#living in a gross wet basement.....with BATS

[crown-and-stallion]

Somebody needs to teach The Batman (2022) about zoonotic disease transmission.

I sure hope he and Alfred are rabies vaccinated and getting their titers checked yearly.

[nyxnightshade1332]

Expectations When Expecting (Prologue)

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The walk to her new, temporary, residence, was filled with semi-awkward conversation, making Yuu wish for the ground to swallow her whole.

"...By the way, miss Yuu, may I ask how far along you are?" Crowley blurted, making her cringe slightly.

"W- Well, according to the nurse, I'm a little over two months. She said that I'm about ten weeks." She told him.

"Well, my dear. Would you like for me to inform anyone about your condition?" Crowley asked, seemingly much more giddy about her answers.

Yuu nodded, stepping over a stone. "I think it'd be best to just include staff in this. It'd be weird to tell a bunch of boys that there's some pregnant girl among their ranks." She stated, earning a nod from the Headmage.

"I understand. However, I'm not certain that you will be able to study with the others." He mentioned it to her calmly. The headmage that led her by the hand stopped suddenly in a gloomy looking part of the campus.

"Yeah, I get it..." She collided face-first into the tall man.

"Here we are!" He announced proudly. Yuu looked up, her confusion quickly turning into surprise as she saw a tall, clearly haunted house that was practically falling apart.

"Wow. Um... This is a little too much character, if you ask me." She remarked, gawking as the headmage opened the door. Everything about this house looked barely passable for living.

"Charming, isn't it? Right, scoot inside now. There you go." He pushed her inside, and she was immediately met with the scent of rotting wood, wet furniture, and an air heavy with dust.

"This should keep the elements at bay for the time being." Crowley stated, turning around as he did so, and shooting her a quick smile. "Now, I should return to my research. Do try to find some way to keep yourself busy."

Yuu turned on her heel to see him abandoning her. "Wait-!"

"Oh! But don't let me catch you wandering the campus! Ta!" Crowley nodded his goodbye as he slammed the door, kicking up a very sudden flurry of dust. Yuu couldn't help but cough. "Ugh..." She groaned before examining the area.

The entire room was in a state of disarray, old books were strewn across the floor, furniture was flipped over, and paintings had been knocked off of the wall. She noticed the peeling green wallpaper and how the entire place had been covered in dust and cobwebs.

"Gross... This looks like it's in worse shape than my uncle's basement before I went to help him clean it. At least there was a good spot to sit in there."

She got to work on cleaning, working on flipping over the table and rocking chair that had been flipped, and used her robes as a makeshift mask as she beat the dust off of a rug and several of the cushions. Before long, she heard the boom of thunder and the light pattering sound of rain.

"Looks like it's started to rain." She muttered to herself, moving to look in the dorm's kitchen for a broom or a feather duster.

Until she heard the scraping of a grimy window opening. She grabbed an old pan, slinking toward the sound of an intruder as quietly as she could. It was then that she heard an animal shake and a familiar voice. She made it to the window in the lounge, confirming her suspicions as soon as she saw the fiery ears and the forked cat's tail.

"GWAH! It's pouring out there!" The creature hissed

"What the- GRIM?!" She cried out. She moved closer, still clutching the pan in her hands before glaring at him.

"Bwahaha! That look on your face is priceless! Like a bat that got blasted by a water gun." He giggled as if he didn't look like a drowned rat.

"Yeah, okay. But what are you even doing here?" She questioned, narrowing her eyes.

"As if I wouldn't just sneak back onto campus the second I escaped pryin' eyes. You all got no idea what I'm capable of!" He announced, standing on his hind paws to emphasize what he was saying. "I ain't givin' up on goin' here just 'cause I got kicked out one measly ol' time. And if you think otherwise, you don't know Grim!"

She paused, placing the pan aside. "Yeah, okay. I don't, so help me understand something. Why are you so determined to go to this school?" She asked the cat monster.

Grim paused for a moment, considering how to answer the question. "Isn't it obvious?" He asked.

She shook her head, watching the cat.

"I was born to do this! I'm a magical prodigy who's got the makin's to become one of the greatest mages who ever lived!" He began, pumping his little paw in the air. "So I've been waitin' and waitin' for that black carriage to come for me. And yet..."

She felt a pang of empathy in her chest as Grim's voice trailed off. "It never came..."

Grim huffed, turning his nose up slightly. "That Dark Mirror's got no eye for talent! That's why I took the initiative and came here myself." He reasoned. Yuu put together that he was more or less like a human child. How cute, he's like my nephews. She thought, sitting down on the somewhat dusted couch. She heard a loud, uncomfortable yowl from Grim.

"C'mon, scoot over! I'm getting dripped on here!" He bristled slightly before shaking off more water. "Another hole in the roof! These flamin' ears are like my trademark, y'know? I can't let 'em get doused!"

She snorted in amusement at his childish antics. "Yeah? Good luck with that. The ceiling's riddled with holes." She saw Grim rush over to the couch and curled up on another cushion.

"I dunno why you don't just magic those holes away. You could have it fixed in half a jiff." He remarked before smirking. "Ahhh, right. You can't use magic at all. Pffft, man you're useless."

She narrowed her eyes at him, huffing and pushing him slightly toward the leak. "Fine, if I'm useless then you can go dust your own cushion off."

"MYAH?!" Grim yelped, feeling another drop hit his ear. "Okay! Okay! Fine, I can help!" He cried, attempting to claw his way back onto the couch just as the leaks got worse.

"Good to see we're on the same page! Now... About those buckets." She smiled at him, allowing the wet cat into her robes, where he curled up against her stomach as she stood up.

A few moments of silence later, she heard, "Hey, human? Why's your smell like this?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, confused by his question.

"Ya know! You smell nice, and your stomach's super warm." Grim said, shocking her.

"How about this? Once we find the buckets, I'll tell you. Okay?" She asked.

"Okay, fine! Deal!" Grim stated, hopping out of her robes, looking around. She agreed, splitting up so they could look in more places. She heard the random sniffing, snorting, and sneezing from Grim whenever he'd accidentally inhale dust.

It was about one hour of looking when she felt the temperatures suddenly drop and a trio of strange laughter echo from behind her.

Yuu spinned around, every fiber of her body telling her to run."This place is seriously freaky." She shivered, blinking away the tears of anxiety in her eyes. On the third blink, she opened her eyes to see the figures of three ghostly beings, cackling maniacally and began to float toward her.

Her arm hair stood on end and she felt the tightness in her throat loosen enough for her to release a horrified scream. Ghosts!

The larger of them cackled. "We haven't had visitors in ages! Oh, I'm just itchin' for new friends!" His voice was deep and playful, but his actions appeared much more hostile in the dark of the hallway.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! Nonononono!" She yelped, rushing away from the three phantoms.

"Hey human! Keep it down over-!" Grim called, directing the ghosts' attention to himself. Grim, upon spotting them, gave a terrified screech, shouting "GHOSTS! GHOOOOOOSTS!" Before turning tail and running after her.

The middle ghost smiled creepily. "All the people who used ta live here got scared of us and ran away." He said, his voice trembling.

"We just want a new ghost to play with! What do you say, buddy?" The larger ghost suggested, giving chase.

"Hell no!" She responded, grabbing Grim and rushing down the stairs. She felt the little monster squirm in her arms once they made it to the lounge's entryway, and she let him go.

Grim, despite shivering like a chihuahua, stood up on his hind paws. " I-I'm a master sorcerer! I ain't afraid of any dumb ghosts!" He called, inhaling deeply.

He's going to blow fire?! Yuu stared incredulously. He's brave, sure, but why are his eyes closed?!

The spirits cackled, circling the little monster.

"Nuh-uh. Not even close." The tall, thin ghost teased.

"Over here! Over here! Ah ha ha ha!" The larger one taunted, fading to match the area.

"Argh! They keep disappearing and reappearing!" Grim snarled in annoyance.

"Grim! You're gonna set the dorm on fire if you don't open your eyes!" She called.

"Shaddup! I don't need any lip from you, human!" He snapped, spooked and exasperated.

Yuu thought for a moment on what to do to encourage the little beast. Her eyes widened with realization.

It's a half truth, but a truth nonetheless. Sorry Grim. "Hey, Grim! If you beat them, not only will I tell you my secret, but I've also got a can of tuna with your name on it!"

