#does she have the fetching instincts of a dog?

[away-ward]

Can you imagine: You finally go on a date with the guy you've been secretly dating...

after literally all of your friends and his have agreed to do everything they can to keep your relationship away from the prying eyes of the secret police his crazy controlling mother has following him...

specifically to keep him away from you...

and then you just blast yourself across every available screen in the city while on that date??

I'd die.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

stormverine | rolo week! day three | trust

wc: ~1800

a/n: expanded from an earlier wip post. technically gen, but definitely setting up the ship (and what i will probably have to tag as Power Dynamics, because i enjoy writing guard dogs what else is new)

//

Logan’s sanity has been in question for a good decade. Optimistically speaking, it’s a work-in-progress. When he was Weapon X for the Canadian government, Heather and Mac made an effort to keep him on an even keel.

More human than weapon. More reason than instinct.

He’d sensed he was hitting some kind of block by the time Xavier came to fetch him. Something that couldn’t be overcome by medicine or therapy prescribed by a bunch of doctors who pretended to understand what the hell was happening to him. 

And don’t get him wrong. Xavier pretends to understand too, but the professor’s got telepathy, and that at least gets him a better view of the struggle. It gets Logan the surety of a safety rope; painless, so he wouldn’t flinch and retaliate, and inexorable, so he couldn’t resist. The fact that the X-Men also gets him a front-row ticket to some of the worst mind-bending trips of Logan’s life is, well… 

Pessimistically speaking, Logan is losing the war to keep his goddamned mind. He’s lashing out on reflex and instinct, seeing enemies in his peripheral. His reasoning, his memory, it’s all going to pot.

It was bad under Scott’s leadership. It is worse now, but he won’t blame it on Ororo. 

The slide’s been building momentum. Too many slips without a save. Xavier can’t be there all the time, so Logan tries to keep rational on his own, tries to keep the bloodlust down now that there’s an actual kid at the mansion. Kurt seems to get it; he offers out of genuine sincerity to let Logan blow off steam with their games in the woods, and more than once, Logan is sure that Kurt’s had something to do with making sure Logan bumps into Ororo once a day. 

Which, on principle, Logan resents. 

Logan is a grown-ass mutant who doesn’t need minding. Never mind the evidence that Ororo helps, just by offering a word, a joke, or a mug of coffee. If Kurt indulges Logan’s bestial instincts, Ororo settles them. They aren’t pressed down like they are when Xavier intervenes. They aren’t even redirected to productive, if equally destructive, purposes, which was a favorite tactic of Scott’s. 

It’s not good. He shouldn’t be thinking of Ororo like a touchstone.

Yet when he breaks free from Doom’s cage, disoriented and half-mad, it’s Ororo he thinks of first. The team is scattered and the micro-transceivers aren’t working; the world outside the castle is clearly out of sorts with a wind howling as loud as the animal inside him. Logan doesn’t bother wasting time weighing his priorities—Ororo comes first.

He thinks in a different world, he throws in the towel and removes himself from the trappings of civilization altogether. It chafes to be restricted by things like orders, morals, ethics. He hadn’t liked it under the Canadian government, he hasn’t enjoyed the lectures from Cyclops and Xavier, and—the itch to act out and test the boundaries that Storm sets…

It’s still there. It’s nipping at his heels. Something’s going to give.

Before that, though, Logan can’t help but tie his fate to Ororo’s. When he and Kurt force Doom to revert the organic steel transformation and Storm emerges not just free but furious, Logan admittedly thinks twice about trying to restrain her.

Her rage is valid, isn’t it? Who has the right to leash a goddess?

So it’s not Logan who pulls Storm back, since he definitely lacks Colossus’s steady faith and firm trust in the human spirit. And in the chaotic rush to prevent Storm from going rogue, Logan’s thin and desperate plea to a higher being will be forgotten.

His thoughts are muddled throughout the aftermath, save for the instinctual training of his senses on where and what Storm does to negotiate their exit.

She uses the Wolverine’s name like a naked blade catching the light, and Logan isn’t even bothered. Let him be the threat. He’d relish the reputation if it got Doom’s slippery manners and hollow, courteous gestures to stop. 

When they agree to a truce, to a clean slate, Logan chews on the implications all the way home. He’s perversely glad that he can focus enough to puzzle over that last exchange.

Human enough to be jealous. Wonderful.

It’s something like a week after they return to the mansion, after Angel abruptly cuts from the team for greener (saner) pastures, that Logan remembers he’s human enough for the less pleasant sides of humanity too.

The nightmares have come back with a fucking vengeance.

Logan never remembers them, doesn’t have to, because what they do to his heart rate and sweat glands and sensory system says it all: he’s fucking terrified. Of what? The mansion creaks like it always does, old and reliable and drafty with all the recent repair work done to its walls and windows. The various scents are homely: blends of the incense sticks he burns, the remnants of meals, the smells of his teammates.

He should feel safe here. 

A memory snarls, a phantom sound. Logan wrenches himself out of bed and just barely restrains the claws from extending. His clothes do a lot to wick the sweat away, but it chills the back of his neck and raises the hairs, and he—

Logan lurches for the door. Ghosts. Spirits. He can’t trust his senses. He’s been put into too many situations where his heightened senses worked against him.

If the Professor isn’t reaching out to help him, isn’t beaming his deafening reprimand to calm down and be rational, then—! Logan doesn’t let himself finish that thought. If Xavier thought Logan was too far gone, he’d try and cage him in MacTaggert’s facility. No, maybe it’s more likely that Logan’s mutation has finally adapted to the invasive nature of Xavier’s mind-touches. Maybe Xavier needs to exert a little more conscious effort to catch when Logan’s about to let loose. 

Maybe Logan’s head is masking its own damn disintegration.

He slips into the hallway, barefoot. He eases the door shut behind him. He has to trust something. There is something in his head that is standing firm, steadfast, someone who smells like ozone and greenery, dust after rain.

The stairs up to Ororo’s attic-loft have never seemed farther, but Logan’s pushed himself through hell before. He steps silently, nimbly, until he’s ascending and at the door to Ororo’s personal haven.

Before he can stop himself, he’s—

“Ororo,” he calls out quietly.

The door swings open. “Logan?” she says, blinking. There are no curtains in her loft, and the moonlight washes her hair and the outline of her body in blue. The tension in his shoulders and spine vanishes. Logan digs his nails into his palms, clawing for clarity.

“‘Roro, I don’t—I don’t rightly know what the hell’s happenin’ to me right now. My head…”

“My friend, come in,” she says.

She’s worried. Obviously. It’s not every day that the Wolverine admits to a bit of headache and a spiraling feral temperament.

The door clicks shut, but she doesn’t switch the light on. Instead, Ororo draws him to the windows. Her eyes are steady on his, and when she reaches to touch his face to check for fever, Logan lets her. Her hands are a little chilled, wind-chapped too. “Is this something I can help you with? Shall I ask for the Professor?”

“If he had an idea, he’d have said it. Done it already.”

Ororo is silent. Belatedly, Logan realizes that he’s let his eyes shut, his vocal cords free. He’s goddamn purring like a rusty engine, and leaning into her hands to boot. He locks up and in like a good soldier. 

“Logan—”

“Sorry,” he croaks, and tries to pull away. “My control’s slippin’. I know it. The team knows it. I’m becomin’ as much a danger to the X-Men as to the creeps we fight.”

She holds him still. “Would you not say the same of me? I have never lost myself to my powers before. I hurt my team in an effort to stay as I was.”

“That’s different. You were—trapped—” Logan struggles to make the difference in their situations clear. Her brief foray into primal rage was born of a unique hell preying on her past, her fears, her innate desire to dance along the winds. He’s just like this. He’s always been like this. 

Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones; she is bold enough to card her fingers through his hair, and the long nails scratch Logan’s scalp like he’s some pet.

Fuck, maybe he is. Logan goes boneless, goes to his knees and tips his head to her, breathes out and in like meditation. His eyes close in anticipation of judgment.

“I do not accept your resignation from the X-Men,” Ororo says. “I will not accept any question of your leaving, unless there is some dire need of your presence elsewhere.”

“... Nice caveat.”

“I would not be who I was without some measure of freedom,” she responds wryly. “But I believe I am beginning to understand what might keep you here, beyond promises and vows.” The air shifts. He knows, without a doubt, that Ororo is kneeling too. “The Professor doubts your ability to reason in moments of crisis. I cannot seem to get it through his head that you, my friend, help me keep this team together.”

The affectionate nickname leaves his mouth without permission. “Darlin’,” he says, before snapping his teeth together with a click.

Ororo tugs his hair in reprimand, and Logan’s spine goes a little liquid. He cracks open his eyes, registers the slight smile, hears the quickened heartbeat. Her blue eyes are bright despite the dim illumination that pours through the skylights.

“Sorry,” he offers, guiltily. “I can be a professional about this.”

“If you were capable of being wholly professional, you would not be in this situation,” Ororo says. “Can you tell me what you need, Logan? Or shall I guide you in ignorance, as my predecessors did before me?”

Logan considers the request. Slowly, he says, “I ain’t askin’ for perfection. I don’t go lookin’ for it, either. I don’t care about the mistakes you’ve made, because the good you do outweighs all of that. Past, present, and future.”

She waits. He gives in first.

“Balance,” he says. “Don’t ask me to choose one or the other. Human or animal. Duty or freedom. The mission or—your life. I know what hard sacrifices are, and I’ll make them when I have to. I can’t promise to be your completely obedient servant—” Ororo interrupts him with a snort of derisive humor, and Logan flashes a quicksilver grin back, “—but I don’t mind deferrin’ to you. You’re team leader.”

“I am not as experienced as Scott was.”

“What’s that matter? There are dozens of ‘experienced’ team leaders that do worse with better people.” Logan hesitates, but finally catches Ororo’s wrists and takes her hands down, holds them in his, runs his thumbs over the fine knuckles and brown skin tinted blue. Then he lifts them and presses his lips to the slender digits, eyes cast down. Quietly, he murmurs, “Lead me, wind-rider.”

