#i got a good amount of big yellow sticky notes for him. expect a lot more paperqings

[daily-yanqing]

(day 92) based off of that one xianzhou npc that says yanqing is scared of rats. but that npc also said that yanqing is a vidyadhara so take that with a grain of salt

[atendersun-archived]

It was new, Muukun was learning like PChan had to learn about humans. No one was the same, though his secretions worked really well with persons of shy natures or even-better for randy folk, he didn't want Muu to be so delirious in pleasure that was forced from his subconsciousness, though he believed it may help the other man, PChan hummed as he settled on the human's bed. Arms cradling one of his the many plush dolls as he thought in wonder in what the other had in mind for their first time being a little more handsy.

The shower was running so Pchan stayed far away from the killer liquid and instead stared around the others room. Taking in their bedding, the set up of tables, the bookshelves and things of many interests that Muu had. It was a slow process, but soon enough, Muu was here! PChan's mood easily heightened with his grin growing, no unease shown as he had a feeling that Muu muu would be nervous to heck in a way that was mostly noted in how he rambles with a fixated topic.

"Muu! C'mere." Hand pats the bed next to him, though he uncurls from the seat he was in to sit up and place the plush right where he got it. "I have an idea." He clapped a set of hands, fingers easing off his own shirt in a swift fwoosh, so that his secondary arms could ooze from his ribs and stretch into use. "Trust me, trust me." He grinned away, reaching for Muu's hands, to tug the male closer, and not so much next to him but over his lap. Pchan flopped backwards, hands on the human's hips over towel and the other set stroking at Muu's wrist and hand. "Like this, so you don't feel trapped. You can do whatever you want and I'll do what you ask, okay?" Though for now, Pchan's legs hung off the edge with a light stretch in his thighs and his smile parted with pride at his decision.

"I don't know how to be slow - so I will be learning too, but you can tell me to stop with a big no, anytime. I'll listen." He nodded with a firm one, before he softened up with a memory he refused to think about at current. Thus, his hands were already tugging away the towel his friend wore to toss aside. "Naked is fun, no shame, Muukun is pretty and handsome and perfect. Promise." Pchan was already nude after all from the waist down, his shirt was the last thing to be removed.

With a duo set of hands, he gently took hold of Muu's shoulders to tug the human down so he could hold him, nude to nude. Hands on his spine, in his hair, nape and hip. "No shame, no shame. Only fun and learning together... okay? Exploring is fun!"

For someone as attentive and thoughtful as himself, it was somewhat worrying how he managed to make it to the age of twenty four before learning about different kinds of drain fixtures that a tub could be adjusted to have. Likely no other man his age had to go through the necessary steps to have the completely uncovered without a stopper style tub drain he had with one completely with the teeniest, tiny holes only water could pass through. As much as he made peace with the fact that the irrational fear he held over monsters sneaking into his bathroom via the tub was very much so an example of a teenager's hold on imagination running too wild, he still didn't want to risk his chances by being in such a vulnerable state as taking a shower nonetheless.

All day had been grossly sticky from the overcast of humidity and passing storms in neighboring areas that even just a day out shopping with an alien at his side made him feel in need of a good wash. Any thought to bring in clothes with him as he took in with him an ordinary plain blue towel was completely overtaken by the decision to relocate the friendly, but still fear inducing pooch into a sectioned off part of the living room for neither pet or friend to get into any unruly situations with him preoccupied with washing up.

His time spent drenched under cool, but not entirely cold water only lasted roughly fifteen minutes as any longer and he was at risk of either boredom, or too deep into some fictional narrative he was conducting from behind a space themed shower curtain. Hair had been thoroughly cleaned and rinsed with honeysuckle scented shampoo and body wash instead of his usual due to that particular scent being out of stock during his latest shopping trip. It had taken him a truthful period of half an hour to just to settle on the replacement be finally decided on as he perhaps dancing around in indecisiveness would somehow make his routine fall back into place.

He'd at least found that it balanced better with his other light scented products to not make him completely overwhelmed with different senses going off at one time. That, and the bottle was beautifully decorated with not only flowers, which he enjoyed to some extent, but with his favorite color yellow as well. Soaping up and clearing away the accumulated suds took twice as long as the time dedicated to the locks upon his head did. By then, at least he'd known he was far less clammy with the salty residue left behind by the copious amounts of sweat that layered itself over him throughout the day.

That alone had him feeling much more comfortably set in his own skin, and ready to spend time alongside his friend yet again. Each second spent trailing back to his room to slip on a clean pair of underwear and some shorts was spent suggesting different things he and the other would do between themselves, such as the things he'd maybe show off to them, or games he'd suggest giving a shot seeing as very few times did he have the opportunity to play a boardgame that wasn't single-player.

Those ideas were more than thrown out the exact second he bypassed through his door to find a Pchan in a completely unexpected state than when he'd left him. He knew he had been very persistent in his reassurances that he was comfortable getting to know more about the parts of the alien he had never taken the time to know in the earlier years in his friendship, but he didn't expect that to translate into seeing multiple limbs and an exposed lower region all at once. It was incredibly bold of the other to say the least; however, it was a bit too much so that it started the already easily shaken smaller of the two.

While emotionally he may have been experiencing a lot of conflicted and intimated feelings all at once at not only witnessing his friend stark before him, but from then having to reciprocate that same level of nakedness seconds later as be walked over to the bed as directed, he logically was more aware of himself to know his safety was not in any way compromised with Pchan of all people guiding him into something similar they'd already done days earlier.

Of course that didn't necessarily make his chest beat any less erratic, or his hands attempt to nervously situate themselves into a spot. Uncertain, he maneuvered them in such a way where they first began at his front, shielding himself from being seen, or brushed over in any way. Soon, however, at the genuinely affection being shown to him by the appendages at his back, hair, neck, and midsection in manners that only provided him comfort and safety, he tried to return the favor by some means. One hand went to gently run fingers through the aliens hair, while the other simply ran itself very lightly up and down the other's back for some support of his own.

"Ah.. How.. how did Pchan know what the next step was? To holding?"

[seenashwrite]

Some Dean

Word Count: 4K Category: One-shot, On-The-Hunt, Humor, Creature Feature, Behind-the-scenes Canon-Compliant, Teamwork, Friendship… and, to hell with it: Fluff Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Sam, Cas Warnings: None Anti-Warning: There’s no images or links to anything creeptastic below the cut, those of you with squicks/phobias need not worry, I’m not that big of an a-hole Author’s Note(s): *This is a re-post minus tags & links in an effort to get it to show in searches*; if you’ve no knowledge of the children’s story “Charlotte’s Web”, this may not be for you; more post-story Overall Summary: Sometimes good things come in small, albeit eight-legged, packages.

Dean had always liked spiders.

Well, “like” may’ve been overstating; Dean had always held an appreciation for spiders. They weren’t nasty like rats or sneaky like snakes, with spiders you knew where you stood: in his experience, anything supernatural aside, you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Plus, they were badass - spiders packed a lot of intimidation into a small package, could be killing machines when they wanted to be, and mostly he appreciated that they were efficient and effective when it came to dealing with the annoying bugs that occasionally popped up. He did live in a basement, after all; the world’s tiniest were not deterred by any amount of warding or weaponry.

So when he’d notice small, barely-there wisps of webs in far corners or between the bottom of a bookshelf and the wall, stretching from the carved wood to the sticky bricks, he’d leave the homemade traps be for a week or two if they were empty, and sure enough, they’d have captured some crawlers next time he made a run-through with the vacuum. It was an amicable relationship - Dean never saw the spiders, just their handiwork, and the webs seldom popped up in the same space twice. Plus, they seemed to know the kitchen was a no-fly… spider… zone, so all was well.

And then came Charlotte.

Charlotte - as Dean had eventually started calling the garden spider, much to Sam’s dismay - did not have any regard for the out-of-sight, you-don’t-get-the-boot arrangement, nor did she have any regard for giving Dean his space. The day they met, he’d sauntered into the garage, popped the Impala’s trunk, tossed in a bag and a shotgun, yelled at Sam to hurry up, then went to reach for the driver’s side handle, caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and froze. And he wasn’t the only one.

The web was thick at the edges and delicate in the middle, stretching from the side mirror to the handle, upon which Charlotte perched, her crafting put on hold. She wasn’t terribly small, but not remotely large; she would’ve easily fit on the pad of his thumb. And she was clearly of the brave - or stupid, perhaps - sort, because she didn’t immediately scurry off. She took in the sight of the giant creature before her - technically, there was eight of him, what with her four pairs of eyes and all - and she opted to see what would happen.

