#I’ve found bones in the woods behind my house before and cleaned those

[raeathnos]

.

#vulture culture so uh… read at your own risk? #but two and a half years ago a f.ox died in my grandmas yard and I was like oh hey free bones! #this is my first time processing an animal from start to finish #I’ve found bones in the woods behind my house before and cleaned those #but they’ve all been sunbleached so no flesh and they’re really like 99% of the way done #I buried the fox and a few days ago dig it up #my grandmas yard is unfortunately mostly clay #so it was decayed and down to the bones but the earth around it had a weird consistency and there was fur in spots still #I also couldn’t find the whole thing- I guess with the dirt settling and the ground shifting and bugs burrowing around it #but I got the skull and vertebrae which is what I wanted really plus a few extra bones #I’m macerating it now to get the fat/grease out of the bones and really glad I had the foresight to stick stuff in bags in a bucket #it stinks so bad #like I thought it would smell a little but oh man I was not expecting that #when I went to switch out the water today I decided to move the bones to a new bag since the old one was gross- which is why smells bad #it’s stuck in my nose help #not as bad as the actual dead fox though- that sat out in 90 degree heat for like three days before I got to bury it #that’s still the worse thing I ever smelled #but I got a better look at the bones when I switched them to the new bag now that some of the mud and dirt has come off #all the teeth are present in the skull which is rad #some of the vertebrae I took are broke though #it died in the flower garden but there was a road right there #I wonder if it got hit by a car #but the skull is intact- the only thing that broke was the lower jaw and that only happened after I handled it #it’s really big too #it’s smaller than my c.oyote skull but not by very much #the bones are all brown which I’m assuming is from the fat and stuff still being in there? #I’m curious to see how much they lighten and if they clay stained them at all #Im pretty sure the fox is male- it has a big saggital crest #I think I’m going to name him Clay

[contemplativepancakes]

sunsets for somebody else

Daphne runs into her long lost husband arguing with another man in the grocery store. Things start to take a turn when she realizes they're married.

The bottle of bleach drops from Daphne’s hand into her cart, landing with a sloshing thud as she takes in the scene in front of her, frozen in her tracks. Emmanuel is standing right in front of her, arguing with another man about cleaning supplies.

Wearing a beige trench coat for some inexplicable reason—it’s almost 90 degrees outside—Emmanuel listens to a man who’s explaining in minute detail how to clean an oven. They’re both wearing wedding rings, and Daphne’s heart swells for a moment before she realizes it’s a different ring from the one she gave Emmanuel all those years ago.

“Dean, I don’t think this is safe for Jack. This is going to create noxious fumes,” Emmanuel says, squinting at the ingredients of the cleaner apparently-Dean had thrust at him.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, and Daphne squeezes the handle of her shopping cart harder, feeling faint. It’s not every day you come across your long lost husband at the Stop N’ Shop.

“I think the kid can take some fumes,” Dean says, plucking the bottle out of Emmanuel’s hands and putting it in the cart. “We wouldn’t even have to worry about this if someone didn’t let the pizza fall onto the bottom of the oven.”

“The directions said to put it directly on the middle rack!” Emmanuel protests, and Dean rubs a hand down Emmanuel’s back in a familiar way that makes Daphne’s stomach roil.

She’s not jealous, she’s not. She was just helping Emmanuel when she found him, after all. Their marriage was simply one of…convenience for Emmanuel. It’s not like he had a birth certificate with him, or a social security number. What did Daphne get out of all this? Well. Daphne looks at his cheek bones wistfully, her gaze dipping down to his strong forearms his trench coat is rolled up to reveal.

Dean rolls his eyes fondly, and then he tugs Emmanuel into his side, kissing him on the temple. Daphne jerks her stare away for a moment before returning it, noticing now that their wedding rings match.

“Emmanuel?” she chokes out, against her better judgment.

For a long second, she doesn’t think Emmanuel heard her, but he turns around. “Daphne?”

Daphne nods, her words forsaking her. She doesn’t miss the way Dean clutches possessively at Emmanuel’s hip.

“I…thought you were dead,” she finally says. “I filed a missing person report.”

Dean squints at her, before something like recognition passes over her face, and now that she thinks about it, Daphne recognizes him, too. He’s the one who showed up right before everything went to shit. Horror stories of Stockholm syndrome flash through her mind.

“Emmanuel, are you…happy?” she settles on.

Emmanuel gives her a smile, leaning harder into Dean. “I am.”

“Good. That’s. Good,” she says, a strangled look on her face, she’s sure. “Would you want to catch up some time?” she asks before she fully registers what’s coming out of her mouth.

Emmanuel gives her a warm smile. “I’d love that.”