This seemed to catch Grim's attention for a moment just as the ghosts began to throw things. "Ganging up on us... Yer a buncha cowards!" Grim huffed indignantly.

"Grim! Let's team up!" She called. She watched the little monster turn toward her and nod, although clearly struggling to accept.

"Fine! You, human! You tell me which way the ghosts are!" He ordered.

"On it!" She responded. "To your left!" She called, watching Grim inhale and blow out strong azure flames, landing a direct hit on the ghost.

"Aaaaah! It buuuurns!"

Grim puffed out his little chest proudly as he nodded at her. "Ha, got one! Keep it up, just like that... And let's clear out the whole lot of 'em!"

She nodded, giving a salute. "Aye aye! To your right!" Yuu called, watching Grim follow her call. 

Chapter 6

[mercy-burning]

Laundry Day

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Reader and Spencer meet again in the laundry room and decide to have some fun. PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4 / EPILOGUE Category: Smut 18+ (oral sex- male and female receiving, unprotected penetrative sex, slight exhibitionism?/potential of getting caught, slight degradation) Warnings: sex, language. (As always, if there’s anything I missed, let me know what I should include in warnings. I want to be as mindful as I can about what I post. Thank you!) Word Count: 3k

Note: Surprise!! I was going to wait to post this on Saturday but Taylor Swift had me feeling like dropping a surprise, what can I say? 😂 Anyway, I wasn’t going to make another part to Pretty Please, but for one thing, it did way better than I was expecting, so thank you all for your kind comments and tags! And also, @rainsong01 mentioned something that gave me an idea for a laundry room scenario, so you can thank them for this one! I had so much fun writing this and I hope you like it! Thanks for all the love! 🥰

***

Y/N hated laundry day.

There was nothing more boring to her than loading clothes into the washer, waiting, then loading them into the dryer, waiting, and then folding them and putting them away, not to mention the laundry room was kind of dingy and felt like being in a gross, scary basement.

Thankfully though, years of living in the same building had given Y/N a pretty decent schedule of when the laundry room was empty. It wasn't like she disliked talking to people, but laundry made her cranky enough, and the last thing she wanted was human interaction, making small talk with building residents that acted like they cared to know about everyone else's business.

So it was Friday night, 7 pm, which meant that depending on if she had to work, the only other person in the laundry room would be Olivia from down the hall, someone Y/N had only had a few conversations with, either in the laundry room or on the way out the door.

She walked in, silently thanking the laundry gods after hearing complete and utter silence as she made her way to the washer and dryer to the far left of the room. Then she reached into her pocket and realized she forgot her phone. Cursing, she settled on basking in the silence as she loaded her clothes in the washer one by one, at least grateful that no one would be bothering her with pointless small talk.

Until she heard the door open, as if the laundry gods decided they were angry at her. She tried not to outwardly groan, hoping that whoever it was would just say, "Hello," and leave it at that. Or better yet, not say anything at all and let her do her own thing. So she closed the washer and entered the quarters, knowing that it would be a long ten minutes. She could have went back upstairs to her apartment and waited there if she really wanted to, or grabbed her phone at least, but it felt like it would have been pointless, and so she just hoped it wouldn't be awkward.

Maybe I'll just go walk around the building aimlessly for 10 minutes.

But the laundry gods had other plans, apparently.

"Y/N?"

She turned around and saw none other than Spencer Reid, clutching a large cloth bag, presumably filled with laundry.

"Spencer? Hi," Y/N greeted, a small blush forming on her cheeks. The two of them hadn't really talked since their... escapade about a month ago. Most of the time Spencer was at work, but whenever he was home there hadn't been anymore thin wall scenarios or overhearing something she shouldn't. They'd seen each other in the hallway a few times, winking as they passed, but that was it. Y/N had to wonder if maybe it was just a once-in-a-lifetime thing, being absolutely fucked into oblivion by your neighbor so good that you couldn't walk for two days.

Thinking about it made her cheeks burn hotter, so she cleared her throat and only slightly avoided eye contact. "I thought you did your laundry on Sundays?"

Spencer shrugged, walking over to the machine set next to hers. "Normally I would, but I just got back from work and I needed clean clothes. It's... pretty empty in here right now."

"Oh. Yeah, that's why I do my laundry on Friday nights whenever I can. Everyone's either out or staying in relaxing. Laundry's already boring enough, right, who needs annoying small talk?"

He laughed, opening the washer and putting in some of his clothes. "Touché."

Y/N wasn't really sure what to say after that, so she sat on top of the washer and crossed her legs, swinging them a little as she waited.

"Look, I know you've already given your stance on annoying small talk, but... What are your plans for the weekend?" Spencer asked, and she turned her head to meet his gaze, immediately feeling butterflies in her stomach.

"Um... Not a lot, really. Other than some grocery shopping and a few other small errands, I was going to have dinner with my mom on Sunday for her birthday. We might have to cancel though because she might have to go into work, but we'll see... What about you?"

He shook his head. "I don't have anything planned unless I get called into work either."

"Oh... Well, if you ever feel like having some company, you know where I live," she joked.

Spencer laughed. "I might just have to take you up on that. Things at work have been kind of... stressful."

Despite her better judgement, she smirked. "I seem to recall a similar conversation between the two of us not that long ago, Bud. You're not trying to fuck me again, are you?"

She just couldn't help herself. Admittedly she was a little worried she was too forward, but in the end it paid off, because he turned to look at her, shutting the washer and grabbing quarters from his pocket. "Would it be so wrong of me if I wanted to?"

The low tone of his voice made Y/N clench her legs tighter together, her mind racing with all the things that could happen in the next few days, the next few minutes even... She thought back to the last time he'd fucked her, seeing his face between her legs as he completely unraveled her. She felt herself growing wet at the thought.

"Absolutely not," she finally managed to respond. She hoped he would come over to her in a few long strides, pulling her in and kissing her right there, but instead he simply said, "Hmm," and turned back to his machine, putting in quarters.

He could have been playing games with her again, but she didn't want to take the chance. So she grew bolder and leaned back on her hands, puffing out her chest to the air and tilting her head to the side, letting her hair fall and exposing her neck to him. "Well, we have some time to spare, babe. What do you say we make the most of it?"

She was genuinely surprised to see him blush and freeze in his tracks, fumbling with the last few quarters as he inserted them into the machine and started the timer. "R-right now?"

"Duh," she replied, giggling.

"Somebody could come in... O-or hear us." A twinge of worry dripped from every syllable as he spoke, and though Y/N's first instinct was to apologize for suggesting it and letting it go, she thought better of it after remembering what got them into this situation in the first place.

So she scoffed. "Oh, please. You weren't the least bit worried about someone hearing us before. Y'know... When you promised to fuck me so hard I would scream your name and everyone could hear, and then I did? And besides, even if someone walked in right now, they'd probably just leave and come back later. People probably have sex with each other in here all the time."

"I doubt that, this place is filthy. Hardly the right setting for something so... intimate," he replied more clearly, obviously trying to win this argument. Though, something told Y/N he really was a little bothered about how dirty the laundry room was.

She shook her head. "You and I both know that what we did wasn't intimate. It was downright filthy, so if anything it works perfectly for where we are."

"Y/N, I don't know..." He chewed on his bottom lip and shuffled on his feet, refusing to look at her.

"Well, I'm not gonna force you to do anything you don't want to do, obviously, but... You can trust me. I've been doing my laundry here basically every Friday night since I moved here, and since Olivia is working tonight, she won't be here, and neither will anyone else."

"Well, I showed up, didn't I? Anything could happen."

She sighed, a little tired of arguing but still wanting to win. Her body tingled and practically ached at the sight of him, needing to feel his touch yet again. Maybe it was slightly pathetic, but if there was just the slightest chance that he would fuck her like that again, she had to try her damnedest.

So she had another trick up her sleeve, silently praying to the laundry gods that they would take pity on her and grant her this one thing. "You're right, but don't you think that you coming down here just moments after me was bound to happen? Like after everything we've experienced, we were always meant to have a quickie in the laundry room of our apartment building?"

He genuinely seemed to think about it for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "Truthfully I think it's more of a coincidence than anything that we showed up here at the same time."

There's your chance, Y/N, don't fuck it up, she thought to herself, hoping that with the seductive tone in her voice and the puppy dog look in her eye, it would be enough to get her what she wanted. "I was joking. Of course it's a coincidence, I just want you to fuck me."