What happened was that Dean turned, grabbed a shop rag, and began cursing under his breath as he whipped the web into nothingness; by the time he stopped, Charlotte had skittered to places unknown.

Dean tossed the rag away, gave the handle a good eyeballing before he grabbed it, opening the door and saying in a low voice through grit teeth, “Not. The. Car.”

“What not the car?” asked Sam, bounding up the garage steps.

“Nothing,” Dean replied.

This nothing continued for six weeks.

Charlotte was a determined artist, it seemed, not to mention a fast one. She spun webs of all sizes and shapes, covering the license plate in quilt-panel squares, weaving long, ropy trails around and between the wipers, and at one point obscured the back window in a lacy pattern that Castiel noted looked like a fine guipure. She liked to travel, too, as more than once the brothers would exit a given roadside motel room to find Charlotte had been busy during the night, Sam’s personal favorite being when she’d decorated a hubcap in a complex Fibonacci design, though he’d never have let on to Dean.

On the initial occasions following such a discovery, if Dean happened to spot her, he would scold her with a sharp “NO!”, walk in her direction briskly, and she’d retreat, slipping into the trunk or under the hood, but it wasn’t long before she’d stay put, even edge closer, cutting the distance between them, eventually so bold as to crawl onto the roof of the Impala, watching as he dismantled her webs.

“Really?” he asked one morning after the latest wipe-down, bending slightly so they were eye-to-eyes.

She calmly extended one leg to the side, held it out til he got the hint, turning his head, following what he’d presumed was a point, and sure enough, he’d missed some cottony puffs that were still stuck on a tail light.

Looking back at her, he said - begrudgingly -  "Thanks.“

Dean had dealt with stranger things.

"One day I’m expecting to come out and see ‘terrific’ in a web,” Sam commented during a return trip from the latest hunt.

“What?” Dean asked.

“You know - the kid’s book. Charlotte’s Web. You read it to me when we were little. About the farm, and saving Wilbur the would-be bacon?”

“Charlotte’s anti-bacon?”

“No, I don’t think— it was— it— she was just pro-pig.”

It was after this conversation that Dean took to calling their frequent tag-a-long Charlotte. To be specific, it was after he’d brought a BLT with him into the garage while working on the car, and she’d happily investigated a bit of bacon that had escaped his plate. A point to the pro-bacon column, he thought.

Dean informed her that he was fine with her hanging around, he was even fine with her fancy webwork, but she needed to cool it when it came to the car, explaining with lots of gesturing to make sure the message got across, just in case. He’d looked it up. Spiders did not have ears.

He’d also looked up things on spider life spans, and arachnid health in general. Sam found him in the library one evening doing just that, frowning at his laptop screen as he scanned. Castiel was nearby, returning some books to their places on the shelves.

“What is he doing?” Sam asked in a hushed voice, and Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Dean spoke, diverting their attention.

“Did Charlotte look pale to you earlier?”

Now Sam frowned. “Dean… what?”

“I mean, she’s light brown, but she looked a little yellow earlier,” Dean explained, scrolling further down a page, but then closing the window with a huff and turning in his seat to face Sam. “Can’t find anything.” A pause; a thought. “Hey, I should put out a devil’s trap drawing for her, maybe a new pattern’ll perk her up.”

Sam was, in a word, startled. “Do you think of her as a pet?”

“Why do you care?”

“Oh, I dunno - because a spider is stalking us, and you’ve named it, and you talk to it, and—-”

“What, you got a thing about spiders to go with your thing about clowns, even though your imaginary friend was a clown?” Another pause. “Come to think of it, that explains a lot.”

“Sully’s not a clown, and no, I do not have arachnophobia, what I do have is a worry that - if it is a female - it may lay a bunch of eggs, then we’ll have an infestation. Is that what you want? Bunch of spider babies in your Baby?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “She’s not gonna do that.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Did she pinky swear?”

“Would you like me to have a look at her?” asked Castiel, and the concern in his voice was less for Charlotte and more for Dean, and less in the sympathetic way and more in the tiptoeing around someone who’s slipped into psychosis way.

Sam crossed his arms. “Taking it outside hasn’t worked, neither has trying to leave it wherever we’ve been hunting - this is getting ridiculous, will you just kill it, already?!”

Dean stood, walked over to him, defiant. “We not been doing enough killing for you lately?”

“It’s just a spider, Dean!”

“I know that! Maybe I just don’t wanna be scraping moist spider guts off my boot.”

“Does this spider communicate with you?” Castiel asked, the concern still floating under his words.

He was ignored.

“It’s not your pet, it’s a tiny insect - you don’t even know if it could be poisonous!” Sam exclaimed.

“Not an insect, genius, and Charlotte would never bite us—-”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Have either of you considered the possibility that this is no ordinary spider?” Castiel suggested.

“Gee, thanks, Cas - no, hadn’t noticed that this is weird,” Dean shot back with a look.

“So you get that this is weird?” Sam checked.

“Our life is weird, what’s some more? And at least this is fun weird, is that so bad?” Dean replied, and the touch of melancholy in his voice caused both Sam and Castiel to stay quiet for a few moments.

The silence was broken by the ring of Dean’s phone - a case awaited them.

And, of course, Charlotte.

Dean looked up from the map as Sam came back into their motel room, six pack in one hand, phone in the other, kicking the door shut as he spoke.

“Jane called. She says a container ship from the UK was bringing in illegal cargo, for some rich people who wanted exotic animals for canned hunts—”

“Douche move.”

“—and apparently when they went to unload, the crates were all busted up. The hold was covered with what was left of the bodies of the animals. All except for one. Three guesses.”

“Big bad bacon?”

“Yup. And she thinks we’re looking at… ah….” Sam trailed off and chuckled.

“Yeah?”

“A cryptid. It’s called The Beast of Dean, a.k.a. the Moose Pig.”

“Why do I think that somewhere, somehow, whatever’s left of Crowley just got a chub.”

They were in a rural area of Virginia, not too far from Portsmouth, and had been for a week, tracking what sounded like a rabid boar, but there was enough of a bump-in-the-night bend to the word on the street that they’d been confident it fell in their wheelhouse. Now that they had confirmation, after a night of research and weapon prep, they were ready to knock out the most recent mission and get back home. The Dean-Moose was large, and it was anything but subtle. The hunt should be an easy one, wouldn’t take long, nothing to it.

Well. One thing. One sort-of big thing. Even though it was also a small thing. Sam’s pro-pig storybook spider and their companion, they’d come to find, had more in common than just a name.

.

STOP

.

There, stretched across the Impala’s grill the next morning, was an undeniable message, and given Dean’s jaw-dropped state, it prompted Sam to speak on his behalf.

“Um, Charlotte? Listen, I don’t know if you… you seem nice, and… really smart, but… look, this thing isn’t like that pig in the book.”

“Because she’s read the book,” Dean said sarcastically, breaking out of his stupor and stomping over to the car, sharp eyes looking for the sassy spider; no joy. “Hey, guess what?” he said loudly. “I’m gonna drive so fast that by the time I do stop, your web’s gonna get shredded, how do you like that? I told you my car was OFF LIMITS!”

With one last glare at the web, Dean got into the car, and Sam followed suit. They put on the radio and chatted about anything but spiders and pigs for the better part of an hour as they bumped along the winding back roads. And after parking at the edge of the woods where the most recent sighting of the beastly hog had occurred, they opened the trunk to find another message, one that unfurled neatly, springing open as the lid of the weapons compartment lifted.

.

REALLY! STOP, STUPID.

.

Punctuation, and all.

“You know…” Dean began, but trailed off with a shake of his head, snatching up the shotgun and pocketing a handful of the shells with the special filling he and Sam had cooked up the night prior.

Sam removed the freshly-etched-with-symbols machete. Dean slammed the trunk shut. Charlotte did not emerge.

As they walked deeper and deeper into the woods, Sam spoke in a quiet voice.

“When we get back, I’m calling Cas. This is out of control, Dean. The spider’s obviously somebody - or something - dicking around with us. Maybe that’s been the plan, keeping us from killing this thing.”

Dean didn’t look at him, rather kept scanning their surroundings as he responded. “Maybe. She… it… came around before that ship got here. But, yeah. Maybe something’s up.”

Sam reflexively sighed in relief, and at that moment Dean stopped, extended his arm to stop Sam’s progress, as well.

“Shhh. Listen.”

The growl was only audible for a moment before the foliage began to stir.

The hunt, it turned out, did not last long. The defeated brothers wearily tossed their dented weapons into the backseat and practically fell into the front. Dean immediately turned off the radio - the chanting of Duran Duran’s “Wild Boys” had come screaming through the speakers.