As they set up a time to get coffee, Daphne tries to ignore the glare Dean levels at her throughout the whole conversation. He insists that their meeting be tomorrow, since apparently they won’t be in the area for long. Daphne tries to ignore the warning bells in her mind that tell her she’s about to get murdered and takes solace in the fact that at least they’re meeting in a public place.

Besides, even if Emmanuel’s husband is a serial killer, surely Emmanuel won’t let him murder her, right?

-

The next day, Daphne hems and haws as she debates what to wear. Whatever this is, it’s the exact opposite of a date, anyway. She knocks on the door of her foster child, Alex, to wake them up before she goes into the bathroom to do her hair and makeup. Really, she’s just doing it for herself. She’s allowed to want to look nice!

When she finally deems herself as ready as she’s going to get, she goes back to Alex’s room to make sure they’re actually up. To her pleasant surprise, they’re sitting on the edge of their bed putting on their socks and almost ready. “Excited for school today?” she asks.

Alex makes a face at her. “Never,” they say, but their voice at least has the edge of a smile to it.

They’ve come a long way since they were first placed with her, and even though Daphne knows she shouldn’t be getting overly attached, she can’t help it. She walks down the steps and into the kitchen, deliberating for a moment on breakfast before putting frozen waffles into the toaster. If she’s about to get murdered while Alex is at school, she can at least make sure the last thing she made for them wasn’t cereal.

Alex tromps down the steps, dragging their bookbag behind them, and Daphne hides her smile behind her glass of orange juice. Alex lights up at the sight of the waffles, disturbingly easy to please, as always. They inhale them, as teenagers do, before putting their dishes in the sink. Daphne cracks open her laptop as they wait for the bus, attempting to get some of her work done for the day since she’ll be taking a break later for the coffee. She really hopes her boss doesn’t try and call her while she’s out.

Or, maybe she does. She’s not sure she’s prepared for the level of awkwardness that she’s about to go through, but maybe it won’t be as bad as she thinks. She really wants to know what Emmanuel has been up to for all of this time. She’s still…embarrassingly hung up on him, and it would be nice to get some closure.

The bus pulling up in front of the house jerks her out of her thoughts, and she gives Alex a wave before they race off to get on. She watches them settle into a seat with one of their friends, and smiles at the fact that they even have friends now.

In the end, Daphne doesn’t manage to get much work done before she clambers into her car and drives to the coffee shop they agreed on. She doesn’t really think she needs caffeine with the way her leg is bouncing already.

Emmanuel and Dean are already there when she walks in, Emmanuel with a cup of black coffee he’s dumping sugar packets into and Dean with something with whipped cream and chocolate syrup drizzled on top. She gives them a tentative wave before ordering hot chocolate for herself, settling herself delicately in the seat across from them.

“So,” Dean says. “You were Cas’s wife?”

She squints. “Cas?”

Emmanuel speaks up. “After I regained my memories, I remembered that was my name.”

“Oh.” Smiling weakly, she tries to reconcile that. “You have them all back now?”

Emman—Cas nods.

“Just forgot about me, though?” she tries to ask lightly, but it comes out a little garbled.

“You took advantage of him!” Dean explodes from the other side of the table, making Daphne flinch. “Who the fuck finds someone naked with no memories and marries them?”

“Dean,” Cas chastises, his arm shifting like he’s putting his hand on Dean’s thigh under the table.

“I was helping him,” Daphne says hotly. “Would you have just wanted me to leave him there?”

Cutting Dean off before he can say anything else, Cas looks at Daphne and smiles in a way that makes her heart flutter. “I’m very grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to let you know I was alright.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his sugar monstrosity. He comes away with a whipped cream mustache, and it’s hard not to laugh as he wipes it away in total seriousness.

“So,” Daphne says. “You two have a kid? Jack?”

Scowling, which seems to be Dean’s automatic reflex, he exchanges a glance with Cas before softening. “Yeah, we have a kid. He’s four.”

Daphne thinks maybe Dean should have been a little bit more concerned about the fumes of cleaning chemicals if they have a four year old, but she keeps her judgments to herself. Cas beams. “He’s very bright.”

Returning the smile tentatively, Daphne asks, “How long have you two been married?”

“It’s almost our one year anniversary,” Dean says gruffly.

Daphne tries not to let it affect her, even if that’s more time than she ever got with Cas. “Practically newly weds, then!”

“It’s been an adventure; that’s certain,” Cas says, smiling serenely even as Dean elbows his ribs. “Tell us about you, Daphne. What have you been doing?”

Daphne shrugs a shoulder. “Oh, not too much.” Mourning the man I pulled out of the woods and saved and married, she doesn’t say. She knows Emmanuel never felt the same way about her that she did him. “I got approved to be a foster parent, so I’ve had a few kids come through.”

