#but then again the other half of the issue is two giant mud monsters just absolutely going at it

[theodore-sallis]

Giant-Size Man-Thing (Vol. 1/1974), #1.

Writer: Steve Gerber; Penciler: Mike Ploog; Inker: Frank Chiaramonte; Colorist: Petra Goldberg; Letterer: John Costanza

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

A ROTTMNT Fantasy Fic: Coin

Characters: Donnie and Raph

Summary: It’s easy to jump to conclusion sometimes. It’s what you do afterwards that makes the difference

added note: this is a fic i wrote for @void-inked-pen during the holidays, i’m hoping by spreading out my holiday stories i can stay on break longer

Word Count:1447

Pairing

Rating G

“You know, you don’t have to do look out every night.”

It was only because he could sense Raph approaching from behind that Donnie didn’t jump out of his skin and (try) to knock him out with his hooked staff. “I’m used to uneven sleeping hours. That and Leo is still having trouble adjusting to his new….’lifestyle.’” Which was a way of saying the pampered prince wasn’t used to sleeping somewhere different every night. Mikey had offered to take up look out one night and it was only through constant begging that Raph and Donnie caved and let him try. But it had proven too tiring for the youngest turtle, who Donnie had found a few hours later sleeping at his post with a bandit poking through his pocket.

Which of course left Raph and Donnie.

Raph should have been asleep by now, but without looking up from his tin cup he hears Raph shuffle slightly as though he had social ants in his pants. With a dip of his head, he invites Raph closer. The snapping turtle shuffled closer before sitting on the log that Don had perched by. It was a unspoken truth between them that, out of their brothers, that Raph and Donnie felt the most uncomfortable around each other. Which was saying something considering Donnie and Leo’s history. But at least the two middle children had found a place in each other’s lives formed by both their past with Big Mama and everything that happened with the Mud Dogs. And no one in their right mind could dislike Mikey who, despite having some boundary issues, was as bright and warm as the sun his powered-up eyes reflected.

Then there was Raph and Donnie.

A bounty hunter and a thief.

But Donnie was used to awkward situations. So as he sips from his hot coffee and enjoys watching his breath turn into mist, he was only vaguely aware of Raph tapping his foot or tapping his fingers together like a anxious archer getting ready to make a shot. He didn’t have all night or want Raph to keep stewing in his own misery, so he took the initiative. “It’s fine Raph, I forgive you.”

It was almost funny to see the snapping turtle jump and look at him in surprise. “I-how-“

“Because you’ve been a proverbial bag of nerves ever since it happened Raph. Please stop torturing yourself. You’re a bounty hunter, you acted on your instincts.” Though it was Donnie’s own instincts that made him curl his forearm tighter to his chest.

(#)(#)\/(#)(#)

Next thing Donnie knew his out held arm is suddenly in Raph’s hand, pulling him around to look in his half panicked, if angry, eyes; like a panicked parent who had caught a thief child juggling knives, or dragon eggs. Raph turned over Donnie’s wrist to reveal copper coins bunched up in his hand. “What are you doing?!” Raph demanded in a hushed whisper, “You can't be pickpocketing when you’re traveling with us. What if someone saw you?!”

Don blinked, and it’s only when he started to notice the pain radiating from his arm he said, “What are you talking about?�� Donnie demanded between his teeth.

A familiar olive green hand, lacking even more familiar rings, grabs a hold of Raph’s finger drawing both of them to the illusionist now pulling back on Raph’s finger, under his dark blue hood yellow eyes glared at Raph. “Let. Him. Go,” he said in a quiet voice dripping with venom. “Now.”

Maybe it was the shock of seeing Leo there, but Raph looks to where Donnie had been standing, finally noticing the old woman sitting on the ground dressed in rags and a dirty chipped bowl that had a few meager coins in it, whose trembling hand had been raised to take the coins from Donnie’s hand but were now recoiled at the conflict. Donnie takes advantage of Raph’s shock and pulled his arm free before kneeling down. “Here you go grandmother,” he said making sure to place the coins in her hand, closing her other hand over it. “Tomorrow will be better,” he promised her before standing up. Leo’s at his side a moment later, trying to roll up Don’s sleeve to check for bruising but Donnie brushes his hands aside with a gentle pat on the head. “Thanks for your help,” he said with sincerity before walking away. Leaving Raph to watch after him, and even though he doesn’t look back, Raph presses his hand over his face in regret.

(#)(#)(#)(#)

Donnie is not used to having flashbacks, but he blames that on the reason he jumps when he is suddenly lifted off the ground to sit on the fallen log by Raph’s side, “Raph-!” he says but the bounty hunter is already rolling up his sleeve. Donnie would have to have ANOTHER talk about personal space and boundaries-

He had checked his arm earlier, and though the spots where Raph’s fingers had made contact were dark, they hadn’t swollen up. But that apparently was of little comfort to Raph whose face twists up in regret. “I’m so sorry Doniel,” he says, already digging through his bag. It's strange for Donnie to see such a large figure tremble so bad. He tries to put a hand on his arm but Raph has already pulled out a roll of bandages. Donnie barely has time to pull his arm away before he finally grabs Raph by the shoulders, “Raph. Stop,” he commands as gently as he can.

The bounty hunter finally looks him in the eyes, his dark green eyes swimming in a sea of unshed tears. “I-Ii’m sorry,” Raph says in a cracking voice, “I-I didn’t’-I saw you with money and I just-I didn’t even see the woman, I-,“ Raph’s voice cracks with a sob, “I-I just saw you with the money and cause you-you’re a thief I jus-“ Raph presses both hands over his mouth as he dips his head down. Struggling to keep himself quiet. Donnie glances into the cave they’ve been sleeping in to make sure Raph’s surging emotions haven’t woken Mikey up. But the messenger just yawns and latches onto Leo in his sleep.

Donnie takes Raph by the shoulders, and tips his forehead down to touch Raph’s, guiding him up to force eye contact. “Did you bruise me on purpose?”

“N-No-“

“Did you act because you were scared I was doing something to endanger the safety of our brothers?”

Raph opens his mouth again but is unable to get the words to come out and can only setting for a nod. Donnie reaches his hands up to gently hold the back of Raph’s head, keeping it in place. “No more apologizing. No more guilt. It happened; people make mistakes. And if I forgive you then there’s nothing more you can do than forgive yourself right.” He wraps his arm around Raph’s shoulders and guides him into a hug.

