she didn’t want to stay outside.”

Swan was not a fan of Kavinsky's snarky response. “Why do you have a fucking leopard at all?!”

“Jaguar.”

With a hiss through clenched teeth Swan rephrased his question caustically. “Why do you have a fucking jaguar?”

Kavinsky just exhaled a large cloud of smoke and shrugged, but before anyone could grow irritated enough to punch him, he explained. “I didn’t plan on it, man. She came out of my damn dreams.” His friends knew better than to ask about his dreams, so they remained silent. “Pretty fucking sick though, yeah?”

Skov and Swan stared at him with varying shades of exasperation and disbelief, but Jiang nodded full-heartedly. “Yeah, she's dope. What’s her name?”

Skov rolled his eyes but gave up trying to fight the idea. “Yeah, it better not be something lame like ‘chainsaw'.”

K scoffed. “She doesn’t have a name.”

Swan saw that there was no changing anything, so he let the strangeness of the situation go, as he frequently had to do when faced with Kavinsky. “That's pretty fucked.”

“What?”

“You can’t just not name your pet, man.”

The cat interrupted K's queued response by batting him with her paw and meowing pointedly.

Swan grew concerned again. “Does she fucking understand English, K?”

K looked at him like he was a complete idiot. “Why the fuck would she know English?”

“I don’t know, maybe because she fucking reacted to what I said?”

“Coincidence.”

Swan let out a relieved snort. “Thank-god man, if you’d made a cat that could understand humans I would’ve–”

“She can.”

“What? I thought you said–"

“I said she doesn’t understand English.”

Swan had to take a deep calming breath. “Imma fucking strangle you if you say she understands Bulgarian or some shit you asshole.”

“I won’t say it then.”

K's habit of being a dick and taking joy out of purposefully misleading people was getting to Swan. He moved to step forward to confront him in a more real manner but stopped, foot in midair, when the cat growled in a warning more severe than the first. “Talk about pussy, you need a fucking cat to protect you.”

Kavinsky’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

After Skov elbowed him, Swan sighed and stepped back. “Nothing, K. Just shit talk.”

“No, no, no. You had something to say, I want to hear it.”

Jiang disagreed. “Just drop it, Kavinsky.”

Kavinsky sat up straight and gave his friends a long, considering look. “You all thinking the same thing?” It was obvious they were, but it was also obviously a rhetorical question. “Well, someone better fucking enlighten me or I’ll ask the cat if she’s hungry.”

The threat wasn’t taken seriously by anyone, but Jiang resented being manipulated. “You know what? Fine. You want to know what Swan meant?”

Skov tried to stop him like he had Swan, but Jiang just gave him a nasty look and continued.

“You think you dream jaguars and guns because you’re a badass, but you’re just fucking scared.” Kavinsky hadn’t said a word, but the cat began growling before Jiang even finished speaking. Jiang just spoke over the noise. “Lynch dreams birds and shit because he can protect them, but you – you can’t even protect yourself. You need to dream shit up for that.”

Kavinsky was shaking with what looked like rage, but when he spoke the tiniest catch in his voice betrayed how deeply he’d been hurt. “Get the fuck out.”

It was clear Jiang had gone too far and had hit close to home with his comment, but it wasn’t something easily undone. They stood there like idiots until the jaguar jumped off the couch and approached them threateningly.

His friends left the basement and within seconds K was alone once again.

Ch. 3

Kavinsky didn’t have to prove anything to anyone – himself included – but he couldn’t help but wonder if Jiang’s comment had a grain of truth to it. Obviously, it wasn’t completely accurate. He was a badass and so were his things, but maybe there was more to it.

The jaguar had been an accident. K had no idea why his subconscious chose that as a pet. All that meant was that he didn’t know for certain that Jiang was wrong. The fact of the matter was that he didn’t go to sleep without his gun and having the cat in the house made him feel safer.