[jades-typurriter]

Gal Pals + Your First Howl

A POV transformation thing: your closest friends are werewolves, they get you in on it, and they sit with you through the process of your first transformation! @bluebearial (the BESTIE) collaborated on this, basically just passing the draft back and forth; her writing is in purple and mine is in blue. PLEASE go check her out she's a fantastic artist and has more lovely and intimate writing like this on her blog

CW: they're gay werewolves. these girls are doing lots of petting and sniffing

Gloomy. That’s the one word that could describe this night. The sky is a deep grey. Thunder, far in the distance, still makes itself known in the form of a near-constant rumble. Despite the blanket of cloud that covers the sky, a pale glow could still be seen. Lycanthropy, as you had recently found out, doesn’t require direct moonlight to take effect. Just the presence of it is enough to make you itch. For new instincts to crop up. You wish you knew about this going in, but thankfully, your friends are a lot more experienced than you. Even better, they’re here to ride it out with you.

“I know the picture of like, breaking into a clearing in the woods, and having the moon behind you and everything when you transform for the first time is really cool,” trills Fetch, and even through the buzz of excitement and anxiety, you know where this is going. You’ve known it since English Lit. in college; it’s had a point-by-point for everything since even before then. “But not a ton of people actually get to do that! It’s like, part of the lycanthrope experience that gets sanitized and simplified a lot for wider audiences. Sooooo many movies do this bit, and the weather’s always perfect, and everything, but like… would you even wanna wander around in the woods on a normal day? Let alone a vulnerable one like this?”

“I dunno…~” lilts Plum, your other friend, from her place on the couch, “Days like this’re perfect for just, skulkin’ around in the dark. Scarin’ people. Like, rahh~” She even puts her paws up, showing off those amethyst-colored claws. As you watch her, you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘lycanthropy’ thing has more of a mental effect than you’d first realized. As recently as this afternoon, she was pretty chipper! Happy to help with anything you’d need. But after the moon came out… She’s definitely the more laidback one now, compared to Fetch.

She always found at least some kind of fun in any situation, though a part of you wished she wouldn’t right at this moment. “Like, think about it. Remember when we first met? ‘N you found me diggin’ through your trash? You thought I was some kind’a dog. I wish I had a camera - remember the look on your face when I just started talking to you? Like…” She takes a pause, putting a paw up to her muzzle, trying her best not to laugh (and failing). Like her namesake, she is covered in a thick coat of purple. You remember that in her human form, she had purple highlights in her otherwise dark hair. You suppose the color of her fur was… somehow related to that? How does that even work? What would your fur look like? Yet another question you’d neglected to ask before, well. Y’know.

“Ohhhh my gosh, are you ever gonna leave me alone about that? I thought you were a lit-er-al wolf!!” Plum looks like she has something to say about that, but Fetch cuts her off: “I know, I know, I wasn’t wrong. You did turn out to be a huge bitch,” it says, voice saccharine and head tilting cutely to the side. Plum reaches over you to bop it with her paw, leaving you acutely aware of your position, sandwiched between your two friends. Squished, almost: both of them are much bigger than they are as humans, and they take up much more of the couch, too. You blush as her paw passes by your face—it’s bigger than your whole head. Thinking about Plum lurking out of sight, rummaging around with those powerful things… Thinking about how your own hands might be like that soon enough. You’d pipe up to ask about how soon to expect more changes, but it would be, what, the tenth time you asked? Plus, you’re not sure you want to draw attention to yourself if the partners start play-fighting. Well, maybe you would… But it’d probably be safer to wait until after your change.

But still. On one side, Fetch’s dense, cream fur coddles your arm and part of your leg, acting as a big, fluffy cushion. On the other side, Plum is really invading your personal space a bit as she tries to reach over at her partner. Being caught between a pair of - how tall are they– one, two, three… - six foot tall wolves has you squirming a bit. Partly to get comfy, and partly because… oh wow. This is really happening. Up until a few years ago, you’d figured werewolves weren’t, y’know, real? Your heart flutters. Your stomach tightens a bit, causing you to shudder - anything to somehow vent these feelings. You clench your fists and oh my god, were your fingernails always this sharp? They dig into your palms, causing you to relax your grip. Remembering the situation at hand - or was it ‘at paw’, Plum cranes her neck a bit to look down at you. At least, you’d assume that’s what she’s doing. Her snout is just about the only thing keeping her fluffy, full mane from completely covering her face.

“Hey, hey, listen dude,” she does her best to soothe you, “We’re gonna be here for you, alright? It’ll be like, kinda weird at first. Um, maybe a little scary? I dunno. But, like, once you get over the hump, it’ll feel sooo~o good. You’re gonna feel all soft ‘n like, fluffy ‘n stuff. Like, bwbwbwbwbwb.” She demonstrates in her own weird way, putting her paws to her own cheeks and rubbing them. Her ears, a little droopier than you’d expect from a wolf, flop from side to side as she bleps her tongue out at you. You do feel a bit more relaxed admittedly… Though, there’s another thing you hadn’t thought about before.

Werewolves smell. They don’t smell bad, really, though you wonder if there’s something else making you think that. They just have… a scent, one that’s hard to describe beyond… furry, and thanks to your spot between your two friends, they were basically hotboxing you with it. Every whiff of it makes you feel just a bit more, like, relaxed and stuff. I mean, these are your friends. They’re helping you through this. It’s just what the pack does for one another.

Fetch leans down, reaching behind you to put one paw on each of your shoulders, reassuring you. Well, trying to reassure you; getting so close is giving you another waft of Wolf Girl, and as familiar and calming as it is—you wonder if maybe you already knew what the two of them smelled like, and you’re just starting to recognize your friends the way dogs do—it’s starting to make your head spin. Or maybe that’s the changes, too…

“It really, really means a lot to us that we’re the ones you wanted to help you with this, bestie. Now, someone could have been a little bit gentler about infecting you,” it snips, pointing its snout accusingly at Plum. Oh, yeah. That’s where you recognize her smell from. She all but bowled you over when you had asked the two of them to bite you, and you… still thought about her weight on you fairly often. You wish you could stop thinking about it for, like, a second so you don’t seem like a flustered, shaky nerd, but it’s harder to forget it with every breath.“But the trust is still really sweet! And like, now I get to repay you for being so understanding when I came out, yeah?” It perks up its ears, smiling down at you. You (mercifully) lose yourself in that memory for a moment instead; you see its tail whipping back and forth behind it, and realize, yeah, you’ve been friends for a long time. You’re, like, besties! It always makes you giggle when Fetch calls you that. And you do trust them! Even if they’re a bit silly, you know the two of them are looking out for you. You’re in good paws.

“Yeah! We like, tooo~tally got you, dude. It’ll be a-okay,” she reassures you. “You’re like, basically our best friend so, like, y’know….

You blink a few times, shaking your head as your hearing gets more and more muffled. Wh,what’s happening? It’s as if your ears were suddenly plugged. You can’t hear anything now. Just as quickly as it happens, it seems to stop.

“Oh, huh.”

It’s not until you hear her voice again that you calm down. Though - wow, um, that was a bit loud?? You grimace, wondering just what caused her to shout like that. It was as if her voice gained a ton more bass all of a sudden. You glare up at her, opening your mouth to scold her, but you quickly realize that… like, everything is louder. The rumbling outside, the room’s ambience, even Fetch’s tail as it slaps the couch. Plum’s paw reaches down to the top of your head, where your… ears… are…? “Ohoho~ Hey, Fetch, check this out~” Like, you could just hear the excitement in Plum’s voice as beckons her partner. A pair of tall, fuzzy triangles peaks up from beneath your hair. Speaking of, has your hair gotten longer? You can like, kinda feel it brushing your shoulders… Your thoughts begin to swim as you feel your bestie’s paw just, rest upon your head like that. You want to look up at her, but something compels you to angle to head down. She holds one of your ears between her thumb and index finger, softly rubbing it between her digits. Your ear flicks in her gentle grip, instinctually moving in a way you like, really cannot control. Like, just a bit, y’know? The same, strange feeling causes your free ear to fold down, your shoulders to slump a bit… You squirm some more as the meekest little whine slips out. You rub your nose. Either that scent is getting stronger, or like, your nose is getting more sensitive. Either way… It’s enough to make you sneeze.

“Awww!” Fetch practically whispers. “The new ears are so cuuuuute! Just go easy on ‘em, Plum, you know those things are sensitive when you first get ‘em.” It bends down, poking its snout right into the ear you’ve angled away from Plum. Its voice is so quiet that it barely moves the air, but it’s still so totally clear: “How do you like ‘em, though, bestie?” You shudder, the tingle in your ear crashing down the back of your neck, along your spine, and into your tail—into your tail?! You twist around, pulling your head away from Plum’s paw (you have to suppress another whimper at the thought of no longer being petted) and, looking down, see a fluffy sprout bunching up the bottom of your shirt. Your eyes get all big, and as you get all excited about it, you watch it start wagging basically on its own? And you can feel it and it feels like you’re dancing for joy? You yell, looking back up at the two girls to either side, and Fetch yells back at you. “Oh my gosh oh my GOSH!!!” It squeals. “I can’t believe it came in so quickly!! It’s soooooo cute oh my gosh…” It pauses, then leans down conspiratorially, its own tail wagging again, energetic and out of time with yours. “Hey. You know what’d be a real fun way to scream it all out? Since we’re celebrating?” You tilt your head, feeling your ears flop with the motion, and realize that you probably look a lot like Fetch did a minute ago.

You have a good idea of what it means. If there’s one good thing about all those werewolf movies you like to watch - you kind of know the beats to this ‘story’. …That, and, your friends finding your collection is what set this into motion in the first place. Your tail wags furiously as you put your paws together. That short, stubby thing grows inch by inch, moment by moment. Every little wag it makes, it feels softer, so much softer. You start to understand what Plum meant by those fuzzy feelings. Just the sensation of having a tail at all, let alone wagging it, fills you with a euphoria you didn’t know you yearned for - a euphoria that seems to bubble up inside you. You’ve never howled before, but you’re totally not against it.

“Scream it out…?” Plum quietly asks, a little slower on the draw than you. She perks up an ear, furrowing her brow. “What, like… Oh. Ohhhh.” And she friggin’ grins. “Oh, man. It’ll be just like when we first came out. She leans a bit, squishing you between the two of them. Plum reaches out for her pawrtner’s paw, gently taking hold of it. “Remember that~? It was like, so romantic…~ Holding paws, howling together, getting nice and close after~ And like, we started getting all grabby ‘n stuff, testing each other out, and…~ And– A-Anyway,” she catches herself, sparing you the more… intimate. details, “You ready~? One, two, three!~”

“AwooOOO~OOO~~!” Angling her head up, Plum gives it her all! It starts low and slow, but ramps up in volume until it’s all you can hear. And you feel hyped! Your euphoria reaches a fever pitch, boiling over until you just can’t keep it in anymore! Why not follow your instincts, joining your besties in their symphony?