Raph’s larger than life arms immediately wrap around him tightly, like a child clinging to a lost stuffed animal in a nightmare. “I-I’m not a monster?” he whispers, as though he was too afraid of the answer to ask any louder, Donnie shakes his head “Of course not big guy.” Raph gives a shudder of relief before he starts weeping into Donnie's shoulder as Donnie strokes the back of his head, resting his cheek against Raph’s head.

After a few minutes the weeping finally stops, but Donnie doesn’t release his hug on Raph until he feels the giant start to pull away, wiping his eyes on his sleeves as though trying to hide all traces of his momentary weakness. Donnie tilts his head to get a better look at Raph’s face. “Can you forgive yourself now?”

“I-I’ll try,” Raph asks in a trembling voice, pausing for a moment, “If-if you’ll let me take over lookout for the rest of the night.”

Normally Donnie would have argued that Raph had done look out the night before. But there’s only a few more hours in the night, and he knows this is the only thing that will help absolve Raph of his remaining guilt. “Alright big guy,” he says standing up, patting the snapping turtle on his shoulder and moving back into the cave. He picks a spot on the floor on Leo’s other side. The moment he lays down, Leo sleepily rolls over, (despite his cuddle hostage situation with Mikey) and rests his cheek on Don’s shoulder. Don can’t help but chuckle to himself, taking a moment to make sure both Leo and Mikey are still covered by blankets before wrapping himself up in his cloak and closing his eyes.

[tripleaxeldiaz]

happy 2nd day of halloween!! this is @hearteyesforbuck​‘s fault

(also on ao3)

“Buck?”

“Yeah buddy?”

“Do you know any scary stories?”

Buck sighs as he leans back against Chris’ headboard, Chris burrowing a little deeper into his side. They’ve already read two chapters of Harry Potter, but maybe one more story wouldn’t hurt…

“Are you sure you can handle it, bud? It’s pretty scary.”

“Yes! It’s Halloween tomorrow, Buck, please please please.”

The issue was, he really didn’t know any scary stories. He was never into them as a kid, didn’t really care for horror movies, so his ghost stories were pretty limited unless he made something up on the spot. He and Eddie were in the middle of binging a supernatural TV show, so...maybe...

“Okay, okay. It actually happened here in California, right before you were born.”

Chris was already enthralled, sitting up straighter to look at Buck, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. There was a big search going on for a missing girl, and two teenagers heard about it and wanted to get in on the action.”

“They went looking too?”

“Uh huh, in the darkest part of the woods, on the night of a full moon, when all the creepiest monsters come out.” He was trying to keep it as PG-13 as possible, but Chris looked more excited than scared, so he figured he was doing okay. “They spent all night looking, surrounded by strange noises getting louder and louder, like something was closing in on them, ready to pounce.”

“Did they find her?” Chris asked.

Buck nods solemnly. “But not all of her. They only found her,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “from the waist up.”

Chris gasps, nervously giggling as he wraps his blanket tighter around him. Buck is fully prepared to make it an it was all a dream story, but Chris just pushes forward. “Then what happened?”

“They screamed, of course, and  ran away as fast as they could, so they didn’t get cut in half next. But they got separated in the dark, and while one of the boys kept running, he heard the strange noises again, right behind him, like he was being chased.” Chris is in full blanket burrito mode now, but bouncing where he sits in excitement.

Buck really hopes Eddie doesn’t kill him for this.

“He started running faster and faster, through trees and mud, when all of a sudden…” Buck lets out an almighty roar, tickling Chris who is, thankfully, blessedly, laughing like crazy. “A giant wolf, eight feet tall with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, tackled him to the ground and bit him, right here,” he says as he pretends to take a bite out of Chris’ stomach. Chris laughs breathlessly a little longer before settling down again. He’s still smiling slightly, but he does burrow back into Buck, who runs a soothing hand through his curls. 

“So what happened to him? Did he die?”

“No, he didn’t die. He turned into a werewolf, doomed for the rest of time to be half man, half wolf, and uncontrollable under the light of the full moon.”

“Whoa,” Chris whispers. “Did he bite people too?”

“Not on purpose. He mostly kept his friends and his town safe from bad guys.”

“Like a superhero?”

Buck chuckles. “Yeah, a furry superhero.”

“What about the other boy? What happened to him?” Chris asks through a yawn, eyes falling shut and head dropping onto Buck’s arm.

“He helped his friends too, as much as he could as a human. He also met another werewolf with very broody eyebrows and they fell in love.”

“That’s nice,” Chris says, right before he starts snoring softly. 

Buck settles Chris into bed, shutting the door quietly behind him as he leaves. He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears a throat clear behind him, turning to see Eddie, glowing eerily in the moonlight and looking less than impressed.

“Jesus, how did you sneak in like that!”

Eddie just stares back. He doesn’t need to say anything — Buck knows he must have heard at least part of his story.

“Look, in my defense, he asked for something scary. And it’s Halloween tomorrow! How could I say no to that?”

“You couldn’t have thought of anything better than the plot of Teen Wolf?”

“That first episode is creepy and you know it!”

Eddie rolls his eyes as he turns toward their bedroom. “If he has nightmares about wolves and can’t sleep alone, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Chris does wake up in the middle of the night, claims he heard howling outside his window. Eddie doesn’t actually kick Buck out, just settles Chris between them, an arm securely over them both.

“Buck?” Chris whispers. Buck hums back, eyes still closed. “Can the werewolves get us here?”

“No, buddy,” he says, wrapping his own arm around him. “They’re a few counties over, they won’t come all the way here.” He smothers a yelp when he feels Eddie pinch his side.

“But if they do come here,” Chris pushes, “you’ll protect us, right?”

Buck opens his eyes at that, sees Chris looking at him earnestly and Eddie looking at him in that soft way he always does when Chris asks him things like this, things that remind them that they’re a family. Buck smiles at Chris, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead while his hand drifts to Eddie’s hip, squeezing lightly.

“Of course I’ll protect you. Both of you. Always. I promise.”

[chocolateheart]

My life is gone

Title: My life is gone

Word count: 2518

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader (friendship)

Summary: You lost him. Now you have to deal with pain, heartbreak and memories.

Warnings: angst, death, dead body, losing someone, losing faith and hope, suicidal thoughts, dealing with loss, a hint of depression, heartbreak, a mention of eating disorders and sleeping issues, in general - mental disorders caused by losing someone.