He only stayed silent, fiddling with his hands and his eyes flicking between her and the floor before he caught her eye. In another attempt to entice him, Y/N batted her eyes and slowly spread her legs wide, scooting back a little so she could rest her heels on the top of the washer. "Don't you want to fuck me into the washing machine, baby?"

That was the last straw, the thing that pushed Spencer over the edge. He whispered, "Fuck it," to himself before striding over to her and cradling her face in his hands, bringing her to him and kissing her hard. She initially yelped at how harsh he was, but after a second she melted into him, leaning forward and bringing him closer.

She tried to wrap her legs around his torso, but he grabbed them by the ankles and kept them spread open, pulling away to look into her eyes. "Keep 'em open, pretty girl." The old nickname made her whimper, just like he knew it would, and his gaze burned into hers hotly for a few seconds before he bent down, kissing her inner thigh just below the hem of her shorts. She sighed as he trailed his lips and tongue along every inch of skin, switching to the other leg and giving it the same attention until he was ready for more.

Rather than pulling off her shorts and underwear, Spencer simply pushed the fabrics aside and immediately licked a long, flat strip up her pussy, to which Y/N sharply inhaled and reached out, grabbing his hair. He explored her just as thoroughly as he had the last time, his fervor unmatched and absolutely intoxicating as he pushed himself closer and closer, practically living between her legs. Due to the short time constraint and fear of getting caught, he didn't waste time teasing her, and he seemed determined to finish before the buzzing of the washer signaled clean clothes.

Naturally though, he couldn't not tease her, so just as she was about to finish with his lips wrapped around her clit, he pulled away and left her breathless and frustrated.

"Really? We're doing this again?" she huffed, pouting.

Spencer unbuckled his belt and raised his eyebrow. "All in due time, sweetheart. Come here."

Unsurprisingly, she did what she was told, jumping off the washer and waiting further instructions. It didn't take long for Spencer to move, only a few seconds passing by before he turned her around and pushed her against the washer, to which she instinctively bent her torso over it. She gripped the sides of it tightly as he ran his hands up her shirt and caressed her back, eventually using one hand to grip her waist and the other to lift her leg up, setting it on the washer. She readjusted, reaching her hands forward to grip the top of it as he slid his hand down her leg and toyed with the fabric of her shorts.

"Listen carefully," he said, causing Y/N's heart to pound harder in her chest. "I'm clean. Are you?"

"Yes," she stated simply, loud and clear, though adding a hint of desperation as to hopefully speed the process along. She knew this communication was important, but damn if she didn't just want to be railed into next week already.

"Birth control?"

She swallowed nervously, hoping it wouldn't change his mind. "I'm not on it."

"Noted," is all he said, before deftly moving her shorts and underwear to the side and slamming into her with no warning. She yelped, leaning her head back as he pounded into her, the cold metal of the washing machine digging into her skin. It was the best kind of painful pleasure, only made better when he gripped her hair into a makeshift ponytail and yanked her to him, deepening his angle inside of her and hitting that sweet spot every time.

"Spencer, I'm..." She could barely breathe, and she loved it, already feeling herself start to unravel.

"Close already, pretty girl?" he purred in her ear, right before pressing a wet kiss to her neck as he craned her head to the side for better access. "Figures... You've always been so easy to please. Such a good, needy little slut for me, huh?"

Y/N groaned at the new name, and it spurred him forward, encouraging him to push them both further into the washing machine as he moved his hips harder. "Please," she gasped, only seconds away from losing herself.

"Tell me what you want," he growled in her ear.

She squeezed her eyes shut and spoke as clearly as she could, not caring how loud she was being. "I wanna cum! Please, Spencer, please!"

"Do it," he grunted, giving her a few more deep, purposeful thrusts to aid in her high. "I got you, pretty girl." That's what did it for her. She yelled out as her body tensed and her walls fluttered around him, everything absolutely burning and blinding until eventually she was spent.

Spencer held himself inside of her for a few seconds, bringing himself closer to the edge before he roughly pulled out and away, leaving Y/N empty and alone. She was tired as hell and completely fucked out, but still she wanted more than anything to help him, ever the needy little slut, as he'd so eloquently called her. So she turned around, peeling herself away from the washing machine and dropping to her knees in front of him, not waiting for him to say anything.

She promptly leaned forward and wrapped her mouth around his cock, wasting no time hollowing her cheeks and setting a fast pace sucking him off. It had somewhat taken him by surprise, but he welcomed it, gathering her hair away from her face and watching as she went to work, practically worshipping the ground he stood on. Eventually she pushed herself all the way forward, allowing him to hit the back of her throat. Instead of pulling back to breathe, she held herself there and gagged, looking up at him with tears in her eyes before removing herself, taking two deep breaths, and going right back to work.

"Look at you," he mused, his voice barely there but with enough volume that allowed Y/N to hear him. "You look so good, pathetic and choking on my cock. Such a good fucking girl, fuck—"

In no time he was gripping her hair tighter and his breathing started to falter. Y/N held herself still as he came in her mouth, most of it hitting the back of her throat and all of it coating her tongue. She moaned around him, blinking tears away and running her hands over his ass until he pulled away from her and let go of her hair.

Standing up, Y/N swallowed most of his cum but purposely let some of it spill out of her mouth and down her chin, to which she used her middle finger to scoop it up and slide it back into her mouth. She kept eye contact with him the whole time, watching as his tongue flicked over his bottom lip before he bit it softly.

Once she was done cleaning herself up, Y/N ran a hand through her hair and smiled. "See, that wasn't bad at all. No trouble."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure the only trouble is you. Eavesdropping, making me fuck you in a semi-public place, et cetera..." He laughed as he pulled his pants up and re-adjusted himself as though nothing had happened.

"Don't act like you don't like it," Y/N teased, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing a deep kiss to his lips. He laughed against them, pulling her closer by her waist and resting his hands there when she pulled away.

As if to signal the end of their... whatever they were going to call it, Y/N's washer buzzed and she turned around to attend to her laundry. As she transferred the clothes from the washer to the dryer, Spencer came up behind her and brushed the hair away from her neck.

"You know, I wasn't trying to be mean or anything when I... called you a slut. I would never want to be mean to you or anything, and I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable."

Y/N almost laughed, amused again by how dominant he was during sex but then immediately a big 'ol softie once it was over. It was such a fun contrast, and truthfully, as much as she loved his dominant side, she wanted to see more of his softer one. So she turned around to meet him and caressed his cheek, smiling kindly. "I know you don't mean it to be mean. It was hot. And I appreciate you checking up on me, it's sweet. You're sweet."

Before he could say anything, his washer buzzed. So he settled on leaning forward, kissing her cheek, and walking away to do his laundry.

The two of them worked in silence for a while, just enjoying each other's company until they realized they both had to wait for the dryer. 20 minutes.

"Round two?" he asked her with a mischievous grin.

Y/N returned it and took a step towards him when the door opened, laundry gods be damned.

"Oh, hey guys!" Olivia from down the hall chirped as she walked in, striding to her own station.

At least they had the rest of the weekend.

[pallasperilous]

Boneless Wings

 {AO3 version}

So, blah blah blah, it’s their standard-issue disaster: pack of dumbass witches (always with the dumbass witches. Where do they find the time for this shit? Somebody get these women signed up for a Peloton subscription or a macramé class or a vibrator of the month club, seriously, whatever it takes—), ancient curse, Castiel being the actual angel of stepping in it, nobody cares. 

The point is, two hundred and forty-one hours of binge-worthy drama later, Dean and Cas are living in a semi-detached just a short thirty-minute commute to somewhere equally lame, Castiel has two literal-ass wings, and yes, Susan, they kiss now. 

The neighbors are weirdly cool with it. 

For those of you perving along at home, Dean could absolutely provide a list of the hundred or so ways that having a boyfriend* with giant fucking actual wings is super hot and/or awesome.

This is not that list.

(*you can just shut right the fuck up , Sam, because it’s either this or Dean will start saying lover. And nobody needs that. Nobody wants that.)

1.  Bird mites. Holy shit. 

 2.  Sharing a bathroom. The shower curtain rod, and consequently the security deposit, are early casualties. The medicine cabinet follows swiftly behind. Shower hijinks are not even an option.