“Helping people has always been your calling,” Cas says softly.

Daphne takes a few minutes to gush about Alex, and her previous kids before them, before she notices Dean’s not actively glaring at her anymore.

“That’s…nice,” he begrudges when she finishes.

“What do you do, Dean?”

Looking like he just dropped something on his foot, he stammers before he hastily says, “I work construction.”

Daphne squints at him. She has the feeling he’s lying to her, but she has no idea why he would be.

“And what about you, Cas?”

“Oh, I mostly just take care of Jack.”

“You’re a stay at home dad?” she asks, the thought making her stomach twist into knots and heat rise to her face.

“Of a sorts,” Cas agrees.

God, they’re making it impossible to carry on a conversation with them. Daphne keeps a smile pasted to her face. “What do you two do for fun?”

“I’m convinced Dean thinks fun is superfluous,” Cas confides, even as Dean splutters at him. “But I like to drag him to thrift stores with me. Dean likes to bake, also.”

“I work on cars, too,” Dean says, and Daphne can feel his desperation to maintain his facade.

She tries not to quirk a smile at his discomfort. They chat for a while longer, Dean getting increasingly dodgy about the questions she asks before she finally excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She shuts the door behind her and looks down at the dank floor. Is she getting what she wanted out of this? She has no idea what she even imagined happening when she asked to catch up. Emmanuel running away with her? Maybe in her wildest fantasies. Taking a deep breath to ground herself, she looks in the mirror and checks her makeup, rubbing at her under eye circles before walking back out of the bathroom.

Cas is at the counter ordering another drink, for Dean, by the sound of the sugar content, and she walks over to him. Hesitating before she bites the bullet, she asks, “You’re not…like, being held against your will, right? That Dean seems,” she pauses, “interesting.”

Cas laughs warmly, putting a hand over Daphne’s. “No, nothing like that. This is a choice of my own free will, believe it or not. Dean is much more caring than he lets on.”

Well, Daphne’s not sure she believes it, but. At least he’s happy, and in the end, that’s all she’s ever wanted for him.

#supernatural #destiel #castiel #outsider pov #daphne allen #the born again identity #contemplative writing

[merci-bitch]

Her Lover

Alma LeFay Peregrine x fem!reader

Warnings: abuse, swearing, death, fluff, angst

Words: 5k

A/N: it’s been a while, hasn’t it. Lol. I’ve been having my exams and shit and I’ve been working on this for the longest time so I’m really sorry if there’s a word that’s not supposed to be there, I don’t really proof read. But hopefully more stuff shall be coming soon. Ta ta! Xx

Jake was surprised, it was all real. What his grandfather had told him, all those stories. They were real. It was unbelievable. At first, when he saw the boomed children's home he didn't really believe it. As that man said at the pub. 3 September 1943. No one survived, but then how come Miss Peregrine's letter had only come 2 years before to his grandfather. How was that even possible?

When we first entered the loop, he of course ran away and nearly got himself killed. Thankfully his new friends saved him from those angry Walsh people. The house looked so different from those ruins he saw. It was actually a very beautiful house. Big and tall and all those flowers growing up on the sides. Completely different.

Miss Peregrine wasn't anything like he'd expected. Not at all, despite from all the stories he'd got from his grandfather. Apparently she was the bird flying above him and his father when they first arrived to Cairnholm. Ever since Jake arrived, he'd notice that on the bird's right hand, her ring finger. There was a small ring with a single diamond. Jake knew it wasn't probably wasn't his thing to ask, but he didn't see anyone else then the people he'd already seen. His grandfather had never really mentioned anything or anyone else then the ones he'd already talked about.

He had helped Emma with the baby squirrel, it was a bit awkward wrapping the rope around her waist. He'd noticed Miss Peregrine's glare, it was uneasy. As if she felt some sort of jealousy? But that was ridiculous. Absurd. Jake had agreed to join them for supper. Emma was helping him in his grandfather's old room. He just couldn't but ask.

"Emma, could I ask you a question?"

"Jake, I told you that there are questions I can't answer." Emma said as she tied his tie.

"I know, but it's just. Does Miss Peregrine love you? Like, that way?"

Emma stilled. Almost uncomfortably.

"Jake. What's got you to even think of such disgusting things?!"

"I'm sorry! It's just, I saw her glare." Jake held his hands up in defeat.

Emma let out a sigh. Looked down before looking up again. "You must understand. Miss Peregrine, well all of us lost someone dear. It's taking her long time to actually get back to who she is. So please, stop asking questions." As she finished speaking the bell rang. They both walked down together and Jake almost sat down on Millard.