A/N: This is my one shot for @deanwanddamons 1k followers celebration. My prompt was "Though my heart is broken, it keeps breaking everyday." but I couldn't stop myself from using some other lyrics of the song. They are written in italics. I’m far away from being the angst queen or an amazing writer for that matter but I did my best! I hope you’ll like it :)

A/N: Thank you to my lovely beta and friend @winchest09 for taking a moment to look at this and assuring me that posting this won't be an insult on the angst. Love you, girl!

A/N: @talesmaniac89 thank you so so so much for those gorgeous dividers!

You didn’t know how long you’ve been sitting there. Maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. You didn’t really care. Nothing mattered anymore. 

Your body went numb from not moving, your chest was barely rising as you almost completely forgot that you have to breathe. Wet trails on your cheeks from streams of tears, eyes red and pinching, your eyelids heavy from a pulsing headache. You were feeling sick and you were sure that if you’d puke, it would burn your sore throat; you were screaming loud as indescribable pain was rending your chest. 

Your knees hurt after hours of being dug into the ground. Your spine was begging to be straightened, your cold skin was yelling for even a little bit of warmth. The clothes you were wearing got soaked and heavy from rain, wet hair stuck to your face and neck; thunder from another upcoming storm shook the earth. But you didn’t listen. The only sound you wanted to hear was his voice as that you would listen to; you would go to hell if this voice asked you to. 

Opening your eyes you knew what you were going to see; but it didn’t stop you. You blindly believed that it’s just some stupid nightmare and when you wake up he would smile at you and calm you down. But it didn’t happen. 

Dean’s cold body lay on the mudded ground, wet and dirty. Head limply turned to the side, eyes closed, lips parted slightly. You stared at his chest for a few agonizingly long seconds, waiting for it to rise up; for him to inhale. A pained grimace appeared on your face when you, once again, realised it wouldn’t happen; he won’t breathe. 

You lifted your head up to the dark sky and yelled from deep within your lungs as another painful wave went through your body. You punched the ground, kneeling next to him, splashing the mud; furious, mad and broken. Then you crowled to him weakly, taking his inert head in your hands, crying and whining. You brushed away his wet hair from his face, leaving dirty lines from your fingers. 

“Dean,” you choked yet again and rubbed your thumbs on his cheekbones. He felt so cold and hard, almost like it wasn’t him. “Baby, please,” you whimpered. “Talk to me…open your eyes.” You waited with stupid hope but again, nothing happened. Crying loudly you pulled him to your chest and hugged tight.

Those eyes. Those full of life, green orbs that would shimmer every time he saw you. They would shine in the sunlight, they were glistening in the evening when you sat together in front of the fireplace, darkening under the cover of the night when the two of you were making love, confessing how much you meant to each other. Green crystals which were the most valuable stones for you. Those eyes will never smile at you again.

Drowning in agony you started shaking, you felt your every cell shattering, falling into million pieces. You were bleeding inside, your heart was screaming, burning from anguish. Your hands fisted his jacket, you clawed to him like you were planning to never let go, like it was supposed to protect you from losing yourself completely. 

Protect you from darkness. 

Suddenly you got stiff. You pulled away, put his head back on the ground and touched his cheek. You tilted your head, your eyes flicking over those familiar features. Gold freckles shedded on his face, light scruff running along his jawline, long lashes you were so jealous of. He was your treasure. Your anchor, your shelter, your home and your safe harbor. He gave you strength, power, a will to wake up every morning, to fight with evil. He gave a sense to your life. 

Who were you without that?

An empty vessel ready to give up. 

Staring at his lifeless figure you turned off your brain; you turned off your whole system. You didn’t cry, scream, you closed yourself on this torture that was waiting to hit you. The only one thing you let get to you was Dean. Memories flashed in front of your eyes; every moment with him, bad or good, every time you shared your thoughts, dreams and plans, you held each other, protected the other; saving lifes, hunting things. 

You have been writing your book since you were twelve and he saved your life. Now you couldn’t save him. Was this supposed to be the last chapter?

“Y/N,” Sam’s broken voice was barely audible in the hum of a rainstorm you hadn’t noticed started. “It’s time.”

Your lower lip wobbled, you were not able to hold back tears and pained whimper as realisation of what comes next hit you. You bent down, closed your eyes and placed a small kiss on his forehead, putting your hand on his heart. For the last time you prayed to feel even the slightest beat under your fingers.

Nothing.

8 months later

"Hey…"

You jerked, detached from the dark world you had drowned in again when Sam spoke, leaning against the door frame.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to scare you,” you looked at him, noticing his worried expression. It wasn’t the first time he found you like this; sitting numbly on your bed, staring into the space. 

“That’s okay,” you said, sending him a small smile which he gave back.

“I left some pizza for you.” Just now you noticed the plate with a few pieces of italian food on it being offered to you by Sam .

Patting the bed you invited him to sit down next to you. You took the plate and stared at the food. You needed the fuel, you knew that; your stomach was sucking itself, grumbling every so often. You had lost a lot of weight, your skin was hanging on bones, your muscles were weak; but you didn’t care. Finding enough will to do something with yourself was impossible. Because, what was the point?

Your point of living was dead. And the only one reason you were still breathing, holding to this life with last strands, was this giant right in front of you. 

“Y/N, please,” Sam whispered and you looked up at him. His sad eyes were begging you to come back. “You have to eat.” You huffed a sad laugh.

“I can’t, Sam.” Putting the plate on the sheets you pulled your knees to the chest. “I can’t swallow anything.”

“It’s not good for you, Y/N/N.”

His voice was so sad and weak that for a second you felt like a bitch for doing this to him. But then you noticed the dark spots under his eyes, attenuate face, sharp cheekbones and glassy, heavy brown orbs. You weren’t the only broken person in this bunker. Not thinking much, you pulled him into a hug, wrapping your hands around his neck as he closed you in his. You both needed this as only you two understood the pain. 

“I’m worrying about you,” he murmured and you smiled.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He squeezed you harder but you pulled away. “But…” he looked at you, cupping your cheeks, checking your face; you knew it was pale and your eyes bloody. “Sam, there is no point to worry.”

“Y/N,” he started the defense, shaking his head.

“Listen to me,” you cut him off and looked in his eyes, feeling your own starting to tear up. “I’m dead, Sammy.” 

He flinched, because of both what you said and how you called him; nobody had used this nickname since that night.