But really, the problem was that his friends had noticed. As unobservant as they were, his fear must have been extremely obvious for them to recognize it. Having unobservant friends was supposed to protect him from such unwelcome insights, but apparently his weakness was just that glaring.

The cat ran from where it had been sleeping on the balcony to the doorway of his room and interrupted his introspection. When she started growling, he stood from his bed. It wasn’t until he heard a knock at the door, however, that he grabbed his gun. No one came to his house and he hadn’t seen his friends for a week (almost a new record), so it was safe to say he wasn’t expecting company.

When he opened the front door, he led with his gun. At the unsurprised, unimpressed, expressions on his friends faces he lowered the weapon, but saw no reason to put it away completely.

“What’re you fucks doing here?”

Proko replied, “Can we come in?”

“No.”

“Come on K, we’re here to make things right. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”  

Kavinsky turned and walked away, but he didn’t close the door, so everyone filed in behind him. They followed him to the kitchen where Swan began an obviously rehearsed speech. “I'm sorry about last week's fight.” The words were so un-swan like it was laughable. “I was really stressed out about my exams and this paper I'm writing, and I just snapped.”

Kavinsky’s was still pissed but Swan’s words, as rehearsed as they were, made it less overwhelming. “That doesn't excuse how I acted, and I promise I won't let it happen again.” It was hard to hold onto his anger quite as tightly when Swan started reading from his hand. “Next time, I'll let you know when I'm tense instead of just going off like that. You're a great friend who deserves better, and I hope you can forgive me. Give gift.”

Swan only noticed how poorly he’d done when Kavinsky started cracking up. Proko violently tossed a plastic convenience store bag at Swan and said, “Good job shithead.”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad!”

Skov cocked his head and spoke sarcastically. “What paper has you so stressed out then?”

“English.”

Kavinsky snorted. “Dude, I’m in your English class. We don’t have a paper.” Swan went to speak, but Kavinsky wasn’t done. With a roll of his eyes and a pointed look between Swan and Jiang he said, “But next time you bitches are on your fucking periods, let me know.”

Jiang grumbled under his breath before grabbing the bag from swan and dumping the contents on Kavinsky’s lap. “Just take your apology gift and shut the fuck up.”

His eyebrow rose judgmentally as he pulled out a white gold necklace as thick as a heavy-duty coil chain. “Not my style.”

Proko rolled his eyes and snatched the chain from Kavinsky’s hands. “It’s not for you, stupid. It’s for her.”

“Lady Caine.”

“What?”

“The cat’s name.” Kavinsky then spoke in Bulgarian and managed to get the cat to sit in front of him so he could put the collar on.

All his friends took a step back when they saw her, surprised at how much she’d grown.

Skov whistled appreciatively, “Shit, K. What’ve you been feeding her? Steroids?”

Swan joked alongside them, but there was an undeniable thread of fear in his voice as he spoke. “Yeah. Looks like she weighs more than me.”

Proko snorted. “And that’s saying something.”

Jiang chimed in above the beginning of their playful bickering, “It must be some dream shit. That’s not a normal jaguar size.”

Kavinsky shrugged while adjusting Lady Caine’s new collar. “I don’t know, but she’s a beast. You should see her in the jag.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Jaguar F-Type Convertible V8 R AWD.”

“You got rid of the Mitsu?”

“No. The Jag’s for Lady Caine.”

Swan rolled his eyes. “You’re pussy whipped.”

“Whatever, I just don’t want her fucking up the evo. I don’t give a shit about the jag.”

“Are we gonna see it?”

“What?”

“The car, dumbass.”

Kavinsky stood and started walking towards the garage. Halfway there he turned around to address his friends. “Coming or what?”

They joined him on his path out to the car with Lady Caine trailing behind leisurely, grudges relinquished and friendships repaired.

Swan’s apology was a far cry from perfect, but it was genuine, which was worth much more.

“For real though, K?” Swan’s voice carried over the chatter. “We have a paper due Monday.”

Well fuck.