“It does kinda sound like they’re saying 'wild boars’,” Sam noted.

“Shut up.”

After they’d returned to the motel and showered, cleaned up their scratches and cuts, swapped torn clothing for intact, Sam went back to researching, while Dean went out to the Impala, damp washcloths in hand, and opened the trunk. It was barely even six o'clock, and there was still enough sunlight that he could see every trace of the webbing was gone. But he wanted to check that his little - former - friend hadn’t done anything else.

She had.

Sitting in the driver’s set, Dean’s eye was drawn to the thin, nearly opaque message across the radio, anchored by the knobs and an ejected tape.

.

BAD JOB

.

Dean swiped it away without a word, uttering a small groan and clutching his bruised ribs as he climbed out. He took a few steps, but then pivoted. He opened the door again and leaned in, voice tense as he spoke.

“Tell you what, how’s about I bring you some toothpicks and you join in tomorrow, help us out, get in a few stabs? Be useful, show us how it’s done?”

Dean fell asleep wondering if he’d completely lost his mind.

.

THIS IS DUMB .

Sam ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes - he’d been out the door first, so the newest message, covering the entirety of the hood, immediately made him brace himself for what was coming next.

But, surprisingly, Dean kept his temper in check; he merely set down his bag, returned to the room for a towel, and briskly wiped down the hood.

“Ready?” he asked Sam, forcing a smile that was likely more unsettling than intended.

Sam kept quiet, answering with a thumbs-up.

Their Everything’s Fine! charade was short-lived.

As with the prior morning, Charlotte had chosen to reinforce her message, wrapping the steering wheel so thickly it was barely visible, and her stance on their mission came through loud and clear.

.

THIS IS ACTUALLY DUMB .

Sam thought the choice of having the final “dumb” in bold italic for emphasis was a nice touch. And he noted the copious amount of webbing wound around the gear shift with raised eyebrows. And he gulped when he spotted more strands of said webbing emerging from the ignition. He cut his eyes over to Dean and, upon seeing his expression, took a step back.

This time, Charlotte did not hide. She’d positioned herself on the dashboard, right near the puffed-up wheel, standing with what could be described as quite the petulant posture. And much like the day the spider and the hunter had met, Dean froze.

Charlotte held her ground.

Dean’s nostrils flared.

Charlotte crossed her front legs as if they were arms.

Dean’s jaw clenched.

Charlotte tapped a back leg, as if to say Well get on with it.

Dean was still unmoved, and so Sam said, “You know, when you freeze like that, it’s really not as intimidating as you might—-”

“CHARLOTTE!” Dean bellowed.

She turned and sashayed to the glove box, crawling inside without the first indication she felt in any danger whatsoever.

Thankfully, the motel was just shy of a mile from from a modest gas station-diner combo. Sam talked Dean into a breakfast - with extra bacon, a thumb of the nose to both the beast and its defender. After they easily convinced the owner to loan them his truck, explaining their car’s fuel gauge was apparently broken, buying a can of gas for show, they promised they’d have it returned to him by morning.

As they drove back to grab their gear, Dean asked, “You hear from Cas?”

Sam nodded. “Reception’s crap, though - I can only hear parts of his voicemail. He found something about Charlotte, at least, I think. But he didn’t sound upset, like she was dangerous.”

“Let’s just roast the pig and get the hell outta here.”

“I’m sorry she’s not… you know, fun-weird anymore,” Sam said.

Dean lowered his foot, gunning the engine. “Yeah, well. Story of my life,” he muttered.

The truck was returned way before morning, this encounter with their newest foe having gone as well as the first. Then they found that Charlotte had removed all the web from the Impala, though the door to the motel room held some snark:

.

NICE HEAD

.

Dean barely glanced at it - possibly a little hard to do with the near swollen-shut, a breath away from blackened eye - and didn’t even bother to clean it off. There was no message from Charlotte the next morning. Dean did bother to wonder if she was gone.

The sound of the tree cracking sent both of them diving behind a small knoll, gasping for breath, cringing as it crashed down just where they’d been not seconds earlier.

“I’m empty,” Dean said, returning his gun to his waistband. “You?”

“About ten minutes ago,” Sam answered.

The beast’s growls now turned into a piercing scream, a most furious howl, angry it couldn’t find them. They heard it turning up earth with its tusks, sending rocks flying, then ramming its head into yet another tree, the trunk buckling under the strain. Dean had managed to send a bullet into its snout, likely preventing it from sniffing them out, if the occasional gurgling snorts were any indication. Sam had earned himself a minor goring to his calf, but otherwise they were intact.

“Think you can run?” Dean asked, gesturing to the bandanna-wrapped wound.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think so. That the plan? Just make a run for it?”

“You got any better ideas?”

“On three?”

“One… two…. three!”

They dodged trees, though the beast didn’t bother, taking out the smaller ones along the way, picking up speed with every moment that passed, while the brothers were losing speed at the same time.

Dean noticed a large branch in their path up ahead and started to veer off from Sam, pointing to it and yelling, “Keep going! I’ll try to knock Porky out!”

“No!” Sam yelled back, grimacing each time his leg made contact with the ground. “It’ll kill—- HUUUURMMPPHH!”

Sam went down, Dean not far behind, something tripping both of them, causing them to fall with such force that whatever air they had left in their lungs got knocked out. Disoriented, they raised their heads only to immediately duck them, covering up with their arms, as the beast was still plowing ahead. Its hooves hit the ground in between them, tossing dirt everywhere, its speed too far gone for it to stop on a dime. They expected to soon hear it reversing course, so Sam opened his eyes, trying to spot a place to hide, Dean doing the same, trying to spot the branch.

Instead, the sound of the most meek squeal one could imagine reached their ears, prompting Dean and Sam to turn their gazes directly ahead.

They were at the bottom of a small incline, and they watched as the boar’s head rolled their way, their heads slowly turning as they observed it leisurely passing by. It came to a sudden stop against something near their feet. They shared a look, moving in sync onto their knees.

“Uh, Dean?” Sam said.

Dean looked up from inspecting the severed head to find Sam with his hand extended, pushing under something that Dean couldn’t make out, but a shift in position and a tilt of his head allowed him to see the bright moonlight glint off the surprisingly thick, iridescent rope running across Sam’s fingers.

Another look, another in sync movement as they stood, then tentatively walked forward til they reached the body. This time, Dean spotted it right away when he crouched, the finely-wound strands that were stretched between two trees, at just the perfect height to relieve a squatty hog monster of its head. He flicked it with a finger, as one would a string on a guitar, and it was just as taut.

“She clotheslined it,” Sam said, awestruck. “She tripped us so we wouldn’t… That could’ve clipped us at the knees. She… she…”

Dean looked up at Sam, and a slow smile spread across his face. "She’s awesome!”

Sam shifted his weight off of his bad leg, and grinned. “Think she’s any good with stitches?”

How Charlotte managed to spin their salvation in such little time, they’d never know, and they also had no idea how she beat them back to the car, but the evidence was there, across the driver’s side window. .

SOME PIG .

They laughed, Dean saying, “You ain’t lying.”

But before he could say anything else, Charlotte crawled out from under the handle. She scurried up her web, and as they watched, she whipped the “P” into a “D”; the “I” went “E” in a few short passes; the “G” was partially dismantled, then spun into an “A”; and in mere seconds, there appeared an “N”. .

SOME DEAN .

After a quick hop from its tip, a slide to the outside of one of the long connecting end pieces, and a drop of a new line of silk, their eyes followed her as she leapt, letting the momentum swing her clean up onto the roof. And then - Sam would swear to it, many times over the coming years - she curtsied.

“Thanks,” Dean said softly. “You, too.” With that, he opened the back door, gestured for her to climb inside.

Which, she did.

“Yes… yes… that’s very kind of you.”

Dean, Sam, and Castiel were standing outside the bunker, the former waiting patiently - and occasionally impatiently - as the latter had a conversation with Charlotte.

Castiel looked to them. “She says she likes my tie. The material meets her standards.”

Dean’s expression was completely flat, causing Sam to snicker.

“There any reason you didn’t tell us you could’ve been talking to her this whole time?” Dean demanded.

Castiel shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

It turned out that Castiel’s message had been to inform them that Charlotte was indeed a most special spider, more so than what they’d already divined. She was an emissary, an information-gatherer, a spy of sorts, though not a nefarious one. And because she herself was quite the accomplished hunter, she chose to spend time with other hunters whenever her journeys brought her to them.

And now, it was time for Charlotte to start her next journey.