“Stop talking like that,” he warned you but you just smiled.

“You miss him too, I know that. And I know that you suffer, but…” you searched for proper words. “Sam, I lost… that night took away everything from me. In two months it’ll be a year and every day I am losing another piece of what’s left inside.” You touched your chest. “I can’t sleep and when I do, I have nightmares. After I wake up, the fact that he’s not here kicks me again and again. I see him everywhere, he never leaves my mind and it hurts. So much of him is left behind. There are moments I even expect him to walk into the room. But he won’t.” You shook your head and sniffed, feeling tears on your cheeks. 

“But it doesn’t mean you have to be a zombie, Y/N.”

“It does, Sam… Because he was my life…” you felt another wave of pain slowly spreading all over you. “And my life is gone.”

There were not many reasons for you to get out of your room. Sometimes you were so hungry it was unbearable, so you would visit the kitchen, steal some fruit or some leftovers. Bathroom was a must, so was a bar full of whiskey; you were torturing yourself with its taste as it reminded you of Dean but it was also an escape.

You didn’t see the outside world for half a year, every 24 hours of the last six months you spent in the bunker. You weren’t sure if you remembered how to hunt. Sam reduced the amount of cases, he didn’t have much more strength than you. At the beginning you were going through books, papers and the internet, making calls, catching witches and every monster that could know something; just to find a way to bring Dean back. All you got was a collection of dead ends, so you quit and locked yourself in your room. You couldn’t do it anymore, not without him. 

After weeks of crying, screaming, falling apart and fighting with nightmares; yearning for him got so intense that only feeling him would stop you from suicide. So one night, in the middle of the panic attack, you rushed out of your room, stumbling and shaking. Inhaling shallowly, you hit his door before you opened it and dropped to your knees in his room. His scent surrounded you, deepening the wound in your heart but healing the longing at the same time. You struck the drawers, picked up his shirt and held it to your nose, inhaling deeply. That’s how Sam found you, clutching Dean’s shirt on the floor, crying silently. 

Since then you were doing this regularly, not sure why. You were floating around every place you ever walked and everywhere you talked. The Impala that stood unused since her owner didn’t come back. You could spend hours there, sitting in the corner of the passenger seat, staring at the place he used to sit in while you were driving down the road. His wide smile on his face while he sang along with old tapes...

The kitchen where you cooked together, the library table you occupied while cleaning weapons or doing research, or drinking. The map table you threw your bags on after coming back from hunt. Dean’s cave where hours of movies were watched and boxes of pizza were emptied. Your room, your bed where the two of you exchanged your love so many times you forgot the life before being with him. 

One day screaming and crying wasn’t enough. The burden was so heavy you needed to get this all out of you or you were sure the first bullet you’d shoot since that night will end your suffering. Finding a piece of paper and a pen you wrote down everything that what was biting you, addressing the letter to Dean. You didn’t finish it right away; from time to time you would add a new sentence or paragraph, writing letters that you’ll never send and he’ll never see. 

Every line was full of emotions, full of pain and memories. Feelings you wanted to reveal, all those words you wanted him to hear. Letters were your pain, tears were your dots. 

The agony went on and on, slowly killing you inside, leaving behind just a walking vessel. If not for Sam, you would have ended this a long time ago but he gave you this little, tiny kick to wake up the next day. But it didn’t mean the suffering was smaller. Actually, sometimes he made it worse. Watching Sam dealing with his brother's death, the death of the man who raised him, who was a home, a strength, a family - it was just another dagger stuck in your heart. Their bond was one of the most incredible, beautiful things you've seen in your life and now it was broken too. 

Finally, you even got to the point where you were laying on your bed, blankly staring at your phone. It didn’t make any sense and you knew it but you wanted to see his name on the screen so bad that your fingers started trembling. Entering any room in the bunker gave you this stupid, false hope he'd be there. You realised how this place was full of him, how wherever your eyes laid on, it reminded you of Dean. And just then you understood - no matter what you do or where you go, it will haunt you. The feeling of loss, of emptiness, of nonsense. The feeling of regret and guilt that you didn't save him, didn't bring him back. 

"I thought I was strong…" you muttered one day, sitting at the library table, bringing Sam's attention to you. He frowned and looked at you, slightly shaking his head. 

"What?" You tightened the grip on the mug with already cold tea inside and with the corner of your eye you noticed him standing up, then sitting on the chair right next to you. "Hey…" he put a hand on your thigh, assuring you it's okay to speak up.

"I thought I was strong, Sam. I thought I could deal with it, I was telling myself it's just a matter of time and it'll be okay, it'll be normal. Time heals the pain right?" you chuckled pitifully. "But…" you swallowed the lump in your throat. "But it's not better at all, Sammy," you whimpered and looked at him.

Tears in your eyes, worry and pain in his. You opened your mouth but before the right words came out, he managed to brush single drops away from your cheeks with his thumbs, giving you a sad smile. 

"Though my heart is broken… it keeps breaking everyday," you cried out and in a second Sam pulled you into his arms, closing in a tight hug. You clawed at his shirt and allowed yourself to ugly cry, wetting the material. He was shushing you, stroking your hair as you were shaking in his arms. "I can't… I can't take it anymore. I- I can't." 

"Shhh, Y/N… it's okay. We'll figure something out," he promised but you knew Sam himself had stopped believing in it. 

There was no more hope, no faith. You tried everything; there was no door left that you could try to walk through. It was the end. 

Your end. 

There was nothing left except the pain. And the only person who could take this pain away, was the one causing it.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it. Feel free to leave some feedback, every word from you is gold :) 

Tags: @deanwanddamons @katehuntington @jay-and-dean @winchest09 @talesmaniac89 @roonyxx @bunkerconfessions @akshi8278 @snffbeebee​

If you want to be on my tag list, shoot me in asks or DMs!

[fight-surrender]

Howlin’ Forever Chapter 3: Into the Woods

Rating: Teen and Up

Word count: 2583

Read on AO3

Summary: “Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice.”

Time for Baz to find a werewolf. 