"Millard. Go and put some clothes on. Polite persons do not take their supper in the nude."

Jake almost felt sorry for him, he didn't mean to take his place really. He couldn't see him, obviously. He was, well he is invisible. During dinner, he couldn't help but stare at Miss Peregrine's right hand with that ring. Her long slim fingers with those long nails. The ring was silver. The small diamond was pretty. And shiny.

"Claire, why aren't you eating?" Miss Peregrine asked, looking with worry to Claire. Chewing on the piece of food.

"She's embarrassed in front of Jake." Hugh said, leaning over to Claire.

Jake shook his head. "Don't be. Please."

Claire looked over at Miss Peregrine with a small smile and Miss Peregrine sent Claire a wink before turning back to her own food. Claire grabbed the chicken leg and put it behind her head and a few seconds later she put the clean bone back on her plate.

"So Jake, what's your peculiarity?" Horace asked. Leaning over the table a bit to see Jake as he asked.

"Oh, I'm not peculiar." Jake stammered.

Enoch put down his fork and knife and said, "And that, my friends, is why he will not be staying with us. No matter how hard we try to persuade him."

Miss Peregrine spoke up again. Her voice light but firm. "We've spoken about this. Jake is just visiting."

Hugh opened his mouth, "He might want to say."

"Don't you want to stay, Jake?" Olive asked.

"Tonight? Or..-" Jake didn't get a chance to finish of his sentence before Claire irrupted him.

"Forever! You should stay forever." Her smile big.

"Why would he, if he doesn't have to? He can live out there, grow older, have a good time instead." Enoch said. Trying to make a clear point of why he didn't want Jake in the house. Jake could feel Emma slightly lift from her seat despite being strapped down. She was getting uncomfortable.

"He'll leave, just like his grandfather did." With that, Enoch started eating again and Emma got up and practically ran out of the room despite her heavy shoes. Miss Peregrine's call for Emma didn't stop her. As Emma left, a clothed Millard came into the room. Excusing himself. Sitting down and starting to eat his own food.

"Deep breathes Alma, you know how dear Enoch gets with new company."

Miss Peregrine closed her eyes at the voice inside her head. She was right. She slowly got up as the telephone rang. "I think you should all get ready for movie time while I answer that."

"But you always let us stay for it." Claire begged. Miss Peregrine turned around and gave the children a glare that almost scared Jake. She was a strange woman, yes she was. Miss Peregrine stepped out to the hallway, to the ringing telephone. This time, she nearly didn't answer it. Wishing the voice inside her head would come back. Missing the touch of that person with the voice nearly threw her off guard. She nearly kicked herself from going off schedule. Shaking her head, she answered the telephone and went on with the schedule.

The time went on, again. Horace's projected his dreams. One particular dream made Alma tense up. She couldn't watch it. She turned on the lights and heard all the groans from the children. It was almost re-set time. Olive asked Jake to stay and see the re-set. Enoch clearly didn't want him to. Alma felt herself chuckle softly. The arguments between Enoch and re-set. Alma stepped out in her raincoat and put on her gas mask after putting on the music. Run Rabbit Run. She would always sing along to the song-Alma kicked herself mentally again. She stopped her clock, she turned it 24 times to represent the 24 hours of the loop. She took of the gas mask and smiled towards her children.

She said her goodnight to the other children as Emma and Jake made their way out the door. Her smile faded as they disappeared from her view. She closed the door, knowing Emma would lock it. She slowly made her way up the stairs, to the end of the hallway, to her bedroom. She opened the door and walked in and closed the door again and locked it. Leaning against the door and closing her eyes.

"You know me better then I do. Can't seem to keep nothing from you. How you touch my soul from the outside. I still love you even though I'm scared. Learning to be grateful of myself. I wish I could love me like you did, how I wish I could trust myself like you did."

She moved from the door and towards her desk and sat down and started unpinning her hair. Brushing through her hair slowly. That black-blue hair. The little curls. She got undressed and dressed in her lacy nightgown and brushed her teeth and took off the makeup she'd been carrying during the day. She laid down in the cold bed, shivering slightly. Falling asleep after a few minutes.

***

"Clarice! Clarice come on. We have to get back. We can't stay in La Pari forever. We've been gone 7 years too long!" Claire let out a groan and stopped walking. "But Y/N! I love Paris!" Y/N shook her head. Her little sister was definitely a number. "Well, you wrote to Alma we'd be home, so let's go." Clarice didn't move. "I? I didn't write. She's your wife." Y/N felt herself tense up. Oh no. Y/N had forgotten to write, and she'd hopped her darling sister had written.