With Plum’s voice reverberating between your ears, inside your skull, coursing through your chest like the bass of the speakers at a concert, you lift your voice as well, throwing your head back and lifting your voice to match hers, at least as best you can. It cracks and scratches more than once, but you don’t care. It still sounds beautiful to you, and it’s such a rush! You feel like you’re standing through the sunroof and blasting music on the way home from a frat party; you feel like you’re on stage and your voice is carrying through a packed arena.

Fetch claps its paws together, “yay”-ing and chanting ‘go, go, go!” before finally lifting its own snout and joining the two of you. It effortlessly, naturally harmonizes with Plum—the two of them have been running as a pack for a long time, after all, and they’ve had more practice individually than you have. Still, the sound the three of you make together makes butterflies in your stomach, and then washes them away again with liquid awe. It’s like the crowd you were singing to is cheering back, a beautiful droning of joyful voices, shouting wildly and without inhibition.

You were always so jealous of the two of them, once you’d found out. They’d been your friends for years, but when they started dating, and after Fetch realized it was otherkin, Plum turned it at its request, and well—it’s a lot harder to hide two werewolves than it is to hide one. Of course, it didn’t change anything between the three of you, other than feeling a little weird about your fascination with werewolves. Being a fan of the genre, being a furry, even, felt sorta… like stereotyping them? Fetch would use the word “appropriative”, if it wasn’t currently singing its lungs out.

Now, though, after their reassurance, and after doing a bit of digging into those “weird” feelings, you just feel like you’ve been missing out! You keep howling until your throat gets tired, until you start choking on your own drool and feeling the scratchy strain on your new vocal cords. At some point, Fetch reaches out to pat you on the head again, and notices something about your shoulders.

“Dude! No way! Your coat is coming in now, too!” You finally gulp down a breath, after what feels like holding a note for an eternity (and pretty poorly, but hey, you can already feel yourself getting better!) and reach up to feel around your neck. Your hair hasn’t just gotten longer—it’s begun to crawl its way down between your shoulder blade and along your arms!

You think back to before, the way your tail first sprouted from beneath your shirt. You’re getting the same feeling now, watching your new coat spill over your shirt’s collar. You were always pretty flat, but - your cheeks start to glow as you feel your shirt ride up, buoyed by your developing bosom. If that isn’t enough, that same fur spreads across it, only adding to its mass. A thick tuft sprouts up in your cleavage, helping it to spill over the top of your collar. And god, it feels warm. You grow aware of that as you hug around it. You squeeze it in your arms, and an exhilarating feeling rumbles throughout your body. …Or, was that rumbling coming from you? One end of your mouth curls up as you growl to yourself, prompting an amused coo from Plum.

“Hey. Nice teeth.~”

You break from your self-imposed stupor for a moment, instinctively licking your teeth. They’re sharp. Especially your canines, but the rest of your teeth have grown similarly long and jagged. You whisper something resembling a ‘thank you’, too sheepish and too caught up trying to keep yourself even halfway composed. It’s a losing battle, though. Your shirt rubs up against your chest, making every little squirm a challenge to keep yourself quiet. As your coat thickens, it shimmers in the dim light. Your thoughts are harder to grip, divided among so many unfamiliar sensations. Your ears flick and swivel with every little sound. Your tail curls and wags and bats the cushion behind you. Your nose, well on its way to snoutsville is full of unfamiliar, addictive smells. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You reach out to Fetch, grabbing its arm and clinging to her. You let out a whine, rubbing your cheek against its silky fur, hoping for a lifeline as a warm, kind of itchy, but liberating feeling spreads further down your body as it is overtaken by your developing coat.

It doesn’t help you as much as you were hoping. Like, not at all. Fetch is just sooooo comfy, and you feel Plum’s paw between your ears again, and your head starts getting like… all cloudy and stuff… She gets her claws in, short little scratches that drag further and further down through your hair, down the back of your neck—soooo so sososo sensitive right now!!---and up behind your jaw, and you whiiiiiiine and just slowly slump over across Fetch’s lap. It giggles, Plum giggles, and if you weren’t so busy squirming, you might be laughing too, from the way she’s making your head swim.

With your head in its lap like that, panting from all the stimulation, you smell it even more strongly. It smells good. It makes your face burn, it gets your blood pumping, and you follow your nose to its source without a moment’s hesitation, before looking down your snout and realizing it’s pushing into her skirt, right between her legs. You freeze, eyes darting up to its face. It’s laughing harder than it was before, so like… you didn’t make it uncomfortable? Or mad? At least? Plum gives your rear (oh god you were pointing your butt straight at her) a SLAP with her heavy paw, and both of them crack up all over again at the involuntary YELP. It at least un…unsticked the gears in your brain. You apologize profusely, finally pulling your face away from Fetch’s crotch, but it reaches its paw up to cup your snout. “Bestie, don’t even worry. Everybody gets, uh… kinda excited, on their first time. I know I did!” It pauses. “I mean, me and Plum were already dating by then, so—” The mention of dating makes your face so hot that you have to bring up your own paws—when had they even finished changing!! Omigosh!!—to cover it. “Ohhhhh… I mean, hey, I wasn’t bringing that up to say we couldn’t try stuff!! New instincts, new feelings, no judgment, right? That’s what we said!” You look up at her, half-desperate and half-embarrassed, eager to hear the reassurance. “And I mean… we could try dating too, if you wanted? Right, Plum?”

“Oh, yeah,” she readily agrees, before looking down at you, “If you’re, y’know, comfortable with it. Because…” 

Your ears flop down as she leans in, her snout basically touching yours. The way she stares at you seems to demand your attention. Whatever she’s about to say, it must be important. You nearly flinch as she opens her mouth again, pre-empting what she might say next. And what does she say?

“I can be a little ruff.”

Your embarrassment like, kinda deflates a little. You almost feel annoyed that you walked into that one. You look up at Fetch again, hoping it could relate, only to be greeted with a barely controlled snicker.

“But, really.” The sound of her voice turns your attention back to her. “If you wanna give yourself a test drive, we’ve got you covered.”As she speaks, Fetch’s paw returns to your head, and, like… wow.~ Your thoughts swim and spiral anew as you let out a content, short “hwrrff.” You tilt your head towards her, savoring her touch. Those gentle, drawn-out strokes. You detect a new scent wafting up from the two of them, fanned by their tails’ steady wags. You can’t put a finger on what it means until you feel a warmth between your loins, one that only deepens the more you breathe it in. You suppose that this is one of the many, many things that you’ll learn before dawn. The night’s just getting started, after all.

[blue2jay]

Protective Instincts

Summary: Protective Instincts

During a heated argument at your cabin, Melissa’s aggression prompts Zeus and Lucky to step in, growling and standing guard to protect you.

The evening started off peacefully at your cabin, with your family gathered around the warm glow of the fireplace. Zeus and Lucky were lying near your feet, their ears occasionally twitching as the room filled with laughter and casual conversation. Leon was in the kitchen, fetching drinks, while you sat on the couch, enjoying the calm atmosphere.

However, Melissa had been unusually tense all evening. It started with her passive-aggressive remarks about your decorations, escalated with complaints about the food, and eventually boiled over into an outright argument about something trivial—probably your success, as usual.

“Why does everything have to be about you?” Melissa snapped, standing up abruptly and glaring at you. “Every time we’re here, you act like you’re better than everyone else.”

You blinked, startled by her sudden outburst. “Melissa, what are you talking about? I haven’t said anything to you.”

“Don’t play dumb!” she spat, taking a step closer to you. Her voice grew louder, and her body language became increasingly aggressive.

Zeus and Lucky to the Rescue

The change in Melissa’s tone and posture was enough to set off Zeus and Lucky. Zeus was the first to react, rising to his feet and placing himself between you and Melissa, his ears pinned back and a low growl rumbling in his chest. Lucky followed suit, standing beside Zeus with his tail stiff, letting out a sharp bark.

Melissa froze, her anger momentarily replaced with fear. “What the hell? Call them off!” she shouted, taking a step back.

Leon, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room. His sharp eyes assessed the situation immediately. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice calm but firm as he moved to your side.

“Your dogs are out of control!” Melissa exclaimed, pointing at Zeus and Lucky. “They’re growling at me for no reason!”

“They’re not out of control,” Leon said, his tone icy. “They’re protecting their family. What did you say to Y/N?”

“Nothing!” Melissa stammered, her face flushed with embarrassment. “I just raised my voice a little, and they overreacted.”

Your Mom’s Outrage

Your mother, who had been sitting quietly on the other side of the room, decided to intervene. “Y/N, you really need to train those dogs better,” she said, frowning. “Melissa is your sister. She wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“Mom,” you said, your voice firm but measured, “Melissa came at me, yelling and gesturing like she was ready to start a fight. Zeus and Lucky did exactly what they’re supposed to do—protect me.”

“Protect you from your own family?” your mother scoffed. “This is ridiculous. You’re letting animals dictate who’s safe and who isn’t.”

Leon stepped in, his voice cutting through the tension. “With all due respect, they didn’t dictate anything. They reacted to Melissa’s aggression. If she hadn’t lost her temper and gotten in Y/N’s face, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Your grandmother, sitting in the corner with a disapproving look aimed at Melissa, chimed in. “Exactly. Dogs have better instincts than people sometimes. And judging by the way Melissa stormed over here, I’d say they were spot on.”

Melissa sputtered, clearly shocked that no one was rushing to her defense. “I wasn’t going to do anything! I was just upset!”

“And that’s fine,” you said, standing up and placing a calming hand on Zeus’s head. “But you don’t get to take it out on me, and you definitely don’t get to blame my dogs for doing their job.”

The Aftermath

Melissa, realizing she was outnumbered, crossed her arms and sat back down in a huff. Your mother, still frowning, muttered something under her breath but didn’t press the issue further.

Leon knelt beside Zeus and Lucky, scratching behind their ears. “Good boys,” he murmured. “You did great.”

You crouched down too, rubbing Lucky’s side. “Thank you for protecting me,” you said softly, smiling as Lucky licked your hand. Zeus leaned into your touch, his growl long gone, replaced by his usual calm demeanor.

Your grandfather chuckled from his seat. “Smart dogs. Wish I had a couple like that back in my day.”