(I did put a readmore cut in here on my desktop, I’m terribly sorry to clog your feed if it doesn’t transfer to mobile.) Thanks as always to my amazing friends, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz​, @vkelleyart​ @penpanoply​ for their unwavering support and encouragement and beta reading and omg @penpanoply​ made me this cover art which is fucking gorgeous and brilliant and perfect. <3 <3

        _________________________________________________

                                       Ch 3: Into the Woods

                                   You and me have a disease,                                   You affect me, you infect me,                                   I'm afflicted, you're addicted,                                      You and me, you and me

                                  - “Infected” by Bad Religion

 Baz:

Panting, I scramble to the window. The night seems to be holding its breath, silently waiting as a quiet splash draws my eyes to the moat. The merwolves are eerily calm, almost reverent, as they bear witness to the hulking bronze figure that cuts through the water. The creature emerges from the moat, shaking off moonlit water droplets. He howls again, sending my heart into a renewed frenzy. The wolf then turns and runs into the forest.

I wipe my hands across my face, then rake them through my hair.

What should I do? What should I do?

Should I go after him? Leave him be? Where is he going? Does he even know?

The drawbridge is closed. I’m too frazzled to manage a spell to get around it. Sleep isn’t an option tonight. My eye catches on the pile of books Malfoy sent over. At least Hogwarts still has a fully stocked library, not the Children’s Garden of Verses we have here at Watford. I take a copy of “Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them,” a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and settle onto my bed to try and focus on the pages.

***

  Sunrise turns the room pink as I realize I’ve been reading the same paragraph for half an hour. I have no idea what it says. The only information I’ve retained from this exercise is that the full moon phase can last up to about four days. The transformation seems to last longer in the newly Turned. Also, there is a potion called Wolfsbane that helps lessen the effects of the Lycanthropy.

A heavy thunk, followed by the clatter of gears indicates the drawbridge is coming down.

I snap the book shut with one hand and stand up.

Time to find a werewolf.

 ***

 It’s a good thing it’s the weekend. I certainly wouldn’t miss class to hike through the woods after this imbecile. Branches slap my face as I stomp along, following Snow’s tracks. He’s left an obvious trail of broken limbs, scratched soil and huge footprints. My vampire senses come in handy as well. His scent is different in this form. He still smells like smoke, but now there’s a wildness, a smell of petrichor and moss with hints of musk.

My mind is a swirl of thoughts, but I can’t settle on any single one. Simon, the Chosen One, Watford’s golden boy is now a monster. Technically, he’s not allowed to exist. Neither am I, for that matter, I’m well versed in keeping my secret. The question is what’s Simon going to do with this information? He’s so damned good, he could very well just turn himself in to the mage as soon as he resumes his human form. I’ll be damned to hell twice over before I let him throw his life away like that. I will stop him, even if I have to put a collar on him and chain him to the bed. (That actually sounds appealing, regardless of his reaction to his new condition.)

Simon’s scent gets stronger as I approach a dried creek bed. I slow down, treading lightly across scattered stones and debris, trying not to make a sound. An angry squirrel chitters at me from a branch above my head. If I had the time or inclination, I’d drain him out of spite. At least squirrel blood tastes better than rat.

I stop short as I come around a boulder, on the other side is the hulking form of Simon Snow. Rather, the were version of him. His breath is till heaving, but he seems to be asleep. During the frenzied events of last night, I hadn’t a chance to really get a look at him.  He’s huge, probably the size of a Shetland pony. He doesn’t exactly look wolfish, his muzzle is not so pointed, his ears flop down. He looks like, well he looks like an overgrown, shaggy, bronze-furred Golden Retriever. For snakes sake, of course Simon Snow would turn into a Golden; cheerful, loyal, lovely dogs that they are. He’s too good to even be a proper monster. Crowley. I roll my eyes and shake my head in wonder.

Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice. Not quite so Golden-esque then.

Before I can pull my wand from my sleeve, he lunges at me, but immediately falls to the ground. He growls again and turns to bite at something behind him. I step back to a safer distance and see that the beast’s foot is caught in some kind of debris. Snow flails and thrashes, but eventually collapses, exhausted, panting.

I try to approach him, now that he’s tired, and am met once again with that malevolent, dead stare and a mouth full of giant teeth. And, I might add, horrific dog breath.  I back away into the forest to think. That thing, it is Simon. I can’t exactly leave him out here for the next three days, but how can I spell him free and somewhere safe until he goes back to human form? There are dog training spells, but what would “atta boy” do to the human part of his brain? I suppose I could spell him to sleep, but how do I get him back to our room? I don’t have the magic to transport him.

What if I could get him to trust me? Physically, he’s a giant pet dog. What’s the best way to train a dog? Positive reinforcement: Food. What’s the way to Simon Snow’s heart? Food.  

I turn and run back to Watford. It’s time to call in a favor with Cook Pritchard.

 ***

 Thank magic no one is around when I haul the giant wicker picnic basket Cook Pritchard loaded up for me across the great lawn. She gave me enough food for an army. The woman was well chuffed that I was having a picnic with “friends.” She acted as if I hadn’t any friends.  “Well that’s lovely, Basilton, so nice to see you coming out of your shell.” Cook even tucked a small bottle of dandelion wine into the basket, “to help break the ice.” She actually winked at me. I wanted to implode.

I have friends. Sure, half of them are family, but still. You only need one or two friends, anything more isn’t worth the effort.

I carry the basket through the wood. I feel like I’m on my way to a goth Victorian picnic. I stop periodically to drain a few squirrels, just for spite.  The resident dryad side eyes me as I pass her thicket. I ignore her.

“What do you seek, blood eater?” She hisses. Twirling her ridiculous umbrella. Butterflies swirl lazily around her mossy hair.

“None of your business.” I reply.

“Your pistil is a wolf.” She remarks.

“He’s not my anything.” I snarl, “And he’s not a wolf, he’s a Golden Retriever.”

“The Chosen One is an abomination,” she presses. “The children of the moon must die.”

I light a fire in my palm. “Is that so?” I drop my voice to a menace, “maybe I should take out this whole forest in the process.”

“Do what you must. The forest will regrow. He cannot live.” She calls my bluff.

“You know what? You can fuck off.” I say, frustrated.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. “Enough. We’re done here.” I sling the giant basket over my shoulder and stomp away.

I’ll be staked before I take advice from a woodland creature holding a parasol. Snow has as much of a right to live as I do. More so, he’s not dead. Fuck the dryad.

I finally make it back to the creek bed. Dog-Simon looks vaguely defeated, laying on his side, his back leg stretched behind him. I can see a length of rusty wire wrapped around his foot. He’s awake, wary eyes never leaving mine, a low growl rumbles in his chest.