"When was the last time You wrote back home Clarice." Y/N looking over at her sister, with a glare almost identical to Alma's. Clarice bit her bottom lip. "5 years ago." Y/N felt her head spinning. She sat down and rubbed her forehead. Clarice started laughing. "What's so funny?!" Clarice threw her head back in laughter.

"Oh lord, the handful you will get when you get back. I mean Abe will definitely be in her side." Clarice said while patting her older sister's shoulder. "God. She'd kill me. I swear, I didn't mean to forget and I thought you'd been writing." Clarice shook her head. "But you're right. Let's go home."

***

"Jake, you're back. How wonderful." Miss Peregrine said as she held the Ymbryne tight to her.

"How's it doing?" Jake asked. "Emma said it was an Ymbryne."

"She. Not 'it'. Ymbrynes are always female." Miss Peregrine said as she looked up at Jake. "And Emma was quite correct. This is Miss Avocet." Miss Peregrine continued to give Miss Avocet the medicine.

"Her loop's in Blackpool, England." Jake said. Miss Peregrine slowly turned her head up towards him and saw him holding a piece of paper. "That was a private letter, Jake." She said as she put down the medication.

"Who is Mr. Barron?" Jake asked, slightly raising his voice.

Miss Peregrine's face expression turned blank and her right hand came almost protectively over Miss Avocet.

"Miss Peregrine, if my grandpa was involved with dangerous people. I need to tell the police." Miss Peregrine looked up at Jake again, her brows knitted with confusion.

"Police? Are you implying Abe died an unnatural death?" Her voice going quiet.

"I found him in the woods, with his eyes missing. I'd say that was pretty unnatural." Jake said as he watched Miss Peregrine raise from her chair. Miss Peregrine looked at Jake in disappointment, snatching the letter out of his hands.

"Unless essential, I don't discuss unpleasant matters. An Ymbryne's duty is to protect children, Jake." With that, she left the room, almost in a hurry.

"I'm not a child! He wanted you to tell me everything!" Jake shouted after her. Jake let out a sigh of frustration and walked down the hallway and was stopped when both Enoch and Olive came into his view.

"Oh. How frustrating for you. Between Miss Peregrine's rules and my housemates' little pact not to scare you off, it's like no one's telling you anything." Enoch was sarcastic. Olive stood quietly behind him. Jake leaned forward.

"Why don't you, then? It's not like you want me here."

This time, Olive spoke up.

"Enoch, you can't. You promised." Enoch looked back at Olive before answering.

"Olive's right. I do know someone who can get away with breaking rules though. Want to meet him?" Jake looked a bit uneasy at Enoch before following him up the stairs. Olive behind them.

"Enoch, don't do this. Please!" She grabbed his arm, begging him not to do whatever he was going to do.

"You want to spend time with me and Jake, we can all play together. That's what you said." Enoch said as they reached a door at the end of the hallway. Olive stood in front of them. Not letting them pass through the door.

"Well, here we all are." Enoch said. Olive looked up at him with a bit ready expression. "Move Olive."

"If you're going to be like that, then I don't want to be your friend." With that, Olive left. Sobbing quietly to herself while walking down the hallway.

"Enoch, leave Victor alone. It really upsets Bronwyn." Fiona said as she walked up to Enoch and Jake. Enoch put both his hands on Fiona's shoulders, "Stop fussing, Fiona. Don't you think Jake should meet everybody?" He said while looking over at Jake.

"He's trying to frighten you away, Jake. He's always jealous of Abe. And now he's jealous of you. Come and play with us instead."

Enoch crossed his arms and looked at Jake, waiting for an answer. Jake didn't really know what to say.

"I'd quite like to meet Victor." Jake said after some time. Enoch smiled and ruffed Fiona's hair. Enoch opened the door, letting Jake walk in. "After you."

In the middle of the room there was a bed, covered in thin layers of fabric, and Jake saw Victor, lying there. He slowly walked in, moving with small steps towards the bed.

"Hello, Victor. I'm Jake. I'm sorry to disturb.." Jake looked down at Victor. His eyes were missing.

"Yeah, he can't hear you." Enoch said. Enoch got on his knees and opened Victor's shirt and put the heart he held down into Victor's chest. Jake saw how Victor's chest started to heavy. Almost like a jump scare in movies, Victor sat up and looked over at Jake.

"Hello, Jake. I'm Victor. Do you want to know what killed me?" Almost like a puppet he was. It scared Jake and he ran out of the room, downstairs where Miss Peregrine and the rest of the children were waiting.

"Ah, there you are. Is Enoch with you? It'd time for our daily walk." Miss Peregrine said.

***

Alma walked into the room where Victor lay. Sighing once seeing Victor's covers down. She pulled them up, making sure they covered him and slowly sat down. Noticing the tear falling down his cheek. Softly wiping it away and pulling him up and held him against her chest.