Castiel was nodding his head as Charlotte, who was on his collar, near his ear, told him one last thing. “She’d like you to know that Sam was correct - she does need to prepare to lay her eggs, though she would not have done so in the car,” Castiel related.

Dean shot Sam a smug look.

“And she says she’ll name them Dean.”

Dean blinked. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“How many we talking?”

A pause as Charlotte answered, and Castiel replied, “Anywhere from fifty to sixty.”

“That’s… a lot,” Dean said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Not really,” Sam commented.

Another look from Dean - actually, he cycled through several.

“Fine. So maybe I did some research, too,” Sam admitted.

“It’s time for her to go,” Castiel announced. “She says she’s enjoyed your company immensely. And she apologizes for the web you’ve yet to find. It seems she was in a cranky mood that evening.”

“That’s okay. Tell her it’s okay,” Dean said, walking closer. “Tell her that, um… it’s been great knowing her. Don’t be a stranger. All that.”

Castiel smiled. “She knows.” He raised his hand to his shoulder, and Charlotte climbed onto it. “I’m going to give her a boost,” he explained, and then to Charlotte he said, “Please do give Mr. Anansi the Winchester brothers’ warmest regards.”

They watched as Charlotte prepped a silk balloon, and after a gentle wave of Castiel’s hand, off she flew.  

“It would be… cheesy of me to comment it is angelic, their flight, wouldn’t it?” Castiel asked.

“Yes,” Dean and Sam answered in unison.

They began to walk back inside.

“What was that at the end? About Anansi?” asked Sam.

“Networking,” Castiel replied.

“I wouldn’t worry about us ever having to tangle with him,” Dean said. “I mean, not with Charlotte on our side. She’ll talk us up. She’s a talker.”

“Plus, there’ll be all the Deans,” Sam added.

“Yup. Exactly. We are cool with the spider kingdom,” said Dean, and with great confidence.

Dean was incorrect on this point, as he and Sam would later learn, during a case involving a young lady by the name of Muffet.

But that’s another story.

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

Author’s Note #2 - The Jane mentioned is a character from my story Supernatural: Revelation, which you can find linked on the master post -or- just go straight to AO3, same author name SeeNashWrite 😁

Author’s Note #3 -  This also included a prompt which had languished in drafts - albeit with the note “Anansi” from the get-go, thankyouverymuch! - which was from the cringeworthy submissions:

You can find all the #Nash300 Follower Celebration Master List of Madness stories (wherein I asked followers to send me prompts consisting of three words to make me cringe) via the Master Post.

Author’s Note #4: The beast of Dean mentioned is actually a thing, give it a google! And so is Anansi, check that out, too. If you don’t get the Muffet reference, well, I can’t help you with that. 😉

[real-fakedoors]

You must have gotten this question a lot but... how did you get the idea for star-crossed? And how’d you develop the world? I was really inspired by how you detailed your story to create such an amazing image for us readers of the world; especially when it got down to politics, the watches, characterizations and the planets-turned-countries. I’m currently writing (or trying to write) a book of my own, and I’ve been struggling with how to incorporate those kind of details. Do you have any advice?

hello & thank you for the ask! what a wonderful question, and an even more glowing compliment!! my heart is so full :,)

it’s a mixture of a few things, and I’m happy to break it down further if you’d like, but allow me to lay out my basic approach to writing in general & this fic specifically. I’ll try to address each question the best I can!

1. Ideas born from ideas

Music - I’m one of those people who draw on other sources of inspiration – especially music. All three of my most popular stories were at least first thought of by songs. (star-crossed was inspired by Constellations by The Oh Hellos).

Reference material/research - I’ve tried to be as explicit as possible in star-crossed when I describe/utilize the design of another creator for the basis of my work (like all of Lance’s pretty outfits), but in general, having reference material is the MOST IMPORTANT thing. I’ve done a ton of research on medieval culture, cuisine, buildings, and courts. A good example of this is from Chapter 16: The Prisoner’s Dilemma, I had no freakin’ idea how to describe a battlement, or what that even was – hence me googling “what is the top of a castle wall called” > they’re called battlements, got it! > google image, battelments 

There, I found this:

and from that, I wrote this:

Quietly, they climbed until the highest reaches opened around them, a large plane of dark stone, stained by ombre rust to near-black on opposing ends of the terrace. A very small amount of snow had gathered, but most of it had blown away in the wind –  some small catches had gathered in pockets of shade, where the perimeter wall was buttressed by columns of scaffolding that each came to a point. They were massive structures, like stone arrows pointing towards the heavens; vaguely, Lance remembered one of his mother’s stories about a fletcher’s workshop for the gods; the sweep magnificence of the architecture, certainly lent itself to a sense of the divine and otherworldly greatness.

Linear plot - In terms of figuring out what I want to accomplish in the story, and in the chapters, I quite literally depend on my notes. I tend to get over-eager and want to do a lot in one chapter, so I force myself to map things out in accordance to time rather than events, and that helps me maintain something of a regular pace.

There are a few things I knew I had to have happen in the story, and some of it filled in naturally as I began writing. Here’s a picture of my office from the week I began writing star-crossed.

(the text on the sticky notes doesn’t really matter; but pink are plot points and yellow are narrative themes)

If you squint – an example – Tuesday was supposed to be the day of the bombing, originally. All of the tension and build up and worries about the murder plot were never actually going to happen, as it was going to be wrong-place/wrong-time as a bomb went off in the city. Lance was always intended to get caught up in it instead of Keith as the target, but that obviously didn’t end up happening.

Why? As I wrote the beginning chapters, I had to remind myself that Keith is the Prince of Marmora, of which their expertise is spy networks and information. It didn’t seem feasible to me that such a large scale attack could occur in Marmora without the Blade knowing about it, which is why the attention ended up shifting towards the ball specifically.

Prompts - I am also of the belief that there is no reason to reinvent the wheel. There are wonderful, wonderful authors and writers out there who generate material specifically designed to help writers kickstart ideas; I collected a huge Google Doc of these when I first started star-crossed just to keep my head in accordance with the right themes. Rarely do I use a prompt word-for-word because they never really fit exactly what I’m writing, but the tone of the language often helps me in moments when I’m stuck. Here’s a sampling (and I am sorry, I didn’t think to mark the original blogs I took these from:

“The world was in flames. People were in need of laughter.”

“The world was in flames” helped me to derive some of the terrible disaster that came on the third night of the ball. I just really like that visual, so much orange and red light, and the unbearable heat.

“You can feel the world blooming and withering around you while you’re in prison.”

This sort of… live-and-die, questioning mortality thing, while in “prison” helped me to build Lance’s internal monologue while he was in the cellar.

“If I ignored destiny, so can you.”

Because Klance.

“I was waiting for a chance to ask you to dance with me, but you were gone.”

A knife-twist of how, though this was loosely inspired by the premise of Cinderella, Keith only got to ask Lance to dance twice over the course of three days – in part because Lance was always gone or with someone else, but also because Keith was equally tied up in the expectation that he was to dance with anyone who asked him.

The watches - That was my hope of tying in the paladin’s bayard. It was theoretically impossible to have a magical weapon appear in the hands of four teenagers and an adult without it raising many conspicuous questions, so I needed something a little more subtle. There’s still some… [redacted] about time that has to [redacted] before [redacted] can [redacted], so I can’t say much more than that. :,)

Pomp, Circumstance & Politics (oh my!) - okay, sorry, I couldn’t resist. heh. but, yeah, I don’t know if I can point to one specific thing in particular that gave rise to the political quagmire of this story. It’s definitely been inspired by an array of existing media – Downton Abbey certainly helped shape the “upper class” vs. “lower class” treatment. I also really enjoy historical readings. fiction or nonfiction, pertaining to wars: Ken Burn’s Vietnam War, for instance, helped remind me of the massive impact the decisions of few can have on the many. Whether or not you support a war, or a policy in Marmora’s case, can have devastating after-effects for the people beneath you. Keith and Krolia happen to be very conscious of this. But even so, there will always be a level of detachment from their view of the “many” (in which Lance, Hunk and Pidge fall), and this is never so apparent as when things are told from Lance’s POV. He’s just another person. He’s just one person. One of the hundred of thousands that would be effected by the daily decisions of Keith or Krolia, and it is that constant tension between “big picture” and “small picture” that I try to draw out in the on-going struggles had by the characters.

2. For me, the character’s are the world. 

That’s not me being poetic or anything – let me explain.

Imagine this: Suppose there is a person who has been devoid of all of their senses, all of their life – no touch, no smell, no hearing – nothing. Then suppose, one day, they are shaken from this catatonic state for the first time. Their senses now free, how would they experience this scene I am writing? What is so prevailing to the senses that it demands to be included in the narrative?