I settle myself on the ground a safe distance away. I’m wearing my school-issue green Watford football trackie bottoms and sweatshirt. Coach Mac will probably not appreciate werewolf damage to the practice uniform. My trainers are caked with mud. I sigh. The things I do for love.

The basket creaks as I open it. The sound makes Snow get up and retreat as far as the wire around his leg will let him. His tail is down, ears back; he’s panting lightly.

I pull out the bottle of dandelion wine and take a swig, to calm my nerves. It’s bitter, with a faint floral overtone, and just enough bite to warm my chest. I take a deep breath and survey the contents of my picnic. The basket is overflowing with roast beef sandwiches, sour cherry scones, roast chicken, bacon butties, jellies, and inexplicably a layered trifle. She must have magicked it all in there.

It’s just me and the dog, and I missed breakfast, so I help myself to a roast beef sandwich. Snow’s ears tip forward and he sits down. Sniffing the air.

I toss a bit of my sandwich at him, he scrambles away with a surprised bark. Almost immediately, he cautiously noses forward, sniffing at the roast beef. He sits down again, without eating it and resumes watching me, panting. His teeth are huge.

“For fucks sake, Simon, it’s not like it’s poisoned.”

The dog’s ears perk up and he cocks his head at me. His mouth is closed, brows almost furrowed in concentration.

“Go on then lad,” I press, “roast beef is your favorite.” I remind myself to breathe.

Snow resumes panting, but lowers his nose again at the food. He nudges it, then takes an experimental bite. Apparently satisfied that the offering wasn’t going to kill him, the great dog swallows the rest. Licking his lips, he retreats to his original position, as far away from Baz as he can get.

I toss half a sandwich into his orbit.

“There you go Snow, I know you can’t walk away from half a sandwich.”

Once again Dog-Simon sits, cocks his head and looks at me. I’m probably imagining it, but his eyelids almost seem to squeeze a bit, in concentration. He cautiously walks my way, never taking his eyes off me, and eats the sandwich half in one bite. This time he doesn’t shy away, he sits, panting again and watches me.

I toss him the other half of the sandwich, which he catches in the air and eats with more gusto. He’s watching me again, this time I get a weak tail wag.

I unwrap the roast chicken and throw the whole thing at him. It lands with an unceremonious plop, a leg breaking free. Simon stands and practically inhales the whole thing. His tail is wagging faster now.

We go on like this for the duration of the afternoon. I’m slowly inching closer, I can almost touch his muzzle now. He seems more relaxed, the panting has stopped. His ears are forward, tail wagging freely. His eyes have gone softer, from ice to sky.

I reach into the basket for a sour cherry scone, I’ve been saving these for this moment. I scoot even closer, holding it in my hand this time. He’s so close, he could easily rip my throat out. It’s not often I have to worry about someone ripping out my throat. It’s refreshing, really. I suppose there are worse ways to die.

“Simon, we’re going to have to work together to figure this mess out. If there is any part of you that can hear me, let me help you. I mean, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but…” My voice tapers off. Why would he trust me? Crowley, I’ve done nothing but torment him for the last 6 years.

A gentle breeze ruffles the golden leaves above me. “We be of one blood, ye and I.” I murmur. A warm rush of surprise washes over me. Where the fuck did that even come from? Kipling was a powerful magician, but is that even a spell? Leave it to me to channel my favorite childhood book in times of duress.

I take a breath and hold out the scone. Simon noses forward, sniffs, and carefully takes the scone from my hand. He doesn’t move away. I keep my eyes on him as I slowly reach for the basket and remove another scone. I hold it in my hand, when he takes it, I reach out with my other hand and run it behind his ear, rubbing along his jaw. He stiffens, but continues to eat the scone. “These are your favourite,” I whisper, scratching behind his ear, rubbing slowly along his neck and shoulder. Eventually, I find myself out of scones and scratching his stomach, while his tongue lolls and he scratches his back leg lazily.

I take a break because my hands are cramping from all the petting. I really hope he doesn’t remember any of this. I shake my hands and look at the grime under my nails. I’m going to need a manicure.

Simon stands and gives a mighty shake from his nose to his feathered, rudder-like tail. He utters a sharp bark, like he’s decided something, then proceeds to try and climb into my lap, his huge pink tongue lapping my face.

“Merlin and Morgana, you giant thumping git, get off. I push him away, but not too far. He knocks me to the ground and licks my whole face. For snakes sake, you’re disgusting, I get to my feet wiping saliva off my chin and trying not to smile. Simon’s tail is wagging so hard his whole body is wiggling and he’s rubbing along my side, trying to get me to scratch his back. I oblige for a moment.

“Snow, stop, let’s get your leg untangled.”  He stands so quietly as I extricate his leg from the wire, that I can’t help but wonder if he understood me.

Once freed, Simon plants his giant paws on my shoulders and smears the side of my face with his tongue once more. “Blimey, Snow.” I step back and the great dog’s feet once more hit the ground. He zooms away, coming to a skidding stop, returns to my side and bows his front legs down, rear up, tail wagging madly.

I lean down and take his huge face in my hands, scratching gently below his jaw. “Come along, you delightful moron, let’s go home.”

I turn and make my way through the forest. The late afternoon sun dappling the trail with rich golden light. Dust motes dancing in the beams. Simon scampers ahead, darting back every few minutes to make sure I’m still following.

I breathe in the rich loamy scent of these ancient woods and let it out slowly. For once, my mind is quiet. Simon is back at my side, nosing at my hand. I absentmindedly rub his velvet ear. I stop and let this foreign emotion wash over me. I let myself relax, for just this moment, I am content.

[grimalkenkid]

“When Dragons Cry” Chapter 19

I seriously had part of this chapter written ever since I decided to write this story, and I love it!

AO3 link.

Chapter index.

It would be better to surrender. In the back of his mind, Hanzo knew this. The guards easily shuffled around to surround the men, hesitating only because of Reinhardt’s imposing figure. The archer had experience with unarmed fighting – and he had an inkling that the knight did too – but this? This was practically unwinnable.

The guard who issued the order to arrest them in the first place drew his sword as he stepped towards them. “Surrender! You will face judgment for your crimes according to Vishkari Royal Law.”

Reinhardt huffed, and Hanzo half expected him to throw the man out of the way. For all that they were surrounded, there was still an alleyway nearby. It wasn’t much of an escape route, but it was one. The knight didn’t notice it, though, or if he did, his demeanor didn’t suggest it. “And what crimes would those be?” Some of the men shifted as Reinhardt puffed out his chest and crossed his arms. Even the archer found himself slightly intimidated by the knight.