Your grandmother smirked, clearly enjoying the situation. “Well, maybe Melissa will think twice before losing her temper again.”

Melissa glared but said nothing, her pride too bruised to respond.

A Quiet End to the Evening

The rest of the evening passed with a noticeable tension in the air, but Leon stayed by your side, and Zeus and Lucky remained vigilant. As the night wore on, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for your loyal dogs—and for the man who always had your back.

Later, as you and Leon prepared for bed, he wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You okay?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” you replied, leaning into him. “Thanks to you and the boys.”

“They’ll always have your back,” he said, kissing your temple. “And so will I.”

With Zeus and Lucky curled up at the foot of the bed, you felt safe, loved, and ready to face whatever came next.

[sinnaea]

[Content warning ahead] Ashley/Krauser fic, page one draft

CONTENT WARNING: RAPE/NON-CONSENSUAL

Please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable.

18+ ONLY. Absolutely no minors should read this.

The following does not contain the actual rape but the events leading up to it.

Summary The ritual on Ashley has been completed. However, Krauser has a ritual of his own…

Ashley flopped heavily with a short grunt on a rust stained spring mattress sounding off a wiry squeak. The side of her face dragged across the coarse and filthy fabric and her nose picked up the heavy stench of must and iron as she squirmed to sit up. But the binds around her wrists behind her back proved it difficult and all she could do was roll to her side. She glowered up at the man that just dumped her in the dingy holding cell.

Krauser’s perpetual cutting expression tilted down at the young woman. The once prestigious President’s daughter was nothing but another infected body among the others. The faint black blood veins webbed throughout her skin and retreated underneath her clothes. The soft cotton of her turtleneck and skirt no longer served their purpose of warmth as they were now beat and filthy down to her tattered stockings.

The hulk of the man couldn’t help but scoff at Ashley’s scowl on her docile face.

“You don’t even put up a fight and you think that’s going to scare me?” he said in a monotonous and growly voice.

“You should be,” Ashley threatened firmly. “Leon will be here. He’ll come find me then he’ll come for you.”

Krauser chuckled. “Of course Leon will. He’s always had a weak spot for helpless little damsels like yourself.”

Provoked by his words, Ashley twisted her wrists in frustration causing the rest of her body to wriggle on the bed. Desperate to break free just so she could punch Krauser’s ugly mug and perhaps give him an additional scar on his lip.

“And you’re nothing but a dog!” she scorned through her teeth. “Kneeling to Saddler. Using you to play fetch.”

With the sound of a whoosh, Krauser swiftly unholstered his knife from a shoulder harness and Ashley flinched at the flash of the blade. The ex-militant started pacing a few steps back and forth while keeping his predatory eyes on the prisoner. He effortlessly flipped his knife into the air repeatedly without even a glance.

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Los Illuminados has given me nothing but power. You also have been given that gift.” He flipped his knife into the air once more then pointed the tip right at Ashley’s face. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Ashley immediately spat on Krauser’s knife with a slight lunge forward. “I’ll never become a monster like you!” she shouted. She wanted to show she wasn’t helpless and she could fight back even in her current circumstance. No matter how little the fight was, she could resist and she wasn’t just a helpless damsel.

But she had made a mistake.

Krauser huffed, wiped his blade clean across his pant leg and holstered it. An aura of heat rose and outlined his colossal stature and the deep cut of his eyes foretold something menacing. The shadow of his build grew and casted over Ashley as he took slow steps toward her. The subtle crunch of the dirt covered floor beneath his heavy boots seemingly echoed in the holding cell. The rise and fall of his muscular chest indicated an increase of his breathing, blood and temper.

“If you won’t accept the gift,” Krauser began, “then I’ll force you to accept it with a ritual of my own.”

Ashley’s body drained to white. What little she had in her stomach churned and morphed into nausea and terror. Her heart stopped for a quick second and her instincts kicked in. She kicked her legs in utter panic and scrambled to back away out of his towering darkness. But Krauser grabbed her arm and forced her flat onto her stomach on the rust stained mattress. Like a wriggling worm beneath the talons of a hawk. She was shaking, trembling and gasping to stop herself from crying. His knee sunk next to her hip on the bed and the springs piercingly squeaked. His lips grazed the back of her ear.

“You will witness pure, unadulterated power.”

She was helpless.

[comfortablyselfloathing]

a little something i wrote at 3 am

for context, noel is my oc who is part of the strawhats. she was part of the group that went to zou first but chased after sanji on her own when bege took him. i could provide more details about her but i really wanted to post this somewhere first. she's 310 cm, just a few cms taller than jinbei. at this part of the story, she's been katakuri's prisoner for three days. the reason why she's not in jail is cause she had earned big mom's interest AND once did a jail break that caused chaos in komugi island. "why do u cover ur mouth when others are around." he stays silent, he wasnt just gonna show vulnerability to a stranger

"but youre fine showing it to me"

that, however, he can answer. "you dont seem to mind."

"fair enough" she says, mouth full of cookies before pausing to wash it down with tea. "but i don't see why anyone should."

if this was any day before this, he wouldn't even have thoughts of entertaining her questions but it's been three days since they've met. Whether he liked it or not, katakuri had already unconsciously figured out that she wasn't the villain he had initially judged her to be.

whether he trusted her or not, he wasn't sure but upon a little bit of pondering, he concluded that opening up to a stranger wouldn't be that bad. Especially when said stranger was an enemy who had no credibility for anyone in his community to believe in. "it's unusual. nobody around except for fishmen have a mouth like mine. not even my brothers."

"well yeah i have seen sharp teeth before but not mouth as wide as yours." she props herself on her elbows to lean forward as if trying to take a closer look. "and to think only you have it among fraternal triplets. it must be a rare phenotype."

instinctively, he scoots away from her gaze and he would've taken offense, if not for the sheer lack of malice in her voice. it was pure curiosity-- whether it be the sparkle in her eyes or the slight smile on her lips, he couldn't look away. as much as she was observing him, he couldn't help but observe her too.

"mind if i take a closer look?" he saw the question coming and yet surprise and dread still filled him as her words registered in his brain. "i wanna sketch it for future reference."

he must've made a face because her curiosity was quick to shift into concern.

"oh" she sheepishly smiles, "my bad, i guess i'm being too much.

and just after he had just resolved himself to open up to her— he seriously needs to have more self control. he was slacking off a lot today.

after closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he steeled himself enough for another shot.

"It's fine." He settles himself supine on the couch, head elevated by the armrest. "Go ahead."

"no, no, you dont have to—"

"this'll be the only chance I'll give you"

as if a dog who had been told to fetch the treat, she hurriedly scurries to kneel by his side. She was hovering over his face, too close for his comfort but he'd rather get it over with than complain.

"can i touch you?" her voice was mindfully more quiet than the usual, making his head buzz unusually in response.

"yes" he manages to answer in an almost incomprehensible grumble. at this point, he was having a difficult time keeping a linear trail of thought. it was impossible to when she was even worse up close. her eyes, her nose, her lips. just when he thought he had done his best to keep his feelings at bay, he found himself in a struggle to keep himself still under her extremely close gaze./

despite his overwhelming crisis, she unknowingly and professionally examines his mouth. making sure to check every nook and cranny, her hands naively settle on his jaw and cheeks, moving them to her own desire.

"your incisors are longer than the rest, does that hinder you in any way?" she looked up at him and realized that her question had gone unheard.

noel didn't know why but the moment her eyes met his dazed gaze, she forgot where she was. noel was a virgin but she wasn't an idiot. she's seen that look before. in movies, in bars, in parties. she's seen people give that look to anyone but her. as they should. she wasn't someone worthy of receiving such feelings and for a long time, she knew she wasn't gonna receive any of that at all.

want? love? lust? foreign yet familiar, the feeling unsettled her mind yet stirred her poorly fettered desires to burn like never before. her heart swelled in anticipation and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered in anxiety.

was she even right? isn't she just jumping into conclusions?

as if responding to her intensifying dilemma, her hand unconsciously caresses the line of his jaw causing his eyes flinch and narrow. he was always so nonchalant and yet, at this very moment— even as he wore his calm facade, she found her answer in his steely gaze.

"can i kiss you?" she finally breathes out.

[plantfeed]

location: west wing, museum, during the ball.

trigger warnings: gore, blood, assault, murder etc.

some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. from what i’ve tasted of desire / i hold with those who favor fire. but if it had to perish twice, i think i know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice / is also great and would suffice.

       cold is preferable to heat. the way alma sees it, you can put a jumper on, lace up your snow boots, light a fire in a conclave, but when the sun beats down on your back you can’t peel off your own skin. alma’s never been deterred by the snow — if anything, she feels at home in it — twelve years spent christmassing in vermont would do that to a person. snow was the unexpected knock of a long-lost cousin at the door, a crumpled cushion on the couch that remembered the curve of their spine. snow was the cold november she learned to ride zeta, the sixth star of the constellation, one hand on the horse’s reigns and the other in the wind as the first flecks of winter landed on her nose. of all the elements, water is alma’s, in its liquid form a symbol of change and renewal — but heed too much of it and you’ll drown. in its purest form, ice, sharp enough to cut a throat, cold enough to freeze a man to death. more often than not, she’s the latter. 

       her pervading coldness is less pronounced tonight, the folly of a ball enough to lift her spirits, etch a smile across her perpetually scowling lips, and — in a moment of madness, pure and instinctive — enough to raise her skirt enough for monty to trail their fingers up her thigh, the announcement of a building-wide lockdown breaking them from their stupor. there’s something sexy about the idea of being locked in, no escape, guards on every door. it forces you to rethink, to examine, to play house with the cards that have been dealt to you and send unwise texts for the sheer thrill of it, like if you care to finish what we started, meet me in the rothschilds room in five. little does she know she’ll never make it to the rothschild room, or get to finish the years old game that monty and alma play, or that this particular foray towards a sexcapade in the dark we’ll be her last. that she’ll never get her keira knightley in atonement fucked-against-a-bookshelf moment ticked off the bucket list, or at least not in this life.

       she’s already broken free of the throng of bodies gathered in the great hall when the lights begin to flicker and pulse like a lorde song, making her way down the west wing, skirts trailing behind her. whenever she’s in grand buildings like this one, alma imagines herself in a crinoline, hoiked within an inch of her life and laced up to the nines in whale boned corsets, how she’d tell the servants to fetch her the millais painting from the east wing, then bring it back, then fetch another, how she’d set her family little treasure hunts around the grounds to amuse their rich and listless hours. she could saltburn this place, if she wanted. she could gaslight the shit out of oliver quick, and he’d probably thank her for it. 