One of the most disappointing things she'd ever done. How she couldn't be able to save Victor, how she'd let her poor child die. She never meant for him to die, she never meant for Bronwyn to lose her brother. Alma felt herself tear up.

"It's alright Alma, you did what you could and for that, Victor will forever be grateful."

She really wanted to believe those words. Oh, how hard life could be. She couldn't let herself to cry. She'd always say it was alright to cry, but Alma just couldn't. She slowly put Victor back in his place and looked at her watch. She had a few minutes before the children would be back, but she had to keep schedule.

Alma walked out of the room, closing the door. Walking down the hallway to the right and then further down that hallway and then into her own bedroom. Closing the door behind her, locking it. Just in case. She quickly walked over to the dressed against the wall, opened a drawer and pulled out a shirt that didn't belong to her.

Sticking her nose deep into the fabric, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar sent. Holding onto the shirt tightly. Alma felt her eyes sting.

Why did life have to be so cruel? Why couldn't just one person live a life and be happy. Is it only fairytales that get their happy endings and not people in the real world? Was the 'perfect' life all just a big lie that you were told on the television outisde loops? Why couldn't you just live yourself in your dreams? Wouldn't life be so much better if you could? It would save all troubles from people.

Alma slowly sat down on the bed. Still holding the shirt tightly to her. Breathing in the sent again. Letting her eyes roll back for just a second. Accidentally losing herself in the sent. Letting a soft moan escape her mouth which caused her to blush. Hand covering her mouth as she blushed even more.

"My shirt hm?"

Alma turned around with a gasp. No one was there, she let out a sigh. Alma got up again, checked her clock and put the shirt back in the drawer and walked downstairs. Waiting for the children to arrive back home.

***

"Clarice, where was the loop again?"

"You can't be serious. We lived with Alma for years, you're married to her for gods sake!" Clarice sat down in the damp grass, crossing her arms. Letting out a huff.

"Awh, stop acting like a bloody kid! Maybe help me instead of acting like such a bloody moron!" Y/N answered to her sister.

She let out a huff and sat down on a rock. Y/N felt bad. She'd been gone 7 years too long and Alma probably thought she was dead. Just because her little sister didn't write as she used to. Y/N reaches into her pocket and pulled out a few photos. Photos she took, before she left.

Most were of Alma. It was one of the only times she'd let her time be taken from her. She missed the bird.

"Could you stop sobbing and perhaps do something to help? You cant stare at th-hey. Y/N. Was that Abe?"

Y/N looked up and saw nothing. She turned to her sister and hit the back of her head.

"Very funny."

***

The children were packing after they're realisation that they couldn't stay. As Alma had finally gotten the suitcase to close, thanks to the twins, the doorbell rang. How odd. She hadn't expected anyone. Alma walked up towards the door and opened the door and felt her whole body tense.

"Miss Peregrine, what a pleasure to meet you at last!"

Mr. Barron was holding his hand shaped knife against Jake's neck. Alma felt her breathing stop for only a second. What on earth was happening?!

"May we come in?"

Alma took a few steps back, letting him inside the house. Her children standing on the stairs.

"Children! Would you make your way down the stairs, please?" Mr. Barron shouted.

Alma raised her voice. "I give the orders in this house, Mr. Barron." Looking at him sternly.

"Not today. You should know that Jake has served his purpose. If you value his life, I suggest everyone does as they're told. Children!"

Alma raised her finger and shushed him. "No one tells my children what to do!" Alma turned around, a split of disgust in her expression. "Children, come down here, please." Her voice was strong but soft.

The children made their way slowly down the stairs.

"Miss Peregrine-"

"I thought I told you to be quiet." Alma snapped back at him. Giving him one of her famous death glares. She slowly made her way around again to look at her beautiful children. Knowing she might never see them again.

"Children, for Jake's safety, we're going to do what Mr. Barron asks. He wishes to take me with him to his rendezvous in Blackpool. So, for his protection, he'd like me to assume bird form, preferably caged. And he'd like you to make your way into a lockable room, such as the parlour." Alma turned her frame towards the parlour then back to her children before turning around to look at Mr. Barron.

"As he won't release Jake if he fears an attack could be mounted upon him once he loses his leverage. Correct, Mr. Barron?" Alma raised her chin, showing how she awfully despised him. Mr. Barron was at loss of words.

"You're sacrificing yourself and all of us, for Jake?"

Came behind her, Alma turned around and looked at Enoch.