 3.  Dean comes home one day from a gig and there is a giant plastic green turtle in the backyard. A closer inspection reveals that the turtle is actually a mule for about half a truck bed of industrial dust ‘n grit. It is, in fact, a kiddie sandbox. Dean points out that they do not, in fact, have a small child (FINGERS CROSSED), so...?

Cas then earnestly shows him an entire playlist of exotic birdy dust bath videos on Youtube. 

Dean then earnestly shows him the garden hose. 

4.  The down just gets, like...everywhere. EVERYWHERE. How many times have Sam and Dean practically sold their kidneys for a single angel feather for some dumb spell to solve some pointless Occult McProblem? And now Dean is picking them out of his damn teeth every morning. (No, gross, not because of... Jesus, no, that is not a thing.)

On the upside of this one, Dean finally has an excuse to buy a Dyson, which he’s secretly always thought looked awesome. It is. 

 5.  When Dean is scraping out the umpteenth canister of fluff he jokingly suggests they use some of it to supplement the tragically flaccid down comforter currently shaming their bed, and Castiel pitches an existential fucking sulk. Dean wants to experience happiness again, so he does not point out that it get ass-bitingly cold here this time of year, and decent bedding is not exactly inexpensive, and the Dyson kind of maxed them out on household purchases.

But whatever.

 6.  Castiel is indulging in what Dean thinks of as a sky pout when he flies right into a head-on with li’l Timmy NextDoor’s new Christmas surveillance drone. It dings the shit out of one of Cas’s left primary feathers (the scientific term is “those big motherfuckers”), which apparently hurts like a bitch. Cas is grounded for a few weeks after that and is cutely pathetic about it and at first Dean is absolutely down to kiss it better. By the end, Dean is almost ready to strangle Cas with his own necktie, but he has learned a lot of surprisingly interesting stuff about ancient Mesopotamia, like that it was super horny.

 7.  After the snow melts, Dean starts finding shit on the front step with the morning paper. It’s not even a good newspaper; Cas signed them up for the local fish-wrapper (or maybe it was Sam, before he fled for the hills— he occasionally breaks out in a  “support local journalism��� rash). The crossword puzzle is insulting, but the paper does at least syndicate Carolyn Hax, whom Dean secretly suspects of being an absolute wildcat in the sack, so he grudgingly expends the calories to bring it in every morning. 

Anyway, at first the stuff he discovers crapping up the welcome mat is just shiny bits of trash — couple granola wrappers, some MGD pull-tabs, a few field-stripped twisty-ties. Probably just windblown, and he tosses it in the garbage can. 

Then a couple weeks in, things start getting...grisly? It escalates real slowly, from a variety platter of mouse bits to squirrel à la power line and then half of a dry-aged raccoon and an opossum that has recently graduated from playing dead to professional dead-being. The neighborhood crows obviously love that their front step is now a roadkill café; Dean has to bat increasing numbers of them away with the kitchen broom in order to relocate their horrible snack to the edge of the nearest storm drain.

Then one morning there are like twenty crows and they’re in just the cutest little football huddle-up around what turns out to be a human fucking finger with a retro-fun mood ring still on the knuckle (it’s feeling: Sad) and Dean fully loses his shit. 

Cas hears him freaking out and comes whomping out of the garage ready to, whatever, flap somebody to death maybe, but as soon as he establishes that Dean doesn’t need anything more than a fresh pair of boxers, he de-poofs a bit and assesses the whole human finger/crows situation in his usual infuriatingly unrushed way. The crows had mostly bounced up to the cable line over the house, safely out of brooming range, but one by one they start to drop down and hippity-hop back towards the world’s tiniest crime scene.

If Dean were five percent less freaked he’d be tempted to go inside and find out how much of a dent he can make in a six-pack before Castiel finally dings and spits out his results, but he isn’t, so he just stands there in silence clutching the broom like it’s a shotgun.

Eventually Cas says “hm,” and then he looks at the crows and makes some noises that sound like a spoon caught in a garbage disposal, and the crows make some scrawps and chuks back, and then one of them delicately noodges the tip of dead finger with its beak and then hippity hops back a foot or two, bows, and then they all fly away over the shitty little beige duplex across the street like they’re running ten minutes late to an important bird appointment.

Castiel stands up (Dean reflexively backs up into the doorway, as this involves Cas bomfing out his wings a bit for ballast and Dean has caught a blow to the nuts on more than one occasion), dusts off his goddamn slacks, pulls a plastic evidence baggie out of thin goddamn air or maybe his socks, and casually bags the finger like they’re doing a standard FBI wheeze. “So what,” Dean says, as Cas diligently zips the baggie, “the fuck?”

“Oh,” Cas says, blinking in surprise that Dean is still there and interested, “they think I’m their god.”

Dean kind of stares back at him, the six feet of dude and like sixteen feet of bird, and thinks sure, okay, but his face must still be stuck on “Tippi Hedren attic scene” because Cas puts a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder and adds “Don’t worry. I’ve told them I don’t require further offerings, and I reassured them that you’re my consort and were simply jealous of other potential mates.”

It takes Dean two weeks to come up with a response to that, but by then it’s become evident that no bird is ever going to shit on the Impala again, so he decides to just chalk it up in the win column and move on.

You know. The family business.

8.  No matter how tightly he folds them, Cas can’t fit his wings through the definitely-not-up-to-code doorway of the wood-paneled family rec room in the basement, so Dean claims it as his man cave and dubs it the “No Fly Zone.” 

Castiel doesn’t find this funny, but Dean really only uses it to fold laundry. 

 9.  Transpo is an obvious issue. Cas can almost stuff himself into the Impala if he sort of reverse-cowgirls the back seat, but then the wingtips smoosh up against the windshield and Dean’s visibility is approximately zip. And, sure, Cas could fly himself anywhere they really needed to go, he’s basically a Chevy Of The Air, but sometimes it’s raining, and the seraph Castiel — Shield of God, Heavenly Soldier of the Lord, multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, will smell like a wet fucking chicken for days afterward. Febreze does not help.

Dean spends a few nauseating weeks contemplating the purchase of — and here he learns that the human gag reflex can be conditioned, but never truly eradicated — a convertible. Once Cas brings up the possibility of a minivan or perhaps a station wagon (he’s taken to studying family motor vehicles with all the intensity of a birder with a life list) and Dean makes him sleep on the couch.

Dean gets his own living room rotation after he shows Cas a Craigslist posting for a very reasonably priced horse trailer. Castiel points out that it’s used and Dean notes that neither of them is exactly mint in original packaging either. Castiel points out that he’s not a horse, and after a few necessary but admittedly unoriginal jokes, Dean pulls up a website with an exhaustive photographic tutorial on how to convert a horse trailer “for the safe and sanitary transport of ostriches, emus, and/or cassowaries.” Cas points out that he’s not an ostrich, emu, and/or cassowary, and Dean counters that he clearly isn’t, because an emu would probably show a little more gratitude, and that’s how Dean learns that the couch has a broken spring under the left cushion. The transpo issue remains unresolved.

 10.  Dean keeps a pair of shop-grade safety goggles by his side of the bed. It’s not the sexiest look, but it turns out feathers are stabby as hell when encountered at a particular angle. Cas can do the healy thing, of course, but they learn the hard way that cornea perforation is not really a mood enhancer. On the bright side, Castiel accidentally corrects Dean’s incipient presbyopia, which means Dean doesn’t have to hold the newspaper at arm’s length anymore when he’s idly speculating what Carolyn Hax looks like below the neck. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

 11.  You’d think that, when you’re coming down from a time-limited but incurable curse that makes you feel like every cell of your body has its own cute little individual headcold — because you missed a hex bag due to the fact that you were preparing your legal response to Sam turning up to the hunt wearing a goddamn hair scrunchy, as if he were fresh off the set of a very special episode of Clarissa Explains It All — anyway, you’d think that being wrapped in the warm embrace of an angel’s wings would be nice. 

But you would be wrong, because apparently your boyfriend has been out communing with the bees again, and those feathers pick up ragweed pollen like it’s their goddamn job, and guess what else angels can’t cure? Dean will take Motherfucking Seasonal Allergies for 600, Alex. 

12a.  One of the neighbors has that homesteading hippie brain disease that drives an otherwise normal-seeming person to brew their own beer and raise a bunch of chickens despite living within five hundred yards of a fully functioning Hy-Vee. There’s a week where one of the wee little velociraptors seems to be processing some kind of trauma because it starts yelling at dawn and keeps going until well past the hour that swearing is allowed on network TV. 