“You know your own crimes,” the guard-captain snorted. “Seize them!”

A few guards stepped forward, reaching out to grab the men’s arms. Hanzo didn’t have time to wonder if he should let them capture him, though. The moment one even touched Reinhardt, the giant man slapped his hand away – sending the guard reeling to the ground from the force. The others stopped the moment he resisted, weapons in their hands instantly. Hanzo felt his heart clench, and his eyes flew over the nearby buildings, hoping for some weapon or advantage he could get before this fight went completely downhill.

As if they weren’t already at the bottom of the proverbial hill.

Reinhardt adopted a defensive stance, arms raised to shield his chest from the blades directed at it. Even without armor, the man could take a few hits while dishing out some of his own. Hanzo was not so durable. He barely had enough warning to step out of the way of one strike, just to stumble right into another. The spear tore his shoulder, and the follow-up blow missed just because he fell to his knee as he cried in pain.

“Hanzo!”

The archer winced as he looked up to see Reinhardt throwing off two guards to return to his side. Had there been more time, he would’ve asked why the knight chose to fight when the odds were so against them, probably yell at him for being so reckless. I believe I’m beginning to know how Brigitte feels, Hanzo thought, even as he caught the glimpse of weapons being raised again out of the corner of his eye. “We’re outmatched and unarmed. We’ve lost,” he stated.

“Have faith, my friend,” Reinhardt grinned. Hanzo gave him the most incredulous look, but that just furthered his smile. “I will protect you!”

Any protest died in Hanzo’s throat as Reinhardt stood back to his full height and let out a roar. Not just a loud shout. A roar. The sound was deep and guttural, far beyond what any human should be able to produce. Hanzo could feel it vibrate through his body, all the way to his bones, his legs turning to jelly at the sheer power behind it. Apparently the guards were feeling the same, as they all took a step back, glancing at each other and their captain.

Hanzo’s eyes never left the knight before him. Reinhardt seemed to grow, his arms and chest stretching the fabric of his tunic. His hands shifted, growing wider… and hairier. Short, gray fur grew from his skin, some poking through his clothing. But what drew his attention was neither that nor the leonid tail that seemingly sprung into existence… it was his face. His jaw stretched into a short muzzle from which dozens of whiskers sprouted. His hair, already ruffled and unkempt, grew into a glorious mane that went halfway down his back. The scar over his left eye became even more pronounced, lending him an air of wisdom and toughness he lacked even when human. His teeth, now thick and sharp, gleamed as he snarled and roared yet again.

“What…” Hanzo exhaled, so soft that only he could hear the words, “what are you?”

Everything felt so far away. The fear of this new creature before him drowned out anything else that might’ve scared him. He wasn’t even aware that the guards had given them space, backing out of reach of Reinhardt’s claws.

“What are you idiots doing?!” the guard-captain shouted from the backlines. His harsh words and cracking voice were what shook Hanzo back to the present, where they were still in very real danger from all sides. “You have swords! Use them!”

A halberdier turned to his captain, visibly shaken. “B-but sir… he’s a were-beast…”

“Either that monstrosity gets the sword or you do!”

Reinhardt snarled and lunged as soon as the words left the captain’s lips, swiping through the ranks with ease. Hanzo saw pieces of metal clatter to the ground, trailing blood from the gashes the werelion left in the guards�� armor. Words hung in his throat, unsure of what would turn that monster’s attention to him. The guards were an afterthought in his mind. It would’ve been easy for one to slit his throat in passing, but all of their focus was on Reinhardt. And why wouldn’t it be? For every slice marring the lion’s fur with sticky red, his claws rent through two suits of armor. The guard-captain stood his ground, but he fumbled for a horn at his belt. He blew it, and a loud bellow echoed through the square, a call for reinforcements no doubt.

The lion tossed a horrified swordsman to the side and rounded on the captain, snarling, “Fight me, you coward!” Hanzo gasped, tightening his grip on his shoulder wound as Reinhardt charged the captain. The man raised his shield, blocking the swipe of his claws in the same moment he thrust his sword into the lion’s side. An agonized roar rang out, and Reinhardt backed away a step.

“Heh,” the captain smirked, advancing as he spoke. “See, men. This monster is no more than a desperate criminal with nothing to lose. We have righteousness on our side! Therefore, we shall be v-”

Without pomp or circumstance or warning, a fiery blast exploded against the captain’s back, sending him reeling face-first into the ground. Some of the guards furthest from the unarmed duo also fell as arrows peppered their backs and energy bolts knocked them off their feet. Those few guards still standing whipped around, trying to see who had joined the fray. Reinhardt knelt by Hanzo’s side, shielding him with his furry body against these unknown assailants, almost unaware of the archer’s fearful looks at everyone present.

Men and women in peasants’ garb stood away from the scuffle, each leveling either a crossbow or hand swirling with arcane energy at the guards. They came from what looked like all walks of life: elves, humans, dwarves… each with varying levels of humble clothing, from dirty rags to the respectable apron of a town’s blacksmith. Leaping down from a rooftop was the most conspicuous of the new arrivals.

It was a golem, or something close to it. In shape, it resembled a humanoid with cat-like legs and an overly large chest. However, it had no head, and reinforced glass covered the front of its chest, revealing a hollow cavity where a brown-haired girl lay on her stomach. The girl held onto two handles that she moved, and with each movement she made with them, the golem moved with it. And on its arms, instead of hands, were two bulbous apparatuses that swirled with various energies. When the hollow golem landed in the square, it left a visible imprint in the dirt, kicked up dust landing on its pink hull.

“I think you’ve had enough fun for today,” the girl shouted, her voice seeming to echo not from her mouth but the golem itself. “Why don’t you run along, like good little toy soldiers?”

“Never!” the guard-captain screeched, picking himself off the ground with more than a little difficulty. “Kill these rebel scum! Take no prisoners!”

No sooner had he spoken those words than the girl squeezed the handles and several small bolts of energy shot out from the golem’s arms, striking him all over his body. The other rebels – as Hanzo assumed they were – struck as well, bolts burying into the rest of the guards’ bodies as fire and lightning rained down from the few magicians in their midst. The captain fell to the ground, his face frozen in a look of pure disbelief as the last breathes left his body. Around them, guards that had merely been injured were struck down, and the rest backed away, clutching their newly opened wounds. Several men shouted for a retreat, and a few managed to escape down the main road. Others ducked down whatever alley was closest. Hanzo saw some rebels twitch as they ran past but stopped when the girl raised her voice again.