That is how I write my my worlds, at least descriptively. I try to pick out a few key things someone wouldn’t be able to help but notice.

This is great for characterization, too, because I can tweak the premise of the “feelingless individual” to suit how I imagine my characters. 

Keith, for example, from star-crossed – a few things I keep in mind when writing him: he is constantly frustrated by his inability to act on his impulses, so when he does it is extra satisfying. He’s keenly aware of the mannerism of others because of his upbringing in the court – if they have a weapon on their hip, for instance, is something he would notice in a heartbeat.

There were certain ticks to look for in a person trying to get too close: the ways their eyes moved, where their hands sat, what sort of clothing they wore. Was it something trim and fitted to make for an easy escape, or something bulky with a dozen pockets to hide any manner of weapon? Were those chemical burns on their hands from working with unstable materials? Did they look restless, liked they’d been up all night debating with themselves to go through with such a monumental act?

Maybe it was just learned paranoia, but these were the small enough traits that most people wouldn’t notice.

Keith, however, was trained to notice.

Lance, on the other hand, is a little more indulgent but easily overwhelmed; he has been restricted his whole life, so he indulges often and easily, but that puts him in a vulnerable position that can (and has) left him open to being hurt by the world around him. He’s one who is going to notice the weather, the quality of the air, because those were things that held meaning to him when he lived in the mountains – he’s one to fixate on his own mistakes, because he’s used to them being pointed out to him.

Lotor wanted to take off his mask so it was one less thing getting in the way, an obstruction to peeling back Lance’s sense of self, his ideas and interests and beliefs balled up in and thrown in a bin, along with his name and his past, so that he could be some fucked up little prize for the guy’s own enjoyment.

The fucking betrayal of his own body, too. The flushed cheeks, the friction of his hips over Lotor’s… ugh. It wasn’t —  he didn’t want it, it didn’t feel good, but the physical sensation was demanding and his body literally could not do anything but respond, and the memory of that alone was enough to have him clutching his head between his knees, legs drawn up to his chest.

Why was this so confusing? It shouldn’t be, and that only made Lance more frustrated. Lotor was a selfish asshole who tried to use his title to his advantage and force Lance to do things he didn’t want to do. Lance had even succeeded in pushing him away and standing up for himself, but the triumph was bittersweet.

This mindset was especially critical when writing Chapter 14: Twenty-Six Hours, because it was the first time we delved into the consciousnesses of the other characters! (I’m just really happy with the way that one turned out *sob*)

Also, a note on villany: I really dislike one dimensional villains. I prefer when my evil comes with a healthy dose of “fuck I sort of agree with that… to an extent?”

Which is why writing Lotor’s big monologue in Chapter 16: The Prisoner’s Dileema was such a challenge. I had to make his treatment of Lance seem, in some fucked up version of reality, justifiable. Because really, Lotor is a product of circumstance; he was raised with his beliefs of the poor and especially of someone of Lance’s “status,” and was acting in such a way that reflected that up-bringing. Now, Keith was raised in similar circumstances and isn’t a huge piece of shit, so there’s no excuse for Lotor’s behavior – but it’s at least logical. You can imagine buying an ox that’s for sale at the market, and then using said ox to plow your fields; we don’t see that as cruel or as mistreatment. Lotor sees Lance as little more than that, and so, in giving him lots of attention and “validation” (something that we know canon-Lotor was unfortunately lacking), it stands to reason that he was in fact trying to be kind to Lance, to treat him with a warped sense of respect.

…okay, that’s all for now! I really hope this helps and wasn’t too long-winded, like everything I do. you’ve effectively made my morning, anon, and I hope you have a wonderful day. my best wishes and luck to you while writing you story! 

[pixieungerstories]

Darkness - 7

Brie had been bringing Mr Herne suppers for a few weeks when it happened.  She set dinner down on the step and was about to leave when the locks clicked open and the door opened about an inch. “Oh!  Mr Herne!  Just give me a moment.  I haven’t left yet.”

“Would you join me for dinner?”

Brie froze but did not turn around.  “Mr Lynn told me I wasn’t supposed to try to see you.”

“Ah.  Of course.  I was lonely, but you are not hired to correct that.”

That made her hesitate.  “Are you inviting me to see you?”

“What did Lynn tell you about me?”

“That you had…  A facial deformity.”

“I have … some scarring.  I don’t like it when people stare.”

“So why invite me?”

There was a sigh from the other side of the door.  “I don’t pay you to bring me dinner, but you do anyway.  I thought maybe you would be willing to sit and talk to me.  Just for a little while.”

“Except that if you don’t like how I look at you, or what I have to say, I lose my job.”

“You are a good gardener.  If you have nothing to say to me, it will not affect your job.  You were hired by Lynn not me.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.  Thank you for dinner.”

Brie bolted for her cottage.  She thought about it.  After the first time, her dishes started to be returned with thank you notes, then flowers, the occasional little box of artisanal chocolates, once a bottle of white wine.  Small gifts.  Thoughtful gifts.  Nothing too big.  Nothing… that felt like it would come with an obligation.

Except… his voice.  It was deep and rich and chocolatey smooth.  He could pretty much talk the panties off her without too much work.  It was, in fact, the voice her dreams had paired with the monster face she had hallucinated when she was laying on the road.

It was hard to remember… had the man in the halloween mask actually spoken to her?  She had never seen Mr Herne leave the house.  Was he the one who had found her?  More importantly, was he the one who had attacked … the man who wanted to rape her.  Which led to the hard question of if he was, how did she feel about that?  She didn’t remember much of that night, but she certainly remembered feeling helpless and afraid.   Except she had no idea who had carved into her.

For weeks she had been dreaming about a demon with that voice.  She would be in the middle of the usual nonsensical dream and he would appear and they would have a conversation.  And now, her employer was inviting her for dinner.  With that voice.  This was a lot more complicated than it should be.  Shit.  She needed a drink

And so, for the first time since she had been attacked, she went to the pub for a drink.

----

“Michael?”

“What can I do for you, love?”

Brie shuffled awkwardly at the term of endearment.  “Uh, your family had lived here a while, right? What’s the story with Mr Herne?”

Michael stiffened.  “He stays on his little plot of land and we stay out of it and that works just fine.  I was surprised when I heard he was hiring a groundskeeper, to be honest.”

Brie considered this.  “Alright, so what’s the gossip about Mr Herne?”

Now Michael laughed.  “Oh, you are looking for slander are you?”

Brie grinned, “Maybe just a little.  He invited me to dinner, said he was lonely.  But the lawyer who hired me said that he was disfigured and that I shouldn’t expect to see him.  I was wondering what to expect.”

Michael considered this as he wiped down the bar.  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know anyone who has been inside.  Growing up, it was always the haunted abandoned house that none of the kids were brave enough to visit.  Until the ad went up, no one knew for certain that anyone was living there. The place where the red apples grew.”

Brie nodded.  “I have heard of that, of course, but I hadn’t ever seen one until I arrived here.  Is that it?  Creepy house with weird fruit?”

Tabby came up behind Brie and leaned in to add, “They say that there was some weird Victorian cult orgy and they summoned a demon who is trapped in the house.”

Brie blinked.  Michael laughed. “Yeah, they say that, but it’s ridiculous!  No one really believes it.”

Tabby shrugged, “It would explain what happened to Brie’s attacker.”

Michael frowned, “C’mon!  Which seems more likely? A friend or family member of the other more than twenty women he has now confessed to assaulting hunted him down and got revenge or that a two hundred year old demon did it?”

Tabby shrugged.  “Well, when you put it like that.”  Then she looked at Brie, “Oh! I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to scare you. Wow! You have gone white as a ghost!”

Brie bought a bottle of wine, she expected that she would never drink beer again, and brought it home and thought about what she wanted to do next.  In the end, she wrote her reply on a sticky note and left it on her door:

Mr Herne - 

I would be happy to join you for a picnic tomorrow

 in the back flower garden

   Brie

That night she dreamed that Mr Herne was the elephant man.

At least until her dream demon turned up and laughed at her.  “Is that what you think he looks like?”

Brie blinked and looked up at him.  “When my imagination came up with you, I gave you his voice.”

The demon blinked his big yellow eyes, his pointed ears twitching.  “And what if he looks like me?”

Brie shook her head.  “He won’t. No one looks like you.  You aren’t real.  I am only considering that because of that story from Tabby.”

Her demon hissed and stepped back.  “Is she still in town?”

Brie frowned, “Yeah.  Her whole family lives there. They run the local pub, The Wing and the Prayer.”