When Dean finally hammers on the front door the next afternoon the neighbor apologizes with some extremely nasty home-brew (HIPPIES) and some absolutely devastating weed (HIPPIES!) and explains that “Ginger is going through a rough molt” and then he kind of nods his head towards Dean’s side of the fence where Cas is futzing around in the squash plants and stage whispers (this is a direct quote) “You know how they get.”

Dean is about to rip the dude a new one for comparing his immortal space-kaiju lover to a fucking Australorp yard pullet when Castiel pops his head up over the white pickets and breezily contributes “Bad molt, yes, those are terrible, Dean can tell you all about how insufferable I am those weeks,” and sometimes Dean just doesn’t know why he even tries.

 12b.  The less said about angel molt, the better. 

Seriously, the freakin’ eyes-on-his-hands naked mole rat dude from, whatsit, Pan’s Labyrinth of Subtitles, would run screaming from this shit. 

 13.  There’s a 4th of July BBQ Potluck Block Party and Dean’s inability to stand idly by while good meat is abused ( shut up Sam ) means he winds up manning the grill and dismissing the pretenders to set some strictly inedible things on fire. Cas hangs out next to him and uses his flappers to kinda whupf the smoke away from Dean’s eyes now and then, which rules. It’s actually a pretty chill event until Sharon and Don From Number 4267, The Green House With The White Trim, turn up with a giant Pyrex full of naked, still-marinating teriyaki wings. 

Sharon And Don look down at their wings and then up at Castiel and then down at the wings and then up at Castiel and they are clearly teetering on the edge of a Midwestern politeness failure-based nervous breakdown. But then Cas, smooth as a margarine commercial, gently takes the dish from Sharon’s frozen hands, examines the contents for a silent moment, and says “it’s alright. They weren’t personal friends.”

He gets an extra burger for that one.

 14.  Cas keeps absent-mindedly trying to groom Dean — who, in case it still needs to be said at this point, possesses zero-point-zero feathers of his own — so he goes after Dean’s hair, instead. Dean has to stop him after his second hour of trying to straighten out a cowlick. “I don’t understand how you can steer properly with this deformity,” Cas says, as if it’s a genuine miracle that Dean isn’t constantly careening over ottomans like Dick Van Dyke. He’s even more horrified by Dean’s (frankly minimal) use of hair gel. “Jesus, Cas, it’s not like I’m drinking it,” he says, but then one time they have an epic make-out session shortly after Dean performs his masculine beauty rituals and there’s some smearage of various types of Product (tm) on the flappy areas. 

And, sonuvabitch, for the next six hours Cas is spirographing around the house like he has a heavenly inner ear infection, and he only stops veering into the doorframes after Dean wipes down every. Single. Feather. With mineral oil and about eighteen clean shop cloths. Dean switches to something called hair wax, which costs thirty zillion times more per ounce and makes him smell vaguely like church, but is a lot less gloppy. The things we do for love.

 15.  Seating inside the house is a bit of a conundrum, too. Cas can kind of flop his wings out to the sides if he sits in the middle of the couch, but then Dean’s stuck on the recliner, which is basically in the next county. Bar stools are disastrously tippy, Dean’s lower back and hips have not endured mumble-mumble years of hunting just to be subjected to a damn beanbag chair, and, after a brief flurry of optimistic excitement, Dean determines that they’d have to take the front door off to get a massage chair in. He finds a swing online that if, he can get the hardware properly installed in the crossbeam, is rated for up to 500 pounds, so he texts Cas the URL so he can check out the specs. After half an hour he writes back —

CASTIEL: Dean

CASTIEL: I believe this swing is intended for sexual congress.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: I can infer from the ellipsis that you have spent several minutes attempting to draft a response.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: Dean

DEAN: it’s multipurpose

  16 . On the plus side, though, big-ass wings make for a pretty good drying rack. He can get every sock in the house laid out on those suckers in a single round and, one episode of Dr. Sexy later, they’re perfectly dry and toasty warm, without any of the pair-busting casualties Dean has learned to expect from the apparently socknivorous dryer in the basement. 

Dean assumes it’s just the product of good air circulation and body heat until he realizes that he hasn’t had to toss a pair for being too worn out in...maybe six months? So he asks Cas “Are your wings... healing the socks��� and after an entire Abbott and Costello routine centering around heal versus heel, Dean determines that the answer is: yes, his boyfriend’s wings are channeling the almighty power of Heaven to magically repair the socks Dean buys at Target in twelve-pack bags. On sale.

This is actually kind of sexy, if Dean is being perfectly honest, so, you know what? It doesn’t belong on this list.

 16.  So nobody really freaks out or bursts into tears or calls the news or the FBI or anything when Cas goes out in public with him, which Dean is secretly a little disappointed about, because come on. (Maybe giant wings just reads as a gay thing? Was there an episode of Will and Grace about this that Dean missed back when he was ass deep in wendigos or something?)

But no. Dudes tend to just glance at them across the Home Depot parking lot, throw them the Mutual Dude Acknowledgement Nod, and say some shit like “Comic-con,” or “nice anime” in a knowing tone. Then they go back to rolling their carts full of gaskets or hammers or whatever back to their mom’s station wagon. 

Little girls tend to go googly-eyed — Castiel seems to fall into the same category as a Disney princess, despite the stubble and the drabcore wardrobe, and Dean can’t count the number of times some mom has approached Dean at the grocery store (like he’s Castiel’s manager?? Which, okay...yeah, actually) and asked if they do birthday parties. The money would actually be pretty tempting if Dean weren’t five thousand percent sure that Cas would get them both arrested by launching into an anatomy lesson about duck sex or how God is a loser who favors relaxed fit jeans and Wild Turkey.

The worst is white ladies of a Certain Age, and it always seems to happen in the pudding aisle, for some reason. They either go cross-eyed with horniness and become indiscriminately handsy (Dean can’t blame them for the impulse, but also back off, Karen), or ask Cas for prayers for their cat’s chronic asshole problems (which Castiel WILL take seriously). 

Worst of all is when some hippie spinster clocks them. This woman inevitably reaches right for the feathers and asks in a willowy voice if they’d ever consider turning some of them into dreamcatchers to sell at her studio, which is literally always named The Faerie’s Glen. Then Cas gets confused about why, exactly, a sixty year-old WASP in a peasant skirt would need to call on the infant-protection powers of an Ojibwe spider goddess, while Dean just wants to bite the lady’s fingers off. 

Either way, it’s always a bad scene, and many fully loaded grocery carts have been lost to the fallout.

17.  For some metaphysical reason Dean is too dumb to suss out but also too smart to question, lugging a pair of Cessna-sized flappers around this mortal dimension actually seems to tucker Cas out. He doesn’t need to zonk out every night, but he semi-regularly throws in the towel and actually crawls in with Dean for the duration. 

This would be swell in theory, but the guy absolutely cannot settle the fuck down in less than three (3) human hours, which is the exact amount of sleep Dean requires to maintain his famously sunny demeanor. It’s not just ye olde tossing and turning — Dean can handle that, sharing a bed with Sam is like sleeping next to a kangaroo with restless leg syndrome — no, it’s a nonstop parade of little flippy-flappies and shiffle-shuffles and spontaneous outbursts of preening. 

So Dean makes him a Baby Sleep Sack. 

This is something Dean knows about due solely to one super dumb hunt involving a banishing sigil that had to be drawn in — he still feels like this had to be a misprint — human breastmilk, and that was obviously not happening. But the monster of the week wasn’t going to banish itself, so they wound up at the nearest Walmart, at 4am, picking up what turned about to be an unnecessarily generous supply of baby formula, along with a fresh box of shotgun shells because God bless America*. It doesn’t work, although “lots of stabbing” turns out to be a solid fallback plan, but the point is that while Sam was debating between Digestion Support or Neurological Development, Dean acquired an unprecedented familiarity with some of the products currently available to the sleep-deprived parent. So Dean finds some DIY Baby Sleep Sack knockoff patterns online and determines he can replicate and scale up the concept with some beach towels and duct tape, and the next morning he presents the lumpy but totally functional prototype to Castiel. 

Initially Cas thinks it’s a sex thing (reasonable, it probably is), but once they clear up that misunderstanding, he’s obviously a little peeved by the concept of being swaddled as if he were a gassy baby instead of a deathless sky monster in a sexy dude-shaped can. But Dean must be giving off some serious man on the edge vibes because Cas grudgingly agrees to let Dean tape him up the next time he’s feeling dozy. 