       the lights splutter out like a dying dog, harsh and visceral, and with the sudden sense that childhood is over, although she’d mourned it long before she entered adulthood. perhaps they go out all at once, or maybe it’s the slow pop of each bulb before her one-by-one snapping out in turn, the walls closing in around her, until the only one left is the one above her head, her final spotlight. she doesn’t have a candle to light the way, so the flashlight on her phone has to suffice. it’s a little less girl-in-a-period-drama and a little more final-girl-in-a-badly-reveiwed-a24-horror-movie, though she refuses to let her breath catch. fear’s a mind killer. fear is the enemy of a finely tuned performance. fear will kill you faster than the killing thing, if you let it, a virus in itself. she’s never let herself feel fear before without good reason. what’s so scary about a shortage of light?

       a text chimes on her phone, and her eyes struggle to adjust in the lowlight. monty’s waiting. she starts typing a response that she’s on her way, but doesn’t finish sending it, three bubbling dots that never resolve themselves, and then from somewhere in the dark, a pitchy giggle. she’s read every gillian flynn book. she devours murder mysteries. she’s seen the box set of that british tv show set in oxford, morse, and the sleepy small town midsomer murders. there were periods of her childhood where she spoke exclusively in a british accent and claimed that she could see ghosts. this doesn’t feel like one of those times. the laugh feels otherworldly and threatening in a way that cuts her to the core. 

       the rothschild room isn’t far from here, where monty’s waiting to unzip her dress, to kiss her neck, to tell her they’ve thought about it in the rehearsal room while the two of them perform a pas de deux. she should just fucking turn around and go and find monty. but the nancy drew instinct in her begs otherwise, a dull throb that’ll haunt her if she doesn’t find the source of the sound.

       so she follows it, a chorus of screams of ‘no! run!’ from the popcorn-munching audience she pictures in her mind, a projector wheel whirling on. or perhaps they’re bargaining for her death, taking bets on whether she’ll go quietly, what she looks like when she screams, if she’ll pull a knife from the gusset on her thigh and turn it around at the eleventh hour.

       “i’m not scared of you,” alma shouts into the dark, half-impressed by the strength of her own voice. it doesn’t hitch, doesn’t warble, firmer than she feels, though she grits her teeth, balls her fists, and stalks on towards the sound. that giggle again, only this time it’s different, behind her. she whisks around, plastic ballerina in a jewellery box, and feels the breath pulled from her, the throbbing pulse of something sharp in her back. if she had to place it, she’d say between the eleventh and twelfth vertebrae, although the shock of it sends an electric pang all up her spine. 

       it’s like a heat she never imagined, almost a burn. when “jesus christ” splits from her lips, she’s not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer, gathering her skirt (that stupid fucking dress, fuck gwen stefani) as she begins to run. alma clamours through the dark, thankful for the ballet flats she’d chosen in favour of heels, breath hot in her chest as the pain pulses in her ribs, like a belt being tugged around her heart. who the fuck would want to kill her? a knife in the back is perhaps ironic, considering the back catalogue of people she’s fucked over on her way to the proverbial top. there was the girl she’d tripped in their audition for juliard; the actress who developed a mysterious bout of food poisoning on opening night of antigone; the seminar partner who’s research paper had mysteriously disappeared after they left their library computer unlocked; the numerous farmhands whom she’s taunted over the years. perhaps a better question is not ‘who’d want to kill alma putnam’ but rather ‘who the fuck wouldn’t?

       something catches on her foot, and her phone skitters across the floor to a chorus of curses, spilling light across the walls, her hands clutching in the dark. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” she could be getting railed right now. she could be downstairs, dancing with masked strangers in the dark. instead, she’s engaging in a comical scooby doo chase scene, only her killer won’t be caught by a gaggle of meddling kids, and she can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel any more. it dawns on her that she’ll never make it rothschild room. she’ll never make it out of this museum. it's a theatrical way to go.

       when the second blow strikes — a clean blow to the chest — it throbs in her ribs, in her lungs, a spluttering in her breath, the taste of blood in her mouth. death shouldn’t come to her like this  alone in the west wing of an old museum while a ball beats on below. if she tunes out the dull throb of her heartbeat she can hear the pulse of robyn’s dancing on my own the floor below, the rounds of shots exchanged in the dark, mobile flashlights held like lighters at an open air concert. death should come to her as an old woman on a porch swing as she edits the final chapter of her memoirs. death should come to her in the theatre, struck down beneath a spotlight, a spectacle that haunts and amazes in equal measure. she should die before a crowd. instead, she’s completely alone, her breath growing quicker as the dual wounds that punctuate her back and chest grow colder. she knows from her anatomy textbooks that this is the part when she should start to panic, but that panicking will only make her die quicker. coldness pulses in the tips of her fingers. she starts to feel like a walking corpse. there’s no wiki how article on what to do when you feel yourself slipping out of the world.

       consciousness evades her. she swills in and out of it like a dancing moth around a candle, sometimes aware of the blood on her dress, or awake enough to let out a blood-curdling scream. every sound she makes is another claw reaching into her chest, compressing her lungs. in the end, when she cries out for mother, she can’t tell if she’s crying out for the woman who raised her, or for mercy from the mother they build statues of in churches.

       suffering feels religious if you do it right, and when she's hoisted up it feels almost like a crucifixion, the ropes around her torso no longer imagined but visceral. she always imagined that one day she’d get to fly in a show — as graceful in a harness as she is on her feet. well perhaps this is her final show, and to their credit, they’ve made a spectacle of it. it might be her best performance yet. she’d make a perverse joke about the ropes wrapped around her wrists if her lips weren’t too cold to speak. is this really how she goes out? not with a bang, but with a whimper, trying to come up with a kinky joke that’ll never reach its punchline. 

       “i hope…” she starts, and the words don’t seem to come from her mouth but from the mouth of a haggard witch twice her age, like an advert from an anti-smoking campaign. “they fucking… catch you… you cunt.” fitting that the last word she ever says would be ‘cunt’ when most of her life she’s been one. she doesn’t see their face, doesn’t see anything at all, the dark closing around her in more ways than one. above her, the ropes are creaking, body swinging like a witch. the last thing she feels before she slips from the world is a sharp spike impaling her through the heart.

[thebestpartofwakingup]

You know I give my family some crap for how badly behaved all of our dogs have been but it’s really just the last two who are exceptionally badly behaved

Border collie who completely normal and well behaved. Sometimes barked at people passing the house.

Our greyhound was grumpy and didn’t like people who weren’t my mom, but he’d just half-growl (more of a frustrated moan) and get up and go to the corner or another room. Like an anti social old man.

Lab-spaniel who killed a bird one time when she was young but liked people and got on well with them and the other dogs. Followed bad example of next dog as pack-leader. Ripped up toys as a puppy

(BAD) Lab with an awful bark who liked to carry things around to be chased (socks, toys, etc.). Very frustrating. Barked a lot and had a horrible bark. Grumpy and didn’t really like being cuddled or anything. Would not play fetch. Had an insane hunting-instinct and killed anything that got into the yard except the snapping turtle that scared her by not moving and then barely moving. Would try to chew shiny ball Christmas ornaments and then drop them and bolt to the other side of the room when they “bit” her. Would slowly investigate them, tapping them with her foot and running away to see if they’d bite her again. Could bunnyhop a 3.5 foot fence and killed the neighbor’s chickens once. Taught the spaniel how to jump the fence as well. Was basically fine once we got the invisible fence. Rabbits eventually returned to the yard. Liked to drop bones on hardwood floors and down the stairs. Peed incessantly in the baby pool.

Lab with less ear piercing bark but who barks at everything constantly. No hunting instinct at all. Once accidentally tortured a toad she found by following it around the yard and pawing at it to watch it hop. Only dog to defeat the spray bottle method because she just loves water that much. Also defeated the invisible fence because she has the pain tolerance of a Roman god and loves running across the street to lay down and say hello to everyone she sees. Obviously it’s understandable to be nervous or scared of a dog you see running at you but I swear to god I can’t believe how good she is with strangers she isn’t running AT them to like jump or bark she gets like right up next to them and just drops to the ground to show how friendly she is and that she wants belly rubs. I’ve chased after her and watched the confusion in people’s faces as they prepare/brace for this dog to at least bark at or jump on them but she’s weirdly respectful of personal space. Like she’s doing a bit. Wags constantly and knocks things over as a result. Has trained my dad to give her fresh meat in the morning by barking. Would recognize an intruder as a friend. LOVES walks.

(EVIL) lab-setter mix who used to bait people into petting her so she could bite them. Got her as a puppy and she would sit in my lap and lick my face and then BITE by nose hard. Terrified of ear drops. Likes to chase squirrels but no interest in catching them. Hoards toys during fetch hiding them in a bush. Will interrupt other dogs playing fetch to steal and hide the toys in the same bush. Attacks other dogs unprovoked. Stole soup out of my bowl!!!!! Will walk into a room and sit with person A to be pet while making unbreaking eye contact with person B so they know she’s ignoring them. Has to be muzzled. Weirdly good with kids and puppies. Jumps on tables and counters dead-quietly to eat food. Will learn who does and doesn’t scold her for what rules and will break whatever rules she believes she will get away with.

(NOT GOOD) Aussie-Pyrenees (looks NOTHING like a Pyrenees and runs small for an Aussie) LOVES to be cuddled. Has TERRIBLE memory growled at me the first dozen times I visited or so before remembering that we lived together for a few months and that she’s seen me many many times. Easily confused and overwhelmed by other dogs. Growls at people and then runs away and hides under a table. Sometimes nips at ankles. Sometimes backs up the setter in fights against the lab. Kills butterflies. Took forever to house break. HATES walks. HATES the car. HATES the leash. Will bite and pee on it. Jumps. One time ripped the squeaker out of a toy with surgical precision.