The demon disappeared in a swirl of black cape and inky black smoke.  When she turned back to her picnic, the elephant man was gone. Then everything was gone and she was sitting alone in the void.

She did not dream anymore that night.

In the morning her dishes were there and written on the bottom of her sticky note was:

Agreed. 

 -- M 

She wondered about the M.  She had no idea what Mr Herne’s first name was.

After work, Brie went back to her cottage and had a shower.  She debated putting on a sundress, then reminded herself this wasn’t a date.  She packed a picnic lunch of some sandwiches, some fruit salad and cut up vegetables.  Things that would be easy to eat with your hands. She brewed a big jar of iced tea and put everything into a cooler with a blanket.

It was still an hour before dark when she set up about fifty feet away from the house in the back flower garden.  And waited. Ten minutes later, she was sure he wasn’t going to show up. She waited another ten, then started to pack up.

“Wait!”

Brie froze, but did not look up.  A moment later he sat down a little ways behind her.  She wondered about that. “Mr Herne, if you aren’t comfortable being here, I can just leave you some dinner and head back to my cottage.”

From behind her, there was a soft sigh, “I don’t want you to go.  It has just been a long time since I have done this.”

Brie smiled to herself.  “Yeah, from the amount of dust on your sofa, I suspect you haven’t had guests in a while.”

“Is that why we are eating out here?”

Brie blushed a little but nodded.

There was a long and awkward silence before he said, “Would you call me Marbus?  Mr Herne seems overly formal.”  Brie started to turn to look at him, then froze.  He chuckled, “It isn’t as bad as Lynn makes it out to be.  I hope.”

Brie looked up, slowly.  He was wearing a very expensive smoke grey suit, with a light purple tie.  His hands had long fingers. He was wearing cufflinks. She wondered idly if he had dressed up for her.  Maybe she should have worn the sundress after all. He was tall and lean like an olympic swimmer. Broad shoulders and narrow hips.  It took her a moment to actually look up at his face and not just because she was admiring his chest. When she finally peeked up at his face through her eyelashes, he was watching her nervously.

He was clean shaven and quite handsome, despite the three deep scars on the right side of his face, and appeared to be only a little older than she was. He smiled wryly, “Hello.”

Brie smiled back and relaxed.  “Hi.”

“How bad is it?”  Brie blushed hard and looked away.  “That bad?” he asked sadly.

Brie shook her head.  “Not bad at all. I’m just embarrassed because, you are right,  Mr Lynn had made it sound much worse.”

He barked out a laugh, “Ah yes!  He tends to prepare everyone for the elephant man.”

Brie shivered.  It wasn’t the cold but Marbus immediately took off his coat and passed it to her.  It smelled a little musty, but not as bad as she expected. “Thank you.”  She slid the picnic box towards him. 

He took a sandwich.  “Do you mind if I ask how you became a professional gardener?”

Brie went with the job interview answer, talking about gardening with her grandmother followed by a job with a landscaping company during the summers while she was in high school.  Conveniently mentioning how she had been saving for school, but leaving out how she had also needed to help support her family.  Or that working all through high school meant her grades had suffered enough that (while she had passed) she wasn’t in a great place to go to university.  But when he asked what her grandmother was like, she set her plate on the ground and looked up at him.

    “Mr Herne.  I don’t know enough about you to even know what questions to ask.  Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

He had frozen for a moment then leaned away from her.

Brie nodded.  “I”m sorry.  Thank you for joining me for dinner.  This… was a nice experiment.”

He looked startled, “You don’t want to talk to me anymore?”

Brie shook her head as she started to pick up the dishes, “I am not talking to you, I am talking at you.  And there is only so much of myself that I feel comfortable sharing when you aren’t able to reciprocate.”

Herne blinked and thought fast.  “I spent most of my life in a refugee camp.  A little prison for me and my kind where the occupying forces could twist and manipulate our stories and hurt us as they liked.  I inherited this house a while ago, but I don’t generally like people enough to leave it.”

Brie stopped and rocked back on her heels.  For only the second time that night she looked hard at his face, trying to gauge his story.  She wanted to ask what country, or point out that he had no accent, but the pain and fear she saw on his face stopped her.  She looked away and nodded, “Thank you for telling me.”

At that he stood up suddenly, “I have to go.”

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

“Lynn is right.  I’m not good at people,” and with that he fled.

Brie packed up the rest of the picnic and hung his suit jacket on the doorknob of the house.  It was full dark by the time she was walking back to her cottage.

Darkness barely made it through the doors before the skin down his spine split and his cursed form burst out of the human body he was affecting.  The remains of the suit fell in tatters around him and he lay on the dusty floor panting.  He hadn’t lied.  What he had told her was the truth.  It was just that he was still in that refugee camp.  With his people.  Refugees from a different time.  Trapped by how the world had left them behind.

He wanted her.  Her smell.  The sound of her voice.  The way her hands moved as she talked, as though she were spinning her tales out of the aether.  The way she tucked the long curls of her hair behind her ear and she was talking.  The spatter of freckles where the sun had kissed her face.  He wanted to go looking to see where else she had freckles.

He had been infecting her dreams for the last month. But he was no closer to her now than when he started.  He pushed himself up off the floor and paced for a moment before he heard the sound of her steps outside the door.

He went very still and quiet, hoping he had locked the door.  She couldn’t see him like this.  She would not stay for him.  If he were very, very lucky, he could seduce her with a human form and feed off of her lust to keep that form for a while.  If not, he hoped she would at least stay on the grounds.  A gentleness in the chaos of the world.  The last thing he wanted was to drive her away.

She left and he waited until after midnight for her to fall into dreaming.  It was called witching hour for a reason.  Small magics were easier while peoples defences were down as they slept.

She was sitting on the picnic blanket, alone and waiting.  When he approached her, she was crying softly.  “Why?” he asked.

She turned red rimmed eyes on him and said softly, “I wasn’t trying to hurt him.”

“You didn’t.  I was hurting before you arrived.  You just gave me someone to talk to.”

“I made him talk about things that hurt.  You are only saying that because you are a figment of my imagination.”

Darkness caught her ankle.  “Am I you?”

“Yeah.  My subconscious, or … I can never remember which one is ego, super ego or id.  But you are one of those parts of me.”

Darkness laughed and tugged on her ankle, pulling her flat on her back.  “Can I be your id?  Can I be the desire that courses through your veins?”  He leaned forward until his horns caged her body and sniffed along her torso.  “Can I know what you taste like as you cum?”

Brie tried to sit up to look at him.  He did not let go of her.  “This is just a dream,” she whispered.

Darkness chuckled again, then ran his free hand over her body erasing her clothes.  She shivered but did not try to pull away.  “You did not answer my question.  Will you let me comfort you?”

She tilted her head to peek between his goat like legs and whimpered.  His cock was proportionally to his body about average for a man.  But he was twice as tall and twice as broad as an average man.  Plus the head of his dick was flared like on a horse.  “Not going to fit.”

He smirked.  “It will, but that is not what I asked.  Can I taste you and make you cum?  Is that not what you dream about?”

Brie nodded slowly.

Darkness smirked and hauled her leg up and over one of his horns and he dived forward, stabbing them into the ground and lifting her hips to meet his mouth.

Brie flung back her head and writhed as his tongue swirled over her clit and his mouth sucked at her lips.  He was hitting all the right places but staying on none of them long enough.  She reached down between her legs.  Darkness hooked her other leg over his other horn, then caught both of her hands in one of his and pinned them over her head.  He watched her as she writhed, holding her hands and her hips as he nuzzled and sucked edging her ever closer to her release only to deny her.  He would occasionally stop to enjoy the desperate noise she was making, which only made them louder.

Finally, she gasped, her head flung back her wrists straining in his grasp, “Please!  Please let me cum!”

“No.  As soon as you cum, you will wake up and I am enjoying this too much for it to end.”

That startled her enough that she forgot he was holding her and she sat up.  Instead of her now familiar dream demon between her legs, she saw Mr Herne.  His lips, chin, neck and hand were coated with blood which he was sucking off his fingers.

Brie jerked awake in her bed.  She was so strung out it hurt. Her period was two days early.

At the other end of the property, Darkness opened his eyes and licked the memory of her flavour from his lips. 