"Me. Barrons travels with a Hollow, Enoch. Once it arrives here, we're all dead." She could almost feels Mr. Barron's wicked grin behind her. Alma saw Horace lean in to whisper something to Enoch but didn't bother to listen. It took everything not to shed a tear. She'd lost everything now. The woman she loved the most, her dear children. Everything.

She moved towards the parlours door and said her goodbye to each child that passed her, ending with a hug from Emma and the twins which made her she'd a tear. Once every child was inside the parlour, she grabbed the door handle to each door and took a deep breath and looked over her children.

"It's been my privilege, to care for you all. Goodbye my children."

Alma closed the doors and turned the lock and turned to face Barron, showing her anger through her tear stained cheeks. Taking steps forward.

"Now let him go."

"Oh, but the fun's just begun Alma." Barron let out a low chuckle.

"How dare you speak my name, filthy bastard." Alma tightened her tone. Growing more impatient by each second that passed.

Barron let out another chuckle, this time of surprise.

"My my, what words those pretty lips let out. Tell me, how's dear old Y/N doing?"

Alma clenched her jaw. Feeling as she might explode.

"How dare you speak her name?! How dare you come here, act like you own everything I have. You took her from me! How dare you mention anything of her's. I know what you did to her family, how her parents practically coward before you. On their knees begging to not die. Letting their dear children's lives pay their depth."

As Alma continued, Barron only chuckled. Jake was confused. Who was Y/N? What did this woman mean to Miss Peregrine?

"Technically I wasn't the one who sold her, her mother was. Her dear parents are still loyal to me as ever. I'd never gotten a chance to meet dear Y/N. So tell me, where is she?"

This time, it was Alma's time to be confused.

"What do you mean by that. No tricks Mr. Barron. I want the honest truth."

As he let Jake go, letting out a groan. "Listen, lady. I'd never meet her. If I had, do you think I'd be asking you? So come now Miss Peregrine. Where is she. Her mommy and daddy just wanna say hello."

Alma felt herself start to tremble. Y/N hadn't been in Barron's possession.

She'd spoken to Jake. Begging him to care of her children before turning into bird form. Flying into the cage. Leaving with Mr. Barron. If her dearest was really alive, she'd never see her again. Nor her beloved children.

***

"Emma, I have a question. Look-I know you don't answer them but it's about something Miss Peregrine said before she turned into a bird. Who's Y/N?"

Emma went quiet for a moment, not really wanting to speak. Jake let out a sigh and continued to talk.

"Mr. Barron said he'd never meet Y/N before. What does this mean-who is she?" Jake looked t Emma who's eyes looked at his. A slight tone of happiness appearing on her face.

"So, that means she could still possibly be alive." Emma's smile got bigger.

"Who is she? Is she another peculiar?" Jake was growing impatient.

Emma sighed. "Alright, if I tell you. Will you stop asking?"

Jake nodded his head and sat down and waited for Emma to speak.

"Y/N came to our home years ago, before Miss Peregrine had made the loop. She came with her sister Clarice. When they came they were both pretty young. I think Clarice was 15 and Y/N perhaps 20. I heard Miss Peregrine talk with them about what had happened to them. It wasn't really, nice."

Emma sat down herself and took a deep breath.

"Mr. Barron came to their house, in the middle of the night and killed their brother, well took his eyes. He was around 8. She talked about how their parents had sold them to Barron for their own safety. But before Barron could touch them they'd ran away. They'd taken the boat and arrived here."

Jake listened as she explained more about Y/Nk's past. But there was just one question bothering him.

"What about the ring on Miss Peregrine's finger?" Jake asked.

"Y/N and Miss Peregrine kinda fell for each other. A few years after the loop was created, they got married. Then again a few years later, perhaps 7 years ago. Both of them left, Y/N and her sister. But after two years they stopped writing back home. We heard nothing from them and since Barron wanted to recreate the experiment Miss Peregrine told you about.”

Jake nodded, shocked. He had nothing against the LGBT community but he’d never thought Miss Peregrine was a lesbian. Perhaps she wasn’t, maybe just fell for the one person she trusted most.

They went on, the plan to save Miss Peregrine.

***

“Clarice, fix it. Please. Something has happened.”

Y/N was panicking. The loop was gone, not a child in sight. Alma wasn’t here either. Clarice had the peculiarity of restoring time, she restored the loop. Made everything go back to normal. The house looked itself again but no child was there. What the hell happened. How long has the house been like this? Clarice was too busy walking to her room.

Y/N looked around, saw suitcases. Were they leaving? But why, and where? It felt strange being back in the house, but with everyone gone. Y/N walked around, touching the walls and everything. Y/N walked upstairs and into the bedroom she once shared with Alma and closed the door behind her. Alma’s perfume hitting her like a smack in the face. The scent of smoke, flowers.