[byebyelullabye]

i have never been more exhausted in my life. i need to get out of this house. abandon all hope ye who enter here. living in my parent's house is free because i am paying with my soul. i am cutting myself into each role everyone else in this house requires.

to my father i am the next man of the house. for as long as i have known, he has told me himself, he has to make sure i am 100% ready to take his place should anything happen. he has been preparing me like i am a prince next in line for the throne. lord knows it cannot be my brother, child that he is. every burden my father carries is passed to me, not to my brother. he is the one allowed to be a child, allowed to run around the house and play with his friends. his studies are of no importance or priority, even though my parents pay through the nose for it. i am my father's best boy. i used to carry that title with pride. it is more of a weight on my neck now. i wonder if this is how Joan of Arc felt when God called her.

to my mother i am little more than a spoiled lady in waiting. meant to serve rather than be served. she talks about how much she could accomplish at my age, when it takes me 2 hours to get out of bed without killing myself throughout the day. she thinks i am not ready for the world, not ready to be on my own. but how can i be, when i wish to do things at my own pace. i do not enjoy hurrying myself. i admit that is only one of my awful tendencies. but i cannot do things when i am hurried. i enjoy deciding what to do on my own time. i am my mother's failed project, a husk of all my outgrown potential.

but to both my parents i am something else entirely, an errand girl or a scullery maid. a babysitter who is never paid. i am just on hold in my room until i am called for some other meaningless task. fetch dishes my mother cannot reach or to look after my brother or fetch him from school. they like to think they allow me my freedoms like the lack of curfew or letting me drink but this is all meaningless when i am barely more than a piece of luggage they lug around from place to place without word or notice beforehand. at a moment's notice, we have to leave, we have to go. it does not matter if i want to stay or if i do not wish to go anywhere. i have to. i hate it.

and finally, to my brother. to my brother i am a maternal substitute where our mother cannot provide. my mother stretches herself thin and leaves little back for us at home. my brother is still a child and unburdened so i give him all my maternal instinct. its running on fumes now.

i have given so much to this family. i love them don't get me wrong, but i cut myself into so many pieces for them to be able digest me i don't think there's any more left for myself. i don't even have my own space, i share it with my brother. all my things, my books, my journals, my thoughts, my prayers, my secrets are all tucked into one corner of a tiny room barely fitting two. even worse when someone comes over, some distant family or family friend which is practically the same as family anyway, and my mother makes our home into their hotel. nevermind the fact our house was only meant to house 2 at best. she has squished 13 people here like sardines in a concrete box. she offers my bed as theirs. I sleep in the den like a dog. or on the floor. also like a dog. is that all I am to them? i think of myself more like a bird. encased. trapped. clipped. looking out the window and waiting for the glass to shatter so i can fly home.

[flintandthedog]

The Bench Test—How One Dog’s Loyalty Reminds Us What Support Really Looks Like

Why a giant Irish Wolfhound stopping at every bench matters more than you think.

We’re all a little exhausted these days. The world feels like it’s moving faster, demanding more, and leaving less room to breathe—literally and metaphorically. So when a dog stops to sniff out a bench—not for herself, but for her very pregnant human—we notice.

We feel it. And we share it.

The now-viral video of Santa the Irish Wolfhound lovingly scouting resting spots for her pregnant mom is more than a sweet slice of dog content (though it is absolutely that, too). It’s a moment that lands because it says something deeper about care, intuition, and how we show up for each other when it counts.

A Dog. A Bench. A Reminder.

Let’s start with the facts: Santa is an enormous, shaggy, horse-sized Irish Wolfhound. She has the bearing of a gentle knight and the instincts of a nurse. In the video, we see her on walks with her pregnant mom, gently steering them toward park benches, refusing to budge until her human sits and rests.

It’s adorable, yes. But it’s also a small act of radical attentiveness. Santa doesn’t just allow her mom to rest—she insists on it.

And in a culture that often pressures women—especially moms and moms-to-be—to “keep pushing,” to ignore discomfort, to power through the third trimester like it’s a productivity sprint… this matters.

Santa becomes a kind of furry resistance leader. A one-dog anti-hustle movement. She’s not just walking her human—she’s walking her back to her own limits. To her right to pause. To her right to be cared for.

The Care Work We Don’t Always See

What Santa does is something humans often struggle with: anticipating needs without being asked. Caretaking, particularly during pregnancy, is often treated like background noise. It’s not headline material. It's not shiny. But it is the scaffolding holding up so many families.

Santa reminds us that support doesn’t always look like a grand gesture. Sometimes it’s a bench. Sometimes it’s a pause. Sometimes it’s a 120-pound dog planting her giant self in your path so you have to sit down and catch your breath.

And isn’t that what real support should do?

Dogs don’t ask what’s convenient. They act on what’s needed. Santa didn’t read a parenting book or scroll TikTok for “5 signs your pregnant partner needs help.” She just knew.

That kind of wordless, unwavering loyalty is something many of us crave—and sometimes forget to give.

Why It Hits Now

There’s a reason this clip struck a chord, especially with women.

It’s not just that Santa is cute (she is) or that pregnant moms are heroic (they are). It’s that right now, in 2025, care feels politicized, professionalized, and—too often—deprioritized. Maternal health outcomes in the U.S. remain shockingly poor compared to other wealthy countries. Many expecting mothers are still navigating a fragmented healthcare system, limited paid leave, and societal expectations to be both tireless and selfless.

So watching a dog model care so intuitively feels both heartwarming and slightly revolutionary.

Santa isn’t just playing fetch—she’s showing us what it looks like to be emotionally intelligent in a world that often isn’t. She’s saying: I see you. I know this is hard. Let’s rest.

What Santa Teaches Us (Yes, Really)

Okay, I know. It’s a dog. But the simplicity is the genius.

Santa doesn’t need complex language to communicate concern. She doesn’t second-guess her instincts. She notices a need and acts. No meetings. No performance reviews. Just action.

Maybe we should be more like Santa. Here’s what that could look like:

Instead of asking "Do you need help?"—just bring the chair. Or the snack. Or the silence.

Instead of waiting for burnout—pay attention to the signs: the sighs, the slowed pace, the shift in energy.

Instead of expecting people to name every need—trust that showing up consistently builds the kind of trust where rest becomes possible.

Also: She’s Massive, and That’s Hilarious

Let’s not skip over this: Santa is gigantic. She’s the size of a small horse, and that only makes her gentle insistence more effective. When a 100+ pound Irish Wolfhound decides it’s time to stop and sit, you sit. This dog has the energy of a very polite bouncer at the rest stop of life. You're not passing her until you catch your breath.

It’s funny. It’s tender. It’s quietly profound.

A Bench, A Belly, and a Better Way Forward

The micro-moment of a dog pausing by a bench connects to the macro-moment of how we think about care. Not just for pregnant people, but for anyone going through something—illness, burnout, grief, or just the invisible weight of trying to do it all.

Santa offers a new gold standard: care that’s consistent, non-performative, and deeply tuned in.

And maybe most importantly, she models that care can come from the unlikeliest places. A big, hairy, slightly drooly place, in this case.

So Here’s What to Take Away

Care looks like interruption. Santa’s not convenient, she’s correct. True care often stops us from pushing too far.

Love is in the logistics. Not the flowers, but the foresight. Not the grand speeches, but the bench-finding.

Your dog might be a better listener than your boss. Just saying.

And if you're the person always walking someone else through life, take this as your sign to stop. Sniff out a bench. Sit. Breathe. Let someone care for you—even if it’s just your dog leaning on you until you finally rest.

🎥 Watch the original moment that inspired it all here: 📽️ Santa the Irish Wolfhound Finds Benches for Pregnant Mom

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[cammys-imagines24]

• Taking Care of Injured Sevika •

It's like pulling teeth.

Sevika is kind of an asshole whenever she's wounded, to be honest.

Like, you're not just fighting her stubbornness here, you're also battling her ego, too.

She will downplay any injury she obtains even if it's her literal metal prosthetic torn straight off.

Even if said prosthetic is just a hunk of steel scrap on the ground now and her stub is oozing pink Shimmer everywhere.

Sevika's first instinct will be to practically throw you off of her when you rush to her aid.

She will be gruff, crude and absolutely boorish.

She will tell you that she is fine and to stop being so damn dramatic.

She will bark at you to fetch her a strong drink while she collapses down onto your shared apartments couch and lights up a cigarette.

To say Sevika is an unruly patient is an egregious understatement.

Plus, the woman is built like a brick wall so it's not like you can force her to do anything she doesn't want to do, even if it's for her own benefit.

At times it seems like she'd much rather bleed out and die than let you tend to her.

The only time Sevika even half listens to you is through bribery.

If you offer something she wants than maybe, maybe she will spend the day in bed resting or actually let you change her bandages or take the medicine you prescribe her.

There are only two sure fire ways to motivate her into doing what you say.

You either tell her that you will give her a nice, rare vintage bottle of alcohol or that you'll let her do anything she wants to you in the bedroom once she recovers.

Summed up nicely, Sevika's passions are fighting, which is why she's injured in the first place, a nice bottle of aged whiskey or scotch and you naked in bed.

It's not like you mind spending money on a nice vintage for your girlfriend and you mind even less being completely at the sexy, buff lady's mercy but still...

The fact that you have to resort to buying her off in some way just to get her to heal properly is ridiculous.

Whenever you try to disinfect a flesh wound she hisses from the sting and makes it seem like a personal attack to her.

The gray eyed glare she fixes you is murderous to say the least and it's a good thing she can't kill with just a look, otherwise you'd be dead.

And, don't even get me started on how grumpy Sevika is in the days that follow.

When she has visible bandages wrapped around her like a mummy, when her damaged metal prosthetic is in a sling, waiting for a mechanic to come and fix it. (It being too wrecked for her to make her own repairs)

You've theorized that Sevika's aversion to being seen injured has to do with her ego as well and that she doesn't want others, especially Silco and his underlings to see her as "weak".

She has a reputation to maintain after all as being the scariest lady in the Undercity.

So when she does get hurt she feels like her whole position may be threatened and the bruise to her self esteem is way worse than whatever bodily injury she did receive.

Never mind the fact that 9 out of 10 times it's her opponent who she fought that has to spend months in the hospital recovering from the damage she caused.

You try to be gentle and understanding of her pride since you know how challenging it can be maintaining her "not to be messed with", dangerous infamy.

The Undercity is a dog eat dog world after all, especially when working for Silco.

You have to conjure up the patience of a saint whenever she's injured.

You have to be on your best behavior because these are sensitive times and she tends to snap and growl.

You will have to stand your ground as well despite being a mere mouse up against a lion.

But seriously, "If she doesn't allow for the cut to be properly cleaned it will get infected!"

Rationally you know that your girlfriend would never hurt you but it is no trifling matter having to assert yourself against the beautiful giant.