[an-olive-crown-blog]

THE A TO Z OF RYAN FLYNN

a.d.d. // you don’t get diagnosed with a.d.d. until you’re in the fourth grade. you’ve always know how smart you were, but translating the things going on in your brain into being a productive student caused you to struggle. your classmates always just assuemd you were stupid - the class clown who sat in the back and made the other students laugh. it was a role you happily slipped in to; even after the diagnosis. 

boston // it’s always been boston or bust for you. you didn’t grow up that far outside of the city but there was never a place in the world that felt as much home to you as boston does. you live and die by this city.

chinook // she’s named after a strain of hops - because of course you would do something like that. she’s the light of your life, the center of your world, the best brewery dog to ever grace the earth. she’s a swiss mountain dog; big, slobbery, and full of love. your girlfriend hates it, but she sleeps in the bed, nestled down by your legs. no amount of fighting will ever change this.

david ortiz // he’s a legend in boston and as a die hard red sox fan you almost crap your pants when you think you see him sitting at the bar in strip by strega on arlington. it doesn’t turn out to be him, though, even after you’ve made a spectacular ass out of yourself in front of your date. you don’t get a kiss at the end of the night, not the you were expecting one after the noise that came out of your mouth when you first thought it was big papi sitting three bar stools away.

exeter street // the last time you see olivia she’s outside of her hotel, clambering into a cab that’s idling on the curb of exeter street. you thought that seeing her after all these years would be fine, that you were over it. it was just coffee, for crying out loud. but she’s leaving again, back to the new life she made for herself in california. there was supposed to be closure but not it just feels like you’ve ripped the bandaid off the bullet wound she left in your heart. 

forward // hockey has always had a presence in your life, as it does for most guys who grow up in new england. you’ve been going to bruins games since you’ve been old enough not to cry about the noise or the cold. you’ve even worn your own sweater in highschool as a forward. you were good, but not great. a career in the NHL was certainly never in your future. but now that you’re older you appreciate it more; appreciate the fact that getting your ass up on sunday mornings to play as a forward for the beer league is important to your health (no matter how much your achy body says otherwise come monday morning). 

griffin’s wharf brewing // you go through name after name after name before you find one by mistake. griffin’s whart if the supposed site of the boston tea party, an integral part of the history of the city that you love so much. when you come across this fact in a book, it doesn’t take much convincing for your partner to agree that it’s the perfect name for the brewery you’re planning on opening. 

harvard // it was silly, ridiculous to think that you could be a harvard man. but it was what was expected of you - to attend your father’s alma mater, to get a degree in chemistry. but school was never easy for you, and while the classes you take aren’t hard, you can’t help but dig yourself so far into a hole that there’s no way out. you drop out at the end of junior year, just one year shy of graduation. looking back, you can boil it all down to self-sabotage. 

isla // everyone says that she should have been the first child, and honestly, you can’t help but agree. she’s two years younger than you but she’s always had her shit together, has always known where she was going in life and how she was getting there. she exudes what you’d expect from the oldest sibling while you’ve always flown by the seat of your pants. no one ever believes it when you say that you’re the older sibling. 

january // there’s new england blood running through your veins, a fact you can’t deny. there’s something peaceful about the cold of winter; when it reaches it’s peak right at the end of january, your favorite month. the city bustles along as usual, but there’s a quieter quality about it that you can’t quite put your finger on. 

kayaking // it’s one of the few things you love about summer, when the city is sticky and hat and ridiculously overpacked with tourists. the charles is actually nice when you’re on the water when in comparison to when you’re on the esplanade. it’s quieter, too, especially if you go in the morning before the sailing academy starts it’s lessons for all those privileged children of beacon hill. 

loan // you’re well versed in the world of loans - you’ve got a mountain of them from those unfinished years at harvard. but this is different. this loan, a business loan, could make or break you depending on what the bank says. there’s a fledgling, fragile dream you’ve concocted of owning a brewery and it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt so sure of over the course of your entire life (save for maybe one other thing, a girl named olivia, but that’s nothing more than a pipe dream at this point). when the bank gets back to you and agrees to the loan, it’s the only time you’ve ever cried tears of relief. 

massachusetts avenue // the location couldn’t be better - a refurbished building on mass ave in central square. it’s technically not in boston, like you’d originally wanted, but the rent is cheap and the space is good. central square is up and coming, anyway, bustling with hip college students and young professionals. it’s the perfect place for a brewery. 

newton, massachusetts // it’s a nice town, you can admit now that you’re older. you can’t really complain about the life you had growing up there because it was a good childhood. it was every suburban cliche you can think of, but it was your parents dream. and while you don’t necessarily share that dream with them - the white picket fence one - it really wasn’t such a bad place to grow up. 

olivia // she may be the only girl you’ve ever really loved. she was the big one, the epic love of your life. you’ll never admit it out loud, but it’s not like you have to. anyone close enough to you knows the damage that was done when she left for stanford and you stubbornly refused to follow her. there’s been an aching in your heart ever since. 

patriots // you aren’t as big of a patriots fan as you are a fan of the red sox, but there’s no denying that your blood runs navy and red. you are a walking, talking new england cliche, but there is nothing quite like shotgunning beers to stay warm in the parking lot of the stadium in foxboro.

quincy market // it’s the only part of the city that you truly detest and avoid as much as possible. it’s too touristy, too filled with people walking slow and doing what’s expected of them while visiting boston. the only time you ever go is in the dead of winter, when the big christmas tree is all lit up and beautiful in the middle of the marketplace. 

red sox // you’ve been going to games since you were too little to remember. there’s a familiarity about fenway; the green monster, the cold beer in flimsy plastic cups. you were there when they broke the curse in 2004 and won the world series, and while you don’t get to go to as many games as you’d like anymore, there’s a calender hung on the fridge of your apartment with the season schedule. 

simcoe hops // the first beer you ever sell to your first customer - your first real customer, who isn’t in any way, shape, or form, related to you or your partner - is made with simcoe hops. it’s one of your early favorites - dry hopped and earthy with fruity finishing notes. it quickly goes on to be one of the breweries most popular beers. 

thirsty scholar // you meet olivia at the bar in inman square as a sophomore with a fake ID. you don’t even know why you’ve strayed so far from the usual bars in harvard square, but when you lock eyes with her from across the dimly lit bar, you feel like the stars have aligned. like every decision you’ve ever made in life has led to this one moment in time (in a dirty, college bar of all places). 

urban legends // it’s a weird quirk, even for you. you’re very scientific minded - logical, analytical, quick to solve puzzles and rational, above all else. you can’t seem to define what the draw of urban legends are or why they are so enticing to you, but they are. you collect them, catalogue them in your brain. for every place you’ve ever visited, there’s some obscure urban legend you’ve researched and recited, much to the chagrin of your friends. 

verb hotel // it’s tucked behind fenway, not even really that from where you live. the sushi bar on the first floor is one of your favorite haunts. it’s always packed and busy, brimming with the after-work crowd and tourists. it’s a good place to people watch and the sushi isn’t half bad, so when you feel like you need to get out of the apartment but that you want to be alone, you always find yourself ending up here, even if you didn’t mean to. 

wonderland t stop // you take the blue line all the way out to wonderland. normally you wouldn’t be caught dead in revere but there’s a peacefullness on the beach that’s right down the street from the t stop. sometimes you just need to breath in that salt air, feel the sand beneath your toes. sometimes you need a break from the suffocation of the city. 

xfinity center // it’s a hike to get to mansfield from boston but when you’re young and carefree you don’t mind. you’ve seen dozens of concerts at the ampitheatre, and were there in 2003 when pearl jam played the longest set they’ve ever done. there’s memories tucked away in the back of your mind of piling into cars with all your friends and olivia and making the trek down. 

yellow // it’s the color of the mug that olivia gets you for the last birthday you two celebrate together. yellow, with black writing that reads ‘i am a ray of fucking sunshine’. you still have it, tucked way in the back of your kitchen cabinet, one of the few remaining reminders of your time together. 

zombies // it’s childish, maybe, but you’ve always loved a good zombie move. it doesn’t matter what kind (although comedic are your favorite). every year on halloween you sit down and force your loved ones to watch shaun of the dead with you. it’s tradition, and not one you’re likely to break any time soon. 

[br0adwa5]

deh apartment hcs

so i was just scrolling thru Tumblr Dot Com™ and I saw a post that said “does anyone else ever daydream of decorating their first apartment?” (if anyone knows who made that lmk) but anyway i saw that and was like omg if that ain’t alana and then i was like wAIT WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF THEM so here’s this. fyi this is like a college au type thing ish??