She pulled open the drawer and pulled out one of the dark blue lacy nightgowns and spelled. Alma. Y/N looked out the window. It was dark and it was raining. Y/N loved the rain. She walked over to the window and sat down by the window and opened it to listen to the rain and felt herself drift off into sleep.

***

Alma opened the door and walked in. How in the hell was the house still standing? She hadn’t reset the loop. She was wet and she was tired and drained. She quickly walked into the bathroom connected to her room and took a warm, long and hot shower. She wrapped the towel around herself and stepped out. Looking in the drawer for her nightgown but it wasn’t there. Alma turned her head to the figure she saw sitting by the window and nearly had a heart attack.

She grabbed her pillow and hit Y/N with it multiple times.

“You reckless little-“

“Alma, hey! Stop hitting me!”

“I have every right to be angry at you! I thought you were dead. For 7 years you’ve been gone and then you stop writing?!”

Y/N could see Alma’s cheeks turning red from anger. She stepped forward, grabbing the pillow out of Alma’s hands and kissed her knuckles. Which made Alma shut up.

“Why’d you do that to me, to the children.” Alma’s voice was on breaking point.

Y/N looked up, into those blue eyes. “I never meant to. I forgot to write-“ Alma cut her off with a snort.

“Of course you did.” Alma took the nightgown from Y/N and dropped her towel and put it on. Feeling Y/N’s eyes on her. It made her shiver. Then she felt arms wrapped around her waist and a soft kiss on her right shoulder. “I’ve missed you. Please don’t leave again.” She felt Y/N shake her head and turned around in her arms and kissed her lover on the lips softly. Nearly losing herself in her lover’s lips. Laughing softly after feeling Y/N’s hands tickle her sides.

“I hate you.”

“You love me birdy.”

#alma peregrine x reader #alma peregrine #mphfpc

[serasvictoria]

So I was supposed to be writing an incubus Hvitserk drabble and instead I got this beast that’s a little in over 2k long…

Under the moon, the wolves gather

“You want me to do what?”

“Chain me up.”

Ubbe held up the thick chains and a heavy padlock. You looked at them and then up at him again in confusion. Why was he asking you to do this? The two of you had dabbled in some kinky stuff a couple of times before, but asking you to chain him up was new and you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to subject him to something like that. What if you did it wrong? Besides, the roles were usually very much reversed. Ubbe wasn’t exactly what you’d call submissive. He had always very much been the alpha in your relationship and you liked it that way.

“Did you get this idea from Ivar?” You grabbed one of the ends of the chain and lifted it up. It looked like the kind of chains that people used to tow cars, not like something that people used in sexual games. “I know that he’s into some sick shit, but this is next level…”

“It’s not about that.” He sighed deeply, growing exasperated with your inability to get why he was asking you this. “It’s about that attack.”

“The animal.”

It hadn’t happened that long ago. Ubbe had been in the woods that stretched out at the back of the house. He later told you that he had heard noises and had gone to investigate while you slept. You always slept like a log so you hadn’t even noticed that he had gotten out of bed to begin with. It wasn’t until he stumbled back in later on, crashing against the door that led into the bedroom, covered in blood and using his shotgun as some sort of makeshift crutch, that you had even realised that he had gone outside.

He started rambling incoherently about how there had been something in the woods that had attacked him, something big and black, something that had scratched him and sunk its teeth into his shoulder. Thankfully Ubbe hadn’t just lain down and given up. Not him. Despite the fact that the animal had a firm grip on his shoulder, Ubbe had started throwing punches wherever he could hit it. From what you had heard from others, he had a mean right hook and he had once broken the jaw of some idiot who had decided to hit on Ubbe’s then girlfriend. It was safe to say that something like that had never happened again afterwards.

Somewhere in between hitting the animal’s muzzle, it had released him and howled in pain. Ubbe had launched his full weight into the animal, knocked it against the ground and had run back into the house. You could only assume that his adrenaline had taken over at that point. While you did your best to clean out his injuries, he was pointing the barrel of his shotgun at the door right behind you in case whatever the hell had attacked him followed him into the house.

It never came.

The ambulance came half an hour later and after spending the good part of the following day in the hospital, where they disinfected his wounds and gave him a rabies shot just in case, he was home again. He did nothing but lay in the bed and sleep for the following two days. You assumed that it was because of shock, but you weren’t exactly an expert. Hvitserk came by to check on his brother daily and he reassured you that you probably didn’t have to worry. He checked the injuries with you and despite the fact that they looked horrific to you, Hvitserk had confidently stated that your concerns were unnecessary. According to him they were healing just fine. Apparently. Again, you were no expert.

It wasn’t until Ubbe eventually woke up, got out of