It’s real awkward and takes forever to get Cas bundled up right, and then he’s just kind of lying there on top of the sheets, like an enormous, grumpy baked potato. 

“I could easily break out of these restraints,” he says in a pissy tone after Dean has crawled in and turned off the light, and Dean rolls over to tell him “no shit”, but then he has to stop himself because the guy is already asleep.

Eventually they upgrade to a version made out of some of those trendy weighted blanket things, a few yards of parachute silk, and a whole lot of velcro. The dude looks so damn peaceful that Dean is honestly a little jealous.

*he doesn’t, actually. 

 18.  There’s a sunny afternoon that isn’t the usual Kansas is trying to murder you level of humid so Dean rolls the Impala out into the street for a wash. Cas helps him out a bit initially, although tragically not in a way that involves removing any unnecessary articles of clothing, but Deans sends him to grab a new tub of wax from the shed and he never comes back. After half an hour Dean needs a beer break and goes looking for him, expecting to find Cas lost in thought over whether Turtle Wax is made of actual turtles, or is made to put on actual turtles. Instead he finds Cas crouched on the shimmering pavement at the back of the driveway, sun beating down on him like it has a personal vendetta, and he’s got both wings stretched out real low above the ground. Dean kind of flips out because it’s the type of pose that just screams “stabbed in gut by angel blade” or “migraine from Hell, literally.”

Then Cas looks up, which pulls his wings up a smidge too, which in turn reveals that fully half a dozen neighborhood cats are lounging in the shady patch beneath his wings, spread out on the concrete like blobs of furry peanut butter. No, it’s actually eight cats. There are eight cats.

“Ling-Ling was feeling a little overheated,” Cas says, as if this explains everything. 

And, you know what, at this point, it does.

 19.  Dean has faith that eventually Sam or Cas or the third demon from the left in the second row will turn up a solution for the whole business. Castiel will get to tuck those bad boys back into the secret wing-closet dimension and he won’t have to worry about getting stuck in stairwells anymore, or being reported to the FAA (again). Then they can finally pack up the house, plaster over the more egregious spots of drywall damage, and go back to killing things outside of the tri-county area. The whole thing has been a pretty embarrassing interlude for a couple of dudes who’ve kicked Satan’s ass multiple times — Sam is probably telling other hunters that they’ve been deep undercover to take out a nest of suburban vampires, or a pack of ghouls with mortgages, instead of vacuuming angel down out of the AC unit and considering a Costco membership. 

And sure, there have been some...serious pluses to the situation (see: the other list), but, in his weaker moments, Dean has to admit that he’s kind of going to miss some of the goofy, irritating shit, too — like finding a six-inch feather in the veggie crisper (how? why?), or watching Cas fwap his wings out just in time to accidentally clothesline a jogger, or even the strangely compelling, sorta cheesy smell that starts to float around the house if Cas goes a little too long between hosedowns. 

He has actually grown fond of this shit. Which is 100% the least sexy thing on earth, it’s some genuinely, seriously pathetic goo goo crap, and that’s why nobody will ever hear a fucking word about it. People will ask “so what’s it like, with the wings” and Dean will waggle his eyebrows suggestively and review the highlight reel over an inadvisable amount of rail whiskey. His secret’s safe with, well. Him.

 20.  Seriously though, the bird mites. 

Gross.

[celestial-leaves]

Underwater

Section I/AO3 Link

The house broke on a Sunday.

The electricity fizzled out first, with it went the small space heater. And the land line. The radiators. The stove. The hot water tank. The local phone lines went last, his cell flickering piteously as its bars dropped to zero. The ankle deep water in his basement had been the final straw.

Ever since the storm had first been announced, Mag had been suggesting that he relocate to Northwood. At least until the “worst of it passed,” she’d said. Albern had held  firm, citing his duties to the forest as too important. Which was true, someone needed to safeguard the woods, but that was not his whole reason for staying. The city where Mag lived did not sit well with him. There was something about the atmosphere that muddied his senses and left him feeling slow. Never a good experience for a ranger to have. The lack of cellular service did not bother him, should the need arise he had other means of communication. However, the lack of heating was another issue entirely.

Sighing, he locked the basement door and etched the containment sigil into the wood with his pen knife. The pentagram flared brightly before fading back into the surface leaving behind only the faintest etchings. Albern retreated up the hall, crossing the small main room that doubled as his living area and kitchen to retrieve his field bag from the table. He checked its contents - Oku’s food, his archery supplies, prosthetic - before swinging it on. Oku bumped into his side, pushing his head up under his arm.  

Albern scratched behind the dog’s ears, gave the space one more look and stepped out on the porch. The door shut with a heavy thunk, the swollen wood necessitating a firm tug to drag it into place. Oku darted ahead to the car with his head tucked low.

“Sorry, boy. This way,” Albern said and walked into the trees. There was the rapid pitter patter of paws and then the wolfhound caught up, tail wagging halfheartedly. The rain slipped through the canopy, pin balling off the leaves to land on the ground with a steady sound that muted everything else.  Albern enjoyed walking through woodlands - be it rain or shine - it was part of why he loved his job. The heady scent of wet mulch and mud was a constant, promising new birth once the skies calmed their fury. Oku slunk along beside him, occasionally giving a desolate shake that served him little.

As Albern walked, his thoughts ran rampant flitting between meal plans to patrol schedules. Regularly checking on the woods would be imperative. Though the park had been closed since the weather turned foul, there was no accounting for poor decisions. He’d been called to retrieve some lost tourist too frequently to expect a peaceful break. The fact that there hadn’t already been an alarm sent out was a miracle.

Automatically, his hand drifted up fingers tapping against his necklace. The beads remained cool to his touch, not-transmitting. Should his help be required they would warm, alerting him to the coordinates via an embedded voice.

Oku barked.

Albern spun, turning slowly to eye the underbrush but all he saw was his dog dashing off, his tail held high in a 'follow-me' gesture. Albern ran after him, skidding on the wet ground and tripping over various roots. He caught up as the ground rose, the wolfhound having paused at the top of a gully.  "Hold Oku!" Albern called, “hold!”

The dog, muscles bunching as if he’d been considering scrambling down the embankment, looked back at him. Albern dropped his bag and rushed over, grabbing hold of Oku’s harness. Oku settled immediately. Crouching, Albern gazed over the edge. Where normally a stream ran dancing amidst the stones the water now rushed sending up a constant spray.

He saw it then. A flash of red through the trees. A color out of place for both the location and the season. "Tiss," he said softly, and eased closer to the embankment, shielding his eyes with a gloved hand. The red flash came again, moving erratically through the trees. It was heading in his direction, he noted, if it kept going that way it would run into the gully.

He frowned, turning his attention further downstream, where he knew an old bridge to be. He stood, collected his bag, and made his way along the gully; Oku followed behind, a large lump of sopping fur that occasionally let out displeased woofs.

To his great relief, the bridge had not yet flooded although the water lapped threateningly at its underbelly. The wooden planks were slick beneath his boots, the railings too gross to touch even with his glove. Eyes narrowed against the increasing rainfall he pressed onward, seeking any sign of the red flash, but it was nowhere to be seen. There was a stillness in the air that hadn't been present earlier. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He adjusted his bag, sliding it down onto one shoulder and eased forwards.  

Oku barked. Loud and jarring. Albern dropped. The dog cleared his back easily, a bristling mass that stood in front of him. Keeping low, Albern took shelter behind a tree and peered out. It took a moment of careful searching but he soon spotted them. Three figures, the smallest of whom wore a red coat. The other two stood unnaturally, bent near double so that all four of their limbs touched the ground. Yet, they did not appear to be animals for their coloring and stance was like nothing Albern had ever seen.

"Quiet, Oku," Albern said, setting his bag down. The trio remained focused on each other. The creatures appeared unwilling to engage the figure in red, shifting their weight about yet not advancing more than a foot. With deliberate slowness he unzipped his bag and leaned the top portion against the tree. Eyes never leaving his targets, he withdrew a handful of arrows, grasped them gingerly with his teeth and strung his bow.

Thus armed, he picked a position that gave him a clear line of sight on all three and shoved the arrows into a tree trunk. The situation did not clarify itself despite his new position. The largest of the beasts - fur like a tiger’s but possessing three tails too many - lurched forwards suddenly.  