When Sevika is in pain and injured her temperance becomes akin to a bear just awoken from hibernation.

Once you knocked a carafe of booze right out of her hand when she had been adamantly refusing to let you attend to her for going on hours.

Her blood was everywhere around your shared apartment and she needed to be properly cleaned.

As the alcohol splashed across the whole room and shattered glass made it's own mosaic onto the floor the look the enforcer of Zaun had given you made you freeze like a deer in headlights.

Though despite her bone chilling glare it was quickly replaced with a smug, almost proud smirk.

That night only resulted in her yanking you towards her by the flesh of your hips and having her way with you.

It is very challenging to get Sevika to focus on the task at hand, which is tending to the wounds and allowing for them to heal.

She just wants to smoke, drink and have you beneath her.

Though despite her thorny, brutish behavior when hurt she does deep down feel gratitude towards you.

And, it's certainly no turn off for her having you as her nurse.

Sevika just isn't used to someone caring for her and actually wanting to take care of her, okay.

The reason she's such a bitch to you is because you're making her feel all soft and warm inside and she hates it.

Like, no, stop fussing over her and making her feel loved.

But, also don't stop and she secretly appreciates you so much.

Sevika knows she is difficult and chances are she will always be difficult but subtly she does show you how much she loves you.

She is not one to do anything she doesn't want to do, so if she actually hated you taking care of her, you'd be thrown straight through a window.

And, though she argues against your ministrations to the enth degree it's just a small way of maintaining her pride.

In truth Sevika knows what sorry state she'd be in without you to care for her.

And, even more does she know how broken her heart would be if she didn't have your love.

[senjuushi]

a master who rewards hybrid au puppy girls for doing cute puppy things (fetch, walks, toy fighting) even if it's degrading. especially if it's degrading.

Ninety

She has her whole "dog" thing anyway, so puppy behavior is really just her norm. If anything, Ninety is comforted by the treatment. It's nice to know that it's so easy to be good for you, and that you'll reward her so nicely for such simple things. She barely realizes when the things you want her to do are degrading, since being treated like a dog is what she's used to anyway. Those things aren't shameful at all, especially when they make you happy.

89.

She starts out terribly embarrassed and a little offended that you expect her to act like that. And yet, after the first couple of times you praise her for the behavior (...and offer petting as a reward), the giddy feeling 89 gets over being good starts to win out over what little dignity she has. It's still humiliating, but if you call her a good girl and coo over how precious she is when she does something dumb like fetch a toy at your command... whatever.

Marks

As you'd expect, Marks has absolutely no shame. Whatever you want her to do, no matter how humiliating it would be to a normal person, she won't hesitate to comply. So long as you're happy with her, she'll gladly do everything from playing fetch with an actual dog toy to performing tricks at your command. The obedience does things to the dog side of her brain that feel right, so she has no complaints about how you're treating her.

Hachikyu

It's way, way too embarrassing to do stuff like that. Even though part of her kind of wants to give in to the weird instincts hovering in the back of her mind, and even though it feels really nice when you praise her, Hachikyu is still hesitant to do the degrading things you're so insistent on. Of course, she also doesn't have the willpower to stand up for herself, so with enough coaxing, she ends up giving in... and looking utterly humiliated all the while.

[beckface]

WORDGIRL ANIMAL AU

Okay okay this took forever but it was so much fun AHHHH!

More about this au-

First things first Capt. Huggyface is NOT an ape in this au! He’s a human (or human passing alien) lmao. He left his home planet of Lexicon to scout out new territories for the government, but unbeknownst to him a tiny kitten snuck on to his spaceship!

Like in the show he crashlanded on earth, except this time THIS earth is populated solely by intelligent animal life. He can understand them, but they can not understand him, but soon he realizes that the kitten that accidentally came with him CAN speak to him and speak for him. It’s basically the same as in the show, except with animal shenanigans and Huggy being like way taller the Becky and also she’s legit just a cat

He sets up shop in the woods, but the Botsfords find them and adopt Becky. Huggy doesn’t go with them in this au though because he feels weird being under the care of a dog and kangaroo, and he’s a grown man. Through Becky, he becomes friends with them though and hangs out with them and Becky often. He kinda just, is the only person on earth and every animal finds him facinating at first. 

Some other minor changes:

- Squeaky was Boxlietner’s evil lab assistant. He was jealous of Steven’s genius so he tricked him into trying to create a mind reading device, that Squeaky rigged so that Boxlietner’s brain would merge onto his. It went wrong, and Squeaky became attached to the doctor.

-General Smoochington is Victoria’s Butler

-Lil Mittens is Butcher’s adopted baby

-Any pets shown in the show are generally now roomates, friends, or family members

-When it comes to interspecies couples it works like in Bojack Horseman where the kids are one species or the other, it’s best not to think about it too hard

-They do have animal instincts when I want them too otherwise don’t worry about it

-Yes they still eat meat but it’s strictly seafood, this goes for the Butcher’s whole thing too, learnerer is an alien and hyperintelligent

Everything else is pretty much the same! This is more of an excuse for me to draw animals because I like drawing them more then people KDJDS Also warning I will actively be ignoring correct heights in the future

I will happily explain any of the animal choices whifwdkjs thanks to everyone who helped me with them too

Mini things I’m adding on

-Johnson is a cheetah because he’s a nervous child and also they put Puppies and Cheetah Kittens together to comfort each other in captivity, TELL ME THAT ISN’T TJHONSON

-Okay everyone around me said Miss Question is an Owl and i’m PRETTY sure it’s for the sole reason because owls say “who”. It also works because she can fly though and got her powers at night

-Dtb sometimes gets carried away with cackling evilly and starts howling. Becky, living with two dogs, knows to just wait it out. He also wags his tail but since it’s a mouse tail it looks really silly

-Both Glen and Tobey say they’re wolves and DTB is getting real sick of the appropriation

-Nocan’s tusks are disturbingly powerful

-Whammer whams by rearing up and hitting his hooves on the ground

-Butcher can roar out meat aswell as shoot through his paws

-Dtb once threatened to eat Steve McClean because of how fed up he got. Becky hissed at the mousebrain to get him to stop and “play fair”

-Violet is sooo physically awkward, being a fawn

-Scoops climbs on his friends a lot to take pictures and get a better view

*Becky staring at Scoops, in love*

Scoops, slightly worried she’s about to hunt him: 0_0

-Tobey tries to bury himself in a hole and does the fox thing where they dive face first whenever his mom comes to fetch him

-Arg winds himself up in a knot like all the time

-The narrator is also an animal but he changes what animal he says he is every episode

-The scene where mr big is climbing his statue and is like “Haha you can’t get me now wordgirl!” because he forgot she can fly happens all the time, because he flies up and forgets that she has superpowers. She can not only fly without wings but has superspeed, so like, what was your plan there Big guy

all together image for a bit better size reference-

SOME CHARACTERS NOT PICTURED:

-Maria is still an energy monster! Considering having her just be on all fours though

-Rose is a german shepard

-Reginald is a peacock

-Chazz is a llama

-The mayor is a beaver MAYBE

-Exposition guy is a ostrich

-Grocery store guy is a lemur

————

addendum

[agentrouka-blog]

It's interesting how compared to others, Sansa doesn't have a lot of attachment to having a claim/being an heir. The characters I'm thinking of are Arianne, Daenerys, Theon (pre-Ramsay), Aegon, Jon,Cersei, Tyrion. It definitely doesn't mean that Sansa is better than them in this or that they're feelings aren't valid (ie Arianne vowing to protect her birthright) but it is interesting. Hope you understand what I mean

Oh yes, I think this is a really interesting aspect of her queenship arc.

All the other characters you list (and let's include Ramsay) place a lot of importance on a privilege that is either threatened or denied to them entirely, and that title and privilege is tied to the identity they desire.

That's not the case for Sansa, nor Arya. Their desired identities are distinct from the power of a title. Sansa has romantic dreams, Arya desires freedom. Still Sansa and Arya are aware of the possibilities of their power, but in a childlish, passive way.

Arya knows that her name can invoke violence on her behalf and open doors.

Both men laughed, but then the older one swung his fist at her, casually, as a man would swat a dog. Arya saw the blow coming even before it began. She danced back out of the way, untouched. "I'm not a boy," she spat at them. "I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, and if you lay a hand on me my lord father will have both your heads on spikes. If you don't believe me, fetch Jory Cassel or Vayon Poole from the Tower of the Hand." She put her hands on her hips. "Now are you going to open the gate, or do you need a clout on the ear to help your hearing?" (AGOT, Arya III)

Sansa has a similar instinct about her future queenship. It ranges from petty....

"Go ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace." (AGOT, Sansa III)

... to generally realistic. (Though not with Joffrey as king.)

It would only have to be for a few years. By then she and Joffrey would be married. Once she was queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon. (AGOT, Sansa IV)

She does actually take an active interest in her father's day-to-day work ruling as Hand of the King, even boring Jeyne with the details like a little nerd, and she does understand the actual duties and how they relate to the power of a queen, as demonstrated when she actually does Cersei's job in the ballroom during the Blackwater battle (and ruminates on making the people love, rather than fear her).

Her future title, whatever that may be, is very much understood as a job with duties related to power.

But her tie to their family name and Winterfell is mostly personal. Which is why it takes Dontos to point out the motivation of the Tyrells.

"Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It's your claim they mean to wed."

"My claim?" She was lost for a moment.

"Sweetling," he told her, "you are heir to Winterfell." (ASOS, Sansa II)

And the same chapter explains why.

But she had not forgotten his words, either. The heir to Winterfell, she would think as she lay abed at night. It's your claim they mean to wed. Sansa had grown up with three brothers. She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn't matter, there's still Robb, he's a man grown now, and soon he'll wed and have a son. Anyway, Willas Tyrell will have Highgarden, what would he want with Winterfell?

Sansa never considered "ownership" of Winterfell or even wielding power the way Bran is prepared to do in his first chapter. Her expectation, with which she was at peace (though for naive reasons), was what Ned had planned:

"You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon."

Arya screwed up her face. "No," she said, "that's Sansa."

She doesn't understand her claim as a part of her identity. Not even a desired identity. Ruling and power were always tied to a duty taken on in marriage, based on acquired skills, not an inherent right in herself.

From ASOS on, rather than a source of ambitious calculation, her claim becomes a burden that results in actual misery and a sober reassessment of how achievable her romantic dreams are.