(im sotired this is kinda shitty lol)

(also thank u so much for the luv on my last two hcs? i cr ied? les get to the point sorry)

alana:

ok so this girl would obviously have the neatest apartment ever

it would probably be like a medium size ya know

white walls.

lots of white walls.

and there would be like really pretty marble countertops 

her beadspread (or whateverthefuck u call it) would probably be like grey with white little lines on it

in a pattern tho

like a cute pottery barn one

OH

she would so freaking use evan’s discount at pottery barn are u kidding me

like her entire house would look like a pottery barn catalog

anyway

idk if all apartments have this so excuse me if i sound mega stupif 

but she would use the little intercom-buzzer thing to get into the apartment to her full advantage

like if u wanted to even go up there she would legit do a full on background check

(except for zoe)

(zoe would be like “hey alana it’s-” and alana would be like “yOU CAN COME RIGHT UP”

but it would be like 

“hello who is this?”

“alana you know it’s jared. i just texted you.”

“… ok then what’s your middle name”

“aLANA”

but anyway back to what inspired this in the first place

so alana would SO plan her apartment out from when she was like young enough to understand it ya get it

like she would pick out furniture at age six

(her taste would obviously change as she got older but u get it)

and she would literally have it down to the p a i n t color

like she would walk into home depot or whatever and the worker would expect her to look around for like 40 minutes but she’d be like

“hi hello i’ll take seashell grey in the gloss finish please. make it quick.”

(i totally just made that up what the hell is a gloss finish never heard of her)

i also picture her having lots of house plants? like most of them would be fake bc she’s too busy to keep them alive but they wouldn’t look fake

yeah alana’s apartmetnt would be so put together and like clean cut and nice

zoe:

her apartment would be rad okay

i feel like it would be v hipster and cool

not like Hipster™ but like… hipster?

what am i even saying

okay

so she would definetley have a room with yellow walls

like her rooms would be painted cool colors and stuff

but yellow specifically

she just seems like a yellow person

she would have a big wall that’s all chalkboard paint

wait now im really excited about this wall oh my god

like when everyone would go over her house they would all take a chalkboard marker (real chalk makes too much of a mess) and write and draw on it

evan would do little doodles of trees and write sweet and encouraging stuff

connor would either draw a hecking masterpiece or write really small in the corner “fuk u”

there’s no in between

alana would just doodle hearts and stuff

or when she’d be over doing homework w zoe she’d try to teach her math and science and stuff on it

a w 

jared would just draw memes 

i think we can all agree on that one

but annyyywwayy

she would refuse to get anything like store bought mainstream

like she would go to little shops in the middle of nowhere

or garage sales

and get the cutest stuff 

her house would be so homey but at the same time like “wtf why is this so perfect”

l o t s of tapestries

don’t fight me on this

it wouldn’t be the regular mendala ones that a lot of people get

(but she would for sure have a few of those too)

it would be like really cool unique stuff

lots of maps of the world

tie dye

ya kniw

they would mostly be taking up all of the celing space and some wall space in her room

she would so have a polaroid camera i KNOW IT

and she would put them all on pieces of string w clothespins and string them up around her room 

all pics of her frands and stuff

awwww zoe

she’d also probably have a room just for her dog

(btw if u didn’t see my other hc i see her as having a golden retriever named kiwi)

(but anyway)

like it was supposed to be a closet sbut she just didn’t use it

so she was like “well… okay let’s do this”

and evan will spend h o u r s at a time in that room

ugh she would just have the cutest apartment v colorful and stuff

evan:

evan’s apartment would be v small

he llved with his mom the first two years of college but decided to move out because he was feeling like he made a lot of progress and was ready to live on his own (btw is it canon tht he lives w his mom first year of college? i forget lmk)

(but he wasn’t really living on his own bc connor was always over or he was at connor’s place) 

he would have a v little sitting area w a really old tv and a worn out couch that was probably free on the side of the road or cheap from a garage sale

he would have a fridge and oven and stuff but he’d mostly just use the microwave

(ho;ly shit “some people say just use a microwave…”)

(i h8 myself why why why ok moving on)

his diet would mainly consist of ramen noodles

bc he doesn’t want to leave and have to socalize with people at fast food places or the grocery store

but every once and a while zoe would come over like “evan wtf” and make him food to hold him over for a while

(uh hc that zoe’s a really good cook??/)

he would have a little bedroom with a big window in it

and his comforter would be blue with navy stripes (similar to The Shirt™ but not completley the same)

he would have lots of sticky notes everywhere

like ranging from “don’t forget to feed the dog” to “don’t worry about it, it’s probably not a big deal”

and when he was in a really good mental state he would write them and stick them in places he know he’d see when he wasn’t in the best shape

and it would encourage him to keep going

wow that’s equally heartbreaking and adorable

ok don’t fight me on this we all know it’s a thing

he would have plants. eve ry wh ere

like there wouldn’t be a single fake plant in there

but he loved them bc he felt like it made the air fresher??? like it supplied more oxygen in the room which made it easier to breathe when he was feeling anxious??

(idk i can’t really explain it but that’s how i feel when i get anxious so i feel like it would help him too)

but it would range from huge ass borderline trees to succlents the size of his thumb nail

he would have s o many succulents

he would name them all

aaaaaaaAaAAAA

and each of his friends would have a plant named after them

even though it was small he really loved his apartment

bc he worked really hard to be able to pay for it and buy the furniture and stuff

so it was like his baby

yeah that’s my boy evan handsoap!

connor:

connor’s apartment would actually be pretty big

like everything would be super super high quality and nice 

he would so have a recliner chair

you know the one i’m talking about okay

and he would spend most of his time in there

even though he def has a huge nice sectional

(btw most of his furniture is black)

when evan would come over he wouldn’t want to get up out of it

but even always wanted to cuddle

so the first time evan was like “con come over hereee”

connor just scooched over

and evan was like “??”

but just went over to him

and they were kinda squished but they loved it 

bc they were so close to eachother

AW IM SCREECHING

but yeah they would love to cuddle on the recliner

his kitchen would be p nice too

like he would have a weirdly high tech fridge and a really nice oven and stuff

but if u opened the fridge there would just be like a half dranken (that is nOT a word) bottle of mountain dew, a cheese stick, and maybe on a good day some random leftovers

(btw idk why but i see his parents buying him most of the stuff in his apartment,, this doesn’t really make sense when i think about it but i can’t not do it what am i saing now awioehfdlsnk)

his room would be nice

he would have a big bed with a black and white plaid duvet cover

omg evan would l o v e his bed

like evan of course loves his own bed but connor’s is just so comfy

(plus connor’s bed also has connor)

(anywho)

his walls would be like a greyish blue color

but his furniture would still be all black

he would have a big desk and he always kept sticky notes around for evan to doodle on if he ever got anxious

and he has an entire drawer in his dresser just for his hair ties because he has an unhealthy amount of them

at all times

partly because he wants to keep his hair up sometimes

but partly because he always wears one around his wrist to snap when he gets mad or can’t control his emotions

and he always ends up loosing them

oh also his shower in his bathroom would be BOMB like im talking it has one of those little ledge chair thingies 

and the water pressure is a plus

and evan’s shower at his apartment is like sucky so he always just showers at connors

(i mean this in the least innapropriate way possible btw jus clearing that up)

but connor would spend SO much time there

so would evan tbh

so yeh

jared:

ok guys

hear me out on this one

but i feel like jared would have a surprisingly nice apartment??

like,,, actually very nice

they would all love hanging out there when they were all together

the first time he asked them over they were like “… u sure”

they were expecting to walk into something that looked like a super crappy hotel room with garbage all over

but they walked in and were like “jared what the fuk”

because this place was nice

like,, , he would always have the most food out of all of them

(which wasn’t saying much but still)

he would have a big nice couch with lots of extra like beanbags all over

they would all have their own that they used

and his tv would be poppin okay

he would have his old wii hooked up to it

and they would constantly have mario kart tournaments

jared always insisted on being wario

for the Memes™

he would be the only one out of all of them with an amazon fire stick so they would always watch movies all together at his house

and sometimes they would just randomly take it without telling him

(i’m looking at u connor)

and he wouldn’t notice for a few days but when he did he went cRAZY

but anyway

his room would b supa cool

he would have a really nice bed

omg he would have like video game and other nerd stuff posters e v e r y w  h e r e

like everywhere

little to no wall space for anything elsee

every once in a while he would go through his camera roll and print the pictures that he liked the best to hang up on his wall

hear me out bc this is gonna sound weird

he would probably have a dead meme shrine in one of the corners of the wall on the bottom

that he started as a joke with connor and zoe once but it jst spiraled out of control until every dead meme was recognized as soon as it went out

he would have a tv in his room

not as good as his one in the living room but still

he has two tvs what even jared

that’s where he would put his xbox

and he would game all night man

ah i love jared sm

ok that’s it hope u enjoyed ahhahah