The cloaked figure dove out of the way with an inhumane speed. Albern fired. The creature landed, spun and leapt again only to stagger. An arrow protruding from the back of its head. It wobbled, swayed and collapsed in an ungainly sprawl of limbs.  

Without pause, Albern snagged an arrow, slotted it and fired once more. The projectile flew true but the second beast moved faster, a barbed tail batting the projectile aside. It caterwauled, an ear ringing sound, and skittered forwards. Its feet seemed to dance across the ground.  

Albern took advantage of its inattention and reloaded. The creature was still stalking the figure in red. Albern inhaled slowly, bit the leather strap firmly and fired on the exhale. The arrow skidded across thick scales, leaving an indentation  that promptly began to ooze black gunk. The creature turned its head - 360 degrees - and moved.  

Calmly, Albern yanked an arrow out of the tree, lined his shot and fired. Once. Twice. Thrice. The creature tanked the first two hits, barreling through them with terrifying determination. The third caught its bulging eye and carved a path along its face. It cried out, slowing slightly. Snarling, Oku moved forwards.

He grabbed another arrow, straightened up and the world went white. Cursing, Albern dropped his bow and rubbed at his eyes. He could hear Oku whimpering, could smell the scent of burned flesh and the sudden warmth of sunlight dispelling the rain. Blinking - eyes watering - he looked about. The whole area was awash with daylight and though the rain still fell it glittered like miniature diamonds.

Oku was nearby, rubbing at his own snout and whining. A few feet from the dog lay the scaled beast, smoke drifting off its corpse. Frowning, Albern adjusted his bow and approached. “Well aren’t you just the ugliest thing,” he said. It looked almost like an armadillo with its hard scales if said armadillo had had an abnormally large growth spurt. Curled up as it was, he could not tell its full size but even that length was longer than Oku’s. “What dark hole did you crawl out from?”

The creature did not provide a satisfactory answer, neither did its compatriot -patterned like a tiger - but more humanoid in appearance. “Or science experiment,” Albern muttered.

Albern tapped his necklace thoughtfully, animals did fall under his jurisdiction but these were not regular animals. A groan attracted his attention. “Oku,” Albern called and walked towards the noise. The daylight still covered the area, a spherical surface that screamed of magical interference.

The groan came again more articulate this time and sounded frustrated. He saw it then, the figure in red, slumped at the base of a tree. Even as Albern approached, it moved - standing up only to collapse onto its knees - coughing. And that was Trade. Human then, Albern decided.

“That was an impressive display of magic, friend,” he said mildly.

The head snapped up, rain slicked white hair, tanned skin and oh. Albern re-evaluated rapidly. Not human then. At least not entirely. “First time seeing creatures like that all the way out here,” he continued. “Smiting them seems to be pretty effective.”

“It is.” Tone dry. Voice raw like it had been used a little too frequently.

“Impressive,” Albern said again and smiled.

"Not particularly,” said the other, finally making it to his feet and staying there. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, friend. What are you doing in these woods?”

There was a faint narrowing of the man’s eyes, and pointedly with a visible slowness, he looked around. Albern rolled his own eyes, “not here specifically. Just in the area.”

“I see,” was the reply. The man stepped forwards, limping a little and approached one of the creatures.

“What are these then?” Albern asked. Three strides brought him parallel with the man, on the other side of the body. Closer inspection revealed the red fabric to be a trench coat -ripped and muddied - but still serviceable.

“Carcasses.”

“You don’t say,” Albern dead-panned. “And what type of carcasses might these be?”

“That is little concern of yours.”

“Considering that I killed one of them, I would disagree.”

The man gave him a look, thoughtful almost, but before long he sighed deeply and spoke. “My apologies. It would seem that I have been presumptuous and acted discourteously in turn.”

“You’ve been quite rude,” Albern agreed. “The creatures?” He nudged at it with his boot. “They look like some grad student went at it a little too hard for their final exams.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the man said. “It was by accident that I encountered these two.” He knelt and rolled the carcass over. Two eyes - devoid of life - but visibly human stared up at them. Albern swallowed, turning away. He spotted Oku sniffing at the scaled creature, and whistled.

The wolfhound perked up and came over, tail wagging. “Good boy,” Albern said quietly. “What a brave boy you were.” Oku pressed against him, demanding affection with careless delight. Affection that Albern was more than willing to bestow.

“Handsome dog you’ve got there,” the man said. He’d abandoned the body but appeared disinclined to stand up. The light shone on his skin, highlighting the sweat that coated it and giving him an unhealthy sheen. Albern grunted an agreement, giving Oku a firm pat. The dog left his side, sniffed the carcass inquisitively - abandoned it and shoved his nose in the man’s face. “Hello to you as well,” the man said. He chuckled and something shifted in Albern’s stomach at the sound. Resolutely, he forced his attention elsewhere.

There was an ‘oof’ from behind him as Oku knocked the man over and proceeded to clean his face. Albern left the dog to it, retrieving his bag and storing his bow away. When he returned, the man had made it to his feet though he was still bent over, Oku seated before him and clearly enjoying the thorough ear scratching.

“Do you have a cell phone?” The man asked, intent on his task.

“No.”

That drew him a concerned look, “you live all the way out here with-”

“It died,” Albern interrupted. “Yours?”

“Woefully misplaced,” the man said, “Is there a phone booth or landline nearby?” He gestured to the bodies, “I should call these in.”

“Phone lines are down,” Albern said, “your best bet would be to head city-side and call it in from there.”

“You have no means of communication?”

Concern was seeping into the man’s tone again and Albern bristled. “I am well equipped to deal with the woods,” he said sharply. “This is not the first storm that Oku and I have weathered.”  

“Of course,” the man said although he still looked dubious. Albern ran a hand through his hair, shaking out the rain. His hood had fallen back sometime during his run, leaving him with little protection. The sunlight was beginning to fade, the sky returning to a muted gray.

“You’re still several miles away from the city,” he said, “Not an unreasonable distance but who knows what might happen to these creatures while you called it in.”

The man nodded but said nothing so Albern continued. “My cottage is closer. It would be possible to contact HQ from there.”

“If it’s not an imposition,” the man said, “I would prefer not to leave these carcasses unattended.”

“No imposition,” Albern said. He eyed the two bodies and after a moment moved to the armadillo. The scales were unpleasant to the touch, warm and slimy like a worm’s skin. Nausea rose in his throat but he fought it down and hoisted up the creature. It remained a partially curled mass that dripped down his shirt and blocked his view.

“Would you prefer the other?” The man asked.

“No,” Albern grunted and whistled for Oku. With the addition of the carcass, retracing his steps became harder but Albern had been blessed with a good sense of direction. There was little spoken between the two. Albern could feel the man’s gaze fixated on his back - assessing him no doubt. It was off putting. The people he usually encountered in the woods were either grateful to see him or angry. He suspected that his lack of right arm might be responsible. He’d considered putting on the prosthetic when he’d departed but ultimately rejected it, rainwater tended to gum up the system. Albern rolled his shoulders as best he could and walked a little faster.

Up ahead the old bridge still stood, water splashing over the surface. Oku - brave soul - did not hesitate to run across. He skidded a little, tail pinwheeling but arrived on the other side safely. Albern was more careful in his crossing, placing each foot down with care. The man did not appear to have the same apprehension, walking so closely on Albern’s heels that he could hear the trench coat swishing.

The trail continued for some time, seeming to draw out for much longer than it had on his exit. The rain seeped through his outer clothing, soaking his undershirt and running in rivulets down his neck. Albern shivered. Oku had run on ahead, barely visible through the gray sheet of rain. His fingers had gone cold and he was losing feeling in his feet, water sloshing with each step. Belatedly, he remembered that the lack of electricity meant that the cottage would be frigid. He doubted that the fireplace - something that Albern had never needed to use since he’d moved in - would magically fill itself with dry lumber.

“Almost there,” he said, more for his own benefit than his shadow’s. The cottage came into view. A stout one-story building possessing a wrap-around porch and slanted eaves. On its eastern side, a stone shed had been built and it was to this that Albern brought his quarry. He deposited it roughly by the door and bent over, breath coming rapidly and strained. His glove and sleeve were coated in the creature’s blackish blood, it stuck to them like a particularly distasteful asphalt.