The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. (ASOS, Sansa VI)

And even as her desire is to go home and her idea of a fun time is to literally build it from the ground up with snow, she doesn't consider wielding power there. She never questions that Petyr's plan for retaking her home involves another marriage.

Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. (AFFC, Alayne II)

Her maiden cloak is worn when casting off that birthright to her husband, essentially. They would be winning it for Harry, not Sansa, in this vision. And Sansa doesn't question that, still.

My Harry. My lord, my lover, my betrothed.

Ser Harrold Hardyng looked every inch a lord-in-waiting; clean-limbed and handsome, straight as a lance, hard with muscle. Men old enough to have known Jon Arryn in his youth said Ser Harrold had his look, she knew. He had a mop of sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, an aquiline nose. Joffrey was comely too, though, she reminded herself. A comely monster, that's what he was. Little Lord Tyrion was kinder, twisted though he was. (TWOW, Alayne I)

It's still the personal relationship with her future husband that takes priority. Not how he would rule Winterfell based on her inheritance, like Lancel rules castle Darry through Amerei Frey based on her inheritance. (And fails at it.)

Sansa's desired identities are "lady in a song" and "beloved wife". Her path will likely still include both, but it will refuse to limit itself to those categories. Sansa still evades the responsibility of embracing the duty inherent in her claim. The duty to rule to the best of her own ability.

Sansa will eventually (have to) merge her understanding of her future job with her identity, unrelated to marriage. A queen in her own right, her duties and her home are one, derrived from her own claim and her future contributions to its liberation.

I rather appreciate that she is shown to have good instincts and skills when it comes to politics and even leadership but is shown to be so hesitant to reach for power. She understands duty before she understands power, and that is a good thing.

It's the opposite picture of what her detractors like to claim: that she is supposedly power hungry. If she truly was, you'd think she would spare her claim to ruling the North in her own right some attention. The opposite is true. It's a burden she struggles to accept.

[jmagnabo92]

Teasing Padfoot

RFTV snippet, the morning of the first day of school, Harry and Sirius have the first period open and Harry’s friends end up teasing him because he prefers being Padfoot.

***

After a few minutes, they approach, and Lavender asks, “Harry, can we ask you a question without you getting upset?”

         Harry frowns, “You can try.”

         “Are you petting a grim?” Parvati asks, after a minute.  

         “Wha–?” he starts, surprised.  He looks down at Padfoot.  “Oh, yeah, of course.”

         “‘Of course’?” Lavender asks.  “You say that like it’s normal.  Why are you hanging out with a grim?  An omen of death?  Like the one you had in your teacup in our first divination lesson?”

         Harry laughs, “Padfoot is a grim, but he’s not just an omen of death.  Did you know that the grim actually protects innocent lives?  He walks with death, as a companion, and he stops death from taking the innocent. The protective instinct of a grim over those he’s supposed to protect is strong and overrides logical thinking sometimes.”  He chuckles, thinking of Sirius’ actions the previous day.  “You mentioned our first divination lesson, well, yeah, Trelawney was right, I did have the grim.  I’d seen him several times that year.  The night I ran away, for one, but he wasn’t there to collect me for death, he was there to protect me from him.  Even if he went about it in the worst possible ways.”

         Neville, who had been quietly watching, laughs.  “Yeah, I don’t think he was thinking logically in his determination to protect you from the rat.”

         “He did apologize,” Harry offers.  “Although, the Fat Lady still…”

         Ron laughs, “If I was the Fat Lady, I wouldn’t either.”

         Padfoot whines, quietly.  Harry knows that he didn’t mean to let himself lose his mind by attacking the Fat Lady, but there was no denying he’d done it, and he did feel bad.  Harry glares at Ron, who shrugs.

Lavender and Parvati are looking thoroughly confused with the by play, and Harry realizes that they didn’t know about Sirius.

“So, you just decided to adopt this grim that …”

Neville laughs, “Pretty sure it’s the other way around.”

Harry chuckles, “We sort-of adopted each other, but yeah, it does lean stronger one way.”

“I’m so confused,” Parvati says, honestly. “How did you get a Grim to join you, to come to Hogwarts?”

Harry laughs, “He practically insisted on it.”

“He can talk?  Can you understand him like you understand snakes?” Lavender asks, excitedly.  “That would be so cool.”

“Well, anyone can understand him, when he wants them to,” Harry teases, as Padfoot wags his tail.  “I bet if you asked nicely…he’ll talk to you.”

Lavender gives him a look.  Then she shares a look with Parvati.  “Okay.  Uh, Padfoot, you said?”

“Hmm-mm, he does answer to Padfoot.”

“Although sometimes, it’s Snuffles,” Ron jokes.

“Okay, uh, Padfoot,” she starts, noting the giggling from Neville and Ron, while Harry just continued to pet him, if a dog could smirk, he knew Padfoot would be smirking.  “Do you play fetch?”  

Padfoot nods, while Neville laughs, “Yes, but not well.”  Padfoot lifts his head and glares at Neville.

“Are you glaring at Neville?”

Padfoot nods, and Neville says, “It’s not my fault that you like to steal the rope and run with it rather than bringing it back like you’re supposed to.”  Padfoot glares, causing Neville to ask, “Hey, Harry, have you managed to get him house-broken yet?  Maybe that’s the problem.”

Padfoot growls, while Ron and Harry howl with laughter.

“You know, I try my best, but Padfoot’s a wild animal, not like a normal dog.”   He barks, and Harry adds, “But he’s mostly good, mostly, house-broken.”

Lavender and Parvati are staring at Padfoot uncertainly. “Do you bite?”  Padfoot shakes his head.  “Can I pet you?” Padfoot nods.  

Parvati looks at Harry, “You’re sure that he’s not going to attack us?”

“Trust me, he’s very friendly.”

“Then why does he keep glaring at Neville?”

Sirius having had enough of the joke, transforms, “Because he says I’m not house-broken and bad at fetch.”

Both girls spring back, screaming slightly. “Oh my Merlin, you – you…”

         The boys laugh, and Sirius says, “I’m sorry, but it’s almost time for class, and I couldn’t really answer that one as a dog.”

         “So, you’re not a grim, you’re just a big dog?” Lavender asks, sounding relieved.

         “No, Padfoot is a grim.”

         “But Grims are…”

         “They’re not bad.  They just have a bad reputation…” Sirius looks sadden slightly.  Grims have a similar reputation to Sirius himself.  

         “But now’s not the time, we should go to class,” Harry says, getting him.  He lets the others the lead the way before he looks at Sirius, “You okay?”

         Sirius nods, “Yeah, I was just…a little overwhelmed.  I’m fine.”

[doctors-star]

before the beginning

“Are you quite sure?” he says, trying not to look around at the house in case his glances should look doubtful. Unfortunately, he simply is somewhat doubtful of the wisdom of this idea; happy as he is for Peter to be surrounded by other people for the uncertain length of time he will be out in Herefordshire, the May household is already a large one and the May house is not. Peter is already looking slightly daunted by the noise and debris left by various young women between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two, and he’s barely made it past the front door. For good reason does Lesley usually visit them at the Folly, rather than the other way around. And then, of course, there is Molly at home with the dog, probably too well-trained to be cursing their names, but entirely possibly slightly distraught at being left alone. In truth, he is a little distressed at leaving her. It has, after all, been some time since he last did.

“Oh, yes,” Lesley’s mother says cheerfully, weaving in amongst the chaos with expert familiarity to deposit Peter’s bags on the stairs, ready to take the next person to come downstairs out at the ankles. “I’d hate to think of him rattling around in that big place on his own, and he’s a good lad. It’ll be lovely to have him over.”

“We’ll look after him,” Lesley’s dad says - a little wryly, like he too can see the madness that has been made of his home - and claps Peter on the shoulder in a display of manly solidarity. Peter manages a smile, but little enthusiasm; Lesley just rolls her eyes.

“Well, I do appreciate it,” Nightingale says, tucking his amusement into the corner of his mouth where only Peter and Lesley can see it. Peter narrows his eyes, aware he is being laughed at, but his mouth compresses against a grin all the same. “It shouldn’t be for very long, anyway.”

“I should hope not!” Lesley’s mother says, catching Lesley’s head in passing and crushing her close to press a kiss to her head. Lesley squirms uselessly but ultimately must submit to this display of parental affection; Peter looks at him suspiciously, as though to ward off any similar instincts in him. They are neither of them very tactile, even less so now as Peter gets older, but sometimes he does envy Mrs May for her easy affection. “You fetch those girls home, and you’ll be back before we know you’re gone. Peter, I’m putting you in Tanya’s room; Lesley, Tanya’s in with you. I’ll go and make up the beds.”

“Mum!” Lesley objects sharply, unfolding from her slouch against the wall to stare after her retreating mother at this abject betrayal; her father, wisely, beats a hasty retreat towards the living room, leaving them all in the hallway to say goodbye. Lesley huffs enormously. “I don’t know why everyone’s worried about you,” she says to Peter mutinously. “You get your own room.”

Peter holds up his hands defensively. “It’s not my fault. You’re not pinning Tanya’s inevitable demise on me.”

Lesley folds her arms and looks up at Nightingale. “I refuse to be held responsible either,” he says quickly.

“Then don’t be long,” she replies darkly, which is probably the closest he’s going to get to affection from Lesley these days - she’s going through a rather grumpy phase at present.

“As you like,” he says mildly. “Right - the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll get back. Be good,” he tells Peter, more from some kind of parental instinct than any expectation otherwise; Peter rolls his eyes. “Call me if you need anything; I really shouldn’t be long. Don’t let Lesley kill her sisters.”

“You never let me do anything,” Lesley says, trying to hide a grin.

“I know. Look after yourselves.” And then there’s really nothing more to say, except goodbye.

“Good luck,” Peter offers. “You - look after yourself too. See you in a bit, then.”

And then Nightingale reaches out to squeeze his shoulder bracingly, but doesn’t quite make it. Peter ducks in underneath his arm, snakes one arm around his waist, and leans into his side in a sort of half-hug, half-tackle. Nightingale manages to coordinate his arm into wrapping around Peter’s shoulders quickly enough for a brief squeeze before the boy pulls away, resolutely refusing to make eye contact.

“Right. Bye then,” Peter says, still looking anywhere but at Nightingale.

Lesley tips her chin at him in a sort of salute, grinning at Peter’s behaviour.

“Bye, then,” he says, and smiles all the way to the M40.