“Let them go!” she ordered. “We’re not sore losers like they are!” The golem stepped up to Reinhardt and angled down, so the girl was eye level with the leonid man. “You better come with us. They’re gonna come back soon, and we don’t want to be outflanked.”

Reinhardt nodded and reached around to pick the archer up. The brush of claws finally shook Hanzo from his paralysis. He scrambled to his feet, nearly shoving the knight’s hand out of his way. The rebels disappeared into the city just as quick as they had appeared, and Hanzo stuck as close to the girl as he could while she led them down twisting streets, as far from Reinhardt and his deceivingly kind smile as possible.

* * * * * * * * * *

They kept going down, being led along staircase after staircase until there was no direct sunlight at all. Mud and dirt gave way to brick, stone, and wood that formed corridors that were almost assuredly underground. It wasn’t long before Hanzo was totally lost; he could probably find his way back along the path, but he knew he couldn’t navigate the rest of the city. Part of it was just that he wasn’t familiar with the area, but mostly it was because there were too many turns to remember all at once.

Eventually, they began to pass other rebels, hiding their swords and bows beneath cloaks and jackets. They kept their eyes firmly locked on Hanzo and Reinhardt, but the girl told them all that it was fine and to let them pass. She only stopped once they reached a cavernous room, where several men and women had gathered, resting in cots or sharpening their blades by a solitary forge. One of the men, wearing the bright green vestments of a bard that were such a stark contrast to his dark brown skin, moving among the cots perked up as they entered and dashed over.

“Hana, you’re back!” he sang.

The girl sat her golem down against the wall, and a hatch opened up on its back, where she backed out to stand next to the archer and knight. She smiled at the approaching bard and held out her arms for an embrace, moments before he did just that. As they squeezed each other tightly, Hanzo could see that the man had slightly pointed ears that twitched in joy. “Of course I’m back,” Hana stated, though she couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice. “You don’t think some silly guards could keep me away, do you?”

The bard snickered and kissed her. Hanzo averted his eyes, feeling more like an outsider than he usually did. Something twisted in his stomach at the shamelessly display of adoration, the scene reminding him that it had been so long since Jesse had thrown his arm around his shoulder. I got along fine without being held for years, the archer thought, even as he crossed his arms close to his chest. I don’t deserve it anyway.

Reinhardt titled his head at Hanzo, but the action went unnoticed by the two lovebirds in front of them. As if remembering that they had company, the man reluctantly let go of the golem rider and stood straight before them, a grin still lingering on his lips. “So, who do we have here? I’ve never seen you two before. Pretty sure I’d recognize you.”

The leonine man let out a hearty laugh. “We do stand out quite a bit. I am Reinhardt Wilhelm, and this quiet one is Hanzo.” The archer felt fur tickle his back as if he raised a paw to pat his back but decided against it at the last moment. “However, I’m afraid we do not know who you are. May we at least have a name for our rescuers?”

“Oh! I knew I forgot something!” Hana snapped her gloved fingers.

The bard chuckled and patted her head. “You just get in that zone, don’t you? Well, sorry for the delayed introductions, but I’m Lúcio Correia los Santos. And the hyper-focused mage right here is Hana Song. And this,” he gestured to the rest of the cavern, “is the resistance. You got troubles with the Vishkari, you’re welcome here.”

“Resistance?” Hanzo asked.

Lúcio nodded. “Yeah, I’m not going to lie down while those mage-lords come in and take what they want. And I’m not the only one, either. You must’ve run into trouble with them too if Hana led you here.”

“Yes,” Reinhardt growled. “It’s… a long story. However, we’ve also been separated from our companions, so we need to find them as quickly as possible.”

“No problem,” Hana chirped, putting her hands on her hips and puffing her chest out. “We can find them, easy as pie. Just leave it to us.”

The bard nodded. “Yeah, best you two stay put and get some healing. Hana’s the best scout in the city, so you’re friends are in good hands.”

Hanzo didn’t feel right, but he agreed that they weren’t in the best position to go looking for the others. His shoulder still stung quite sharply, after all, and he couldn’t image how much all the nicks Reinhardt had gotten were feeling. Lúcio led them back towards a makeshift cantina after getting descriptions of the rest of Hanzo’s group, where he gave them some bowls of stew before running off to get one of the healers. The archer sighed and sat on a barrel that had been upturned to make a chair, swirling the bits of his stew to determine what each of them were before eating. Reinhardt was just a few steps behind him.

Hanzo flinched as the giant man sat down beside him. He tried to concentrate on the gamey stew in front of him, but the swish of Reinhardt's tail drew his attention. Did he have to remain in that unnatural half-beast form? The archer was about to get up when he heard a sigh.

"You must think me a monster."

"No," Hanzo snapped, surprising himself far more than the werelion. "You are... merely not human."

Beside him, Reinhardt huffed, the closest he could get to purring if he was anything like the tigers in the mountain regions. He shifted, and Hanzo felt short, graying fur brush his cheek as the werelion reached out to him. "You are not afraid of me?" The light, hopeful tone in his voice was all that kept the archer from bolting. Hanzo was afraid; he was so very, very afraid. Tales of lycanthropes weren't common in his homeland, and what ones he had heard were never good.

He bit the inside of his lip to keep from making any offputting sounds as Reinhardt gently turned his face to look at him. A thought kept repeating in his mind: This was Reinhardt, a man who knew everything he’d done, all the horrible acts he’d committed, yet the man still spoke fondly to him. This was a man whom he found himself admiring, and maybe even liking... He just happened to have more fur than expected. That was all, right? Looking into those wide eyes, one clouded from the scar that cleaved it in half, Hanzo could only say one thing. "I am not afraid."

Reinhardt smiled and lowered his hand. Somehow, he seemed even more human than before, and the archer realized that he had actually been frightened. Not of what Hanzo could do to him, but of what Hanzo thought of him. He suddenly felt very tired. Placing his bowl on the table in front of them, the archer let his forehead rest against the werelion’s shoulder. And he didn’t withdraw when Reinhardt wrapped one arm around his shoulder and pressed his lips to his head.

For the first time in a long time, Hanzo didn’t want to be alone.