Groaning, Albern straightened up and slid the door panel open. The man - appearing unbothered by the weight of his own carcass - stepped past him and set it down in a corner. The same twisting feeling from earlier returned, and Albern frowned shoving the armadilloesque creature inside.

Oku was waiting in front of the door looking for all the world like he was trying to open through sheer will power. “Alright alright,” Albern said - laughing a little, “Scoot over.”  

He unlocked the door, needing to give it a firm shove when it remained stuck and stepped inside. Oku barreled past him, making a beeline for where his food dish lay. He let out a truly tragic howl when he discovered it missing. “It was packed away, remember?” Albern said, adding “don’t look at me like that,” a moment later.

“Cozy place,” the man said.

“It has its perks,” Albern agreed. He shoved the door back into its frame and forced the various locks shut, before turning to his guest. “There’s a bathroom to your right, second door at the end of the hall. Just leave your wet clothes outside, I’ll hang them up.”

“And what shall I wear in the meantime?” The man asked, eyes glinting. In the building’s interior they appeared to glow more than they had outside.

“I’ll loan you something,” Albern replied. He eyed his glove miserably for a long moment before using one of the deadbolts to pull it off instead of his teeth. Freed of the filthy item, he set his bag down and tiredly began to unbutton his own overcoat.

“You will?”

Albern looked over. The man was smiling. With the same deliberateness that he had surveyed the woods earlier, the man’s eyes slid down and then back up. It took a second for the gesture to register, but when it did Albern felt his cheeks heat up, both from embarrassment and from the subsequent image that had appeared.  

“You’re not that much taller!” Albern exclaimed. Face burning he spun away, tugging roughly at his coat. It fell to the ground, adding to the ever growing puddle of water. His shirt and undershirt were next. There was a strangled noise, and he looked back to find the man hadn’t moved . “Bathroom!” Albern ordered, arm flailing in what he hoped was a menacing manner.

“Right,” the man said looking rather distressed. “I’ll be going-” He disappeared down the hallway.

Muttering a few choice words, Albern retrieved a towel from the kitchen and called for Oku. The dog was more than willing to wriggle his wet and stinking body under the cloth. “People these days. No sense of courtesy,” Albern told him, pressing his still heated cheeks against the dog’s coarse fur. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would ya boy?”

Oku licked his nose.

Albern released him, laughing despite himself. He hung the wet clothing on the drying rack. He glanced towards the bathroom and saw that his guest had done as bid. Swiftly, a little nervously, he retrieved the stack of sodden clothes - neatly folded as if that would help - and hung them up as well. He heard the shower kick into gear with its usual stutter, and clambered up into the loft.

When he had first moved into the cottage - nearly a decade ago - the loft had been a dusty storage area replete with rat chewed documents and a horrid stench. It had taken some time to make it habitable, but now there was nothing to prevent him from collapsing onto the mattress that took up most of the floor. The sheets were icy. With a foul word, Albern rolled across the surface to his dresser and rooted about inside.  

Years ago, Sten had given him two muscle tees - souvenirs from a trip he’d taken with Mag - which Albern primarily used as sleep shirts. Either one of them would fit his obnoxiously tall -but shorter than Sten - guest. Albern snorted disparagingly and held up the first muscle tee; the stylized ghost adorning the front stared back at him. “Yeah, no,” Albern muttered tossing it aside. The second - a lovely black shirt with PRIDE stenciled on the front - received the same treatment.

There were precious few other options, but eventually he came across one of his old k9 unit sweaters. Not as baggy as the shirts perhaps, but not as blatant either. He collected it, a pair of shorts, and his own change of clothing before returning downstairs.

“Ah,” the man said, looking up and Albern froze part-way down. “I hope you do not mind, but I took a quick shower. Your hot water appears to be not-functioning.”

“I - I heard,” Albern replied, caught in the uncomfortable position of not knowing where to look. Dressed in a trench coat, stooped under the rain and liberally splattered with mud, the man had not appeared that stunning. Now though, clean and lacking any garments other than Albern’s towel, he found the man to be more akin to a bronze hero of olden times. Albern swallowed, once and then twice for good measure, gaze fixating on the ceiling. “Sorry about the hot water. It failed awhile back.” He shifted on the ladder, realized his own state of undress even as he made to hold out the spare set of clothing, and recoiled.

“Are you quite alright, friend?” Somehow the man managed to sound concerned, amused, and smug simultaneously. He took a step closer, head tilting inquiringly.

“Ye’P’. All good. We all good,” Albern said, the floor was no more appealing than the ceiling had been. Feet appeared in his line of vision, and then a hand - oddly warm - pressed gently against his forehead.

“Are you sure?”

The man truly had no business sounding that compassionate. As if he had no idea of the effect he was having. “Truly, I’m well,” Albern said haltingly. He lifted his gaze and immediately regretted, for he saw that they were now of an even height. Up close the man’s eyes were truly mesmerizing. The voice that lived in the back of mind - it sounded awfully like Mag - insisted that he should shove the clothing at the man and make his escape. The rest of his brain though, thought that would be a shame.

“I do not think that hu - ah.” The man stopped and then to Albern’s simultaneous relief and despair backed away, his hand returning to his side. “Do you know when this storm will calm itself?” The man asked, no longer facing Albern but the window instead.

Albern didn’t dignify that with an answer, too busy burying his face into the pile of clothing. When it felt as if he could breath without embarrassing himself, he climbed the rest of the way down to set the clothing on the table. “Weather reports have been inconclusive,” he said.

“Clothing’s on the table, they should fit even your build.” The man nodded, without turning and Albern retreated to the hallway, grabbing his flashlight on the way. Knowing the basement to be flooded, he left his own spare clothing outside and unsealed the door.  

Water lapped at the stairs, splashing high enough to hit his toes. Albern groaned sweeping the flashlights beam across the surface. It was at least knee high, perhaps more for the floor was not flat. Sighing he made his way down the steps, wincing as soon as he breached the surface. The com - protected by a metal box - was where he’d left it, hovering mid-air and smack in the middle of the room. Albern had always been told that the com should not leave the basement so as to keep its functioning optimal, but he was not about to spend who knew how long standing in waist deep water.

The box fit in the crook of his arm, deceptively heavy for its size and he nearly dropped it, transferring the flashlight over. He returned to the main room, where his guest now sat, and plunked it on the table. “Com line. Just input 1-20-5-12-6-5-17, and it should activate,” Albern said. “Hang on, let me write that out.” He looked around but a hand covered his own, and he stilled.

“1-20-5-12-6-5-17,” the man repeated. “Thank you.” His smile, Albern decided, could light up a whole room. “You’re cold,” the man added a moment later, “perhaps heating the water for a bath would be advisable.”

It was a valid suggestion but the sight of the man wearing Albern’s clothing was doing odd things to his innards. A cold shower was rapidly becoming a necessity. “I do not mind the cold,” he replied instead.

“I can see that,” said the man. Albern blinked down at him, caught sight of his own bare flesh and through sheer force of will overturned his instinctual grimace into an arched eyebrow. “That said,” the man continued, “it is inadvisable to wander around open areas with little protection. I would hate for my savior to catch something.” So saying, he squeezed Albern’s hand gently between both of his own. The sheer sincerity in his expression, the faintest furrow of his brows, and that damnable smile were all combining to chase Albern’s common sense out there door.

“Unless you’re offering to heat that water yourself, I’m afraid that I must decline for I’ve run out of firewood,” Albern said and after a breath freed his hand, “though your concern is noted.” He trailed off, brain short-circuiting for the third time that day. “I’m afraid that I must apologize, friend, I’ve quite forgotten to ask you your name.”

The smile transformed into a smirk within the span of a heartbeat. “It is polite to introduce oneself first,”  the man said. The glint in his eye was rapidly veering towards devious.

“You’re wearing my name,” Albern said, and because he hadn’t been granted the common sense that the gods had given squirrels leaned forwards to poke at the embroidery.

“A. Teeel-fer?” The man shifted under his hand, leaning back to tug at the sweater. “A. Aaron? Axel? Abrahim? Alexander?”

Despite himself, Albern chuckled and straightened. “Albern Telfer, that lazy pup over there is Oku.” He gestured towards the corner where his wolfhound was curled up.

“A courageous hound to go with a noble man,” his guest said and stood up, holding out his hand. “I am Jordel of the family Adair, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Albern answered, shaking his hand. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of a shower to scrub this grime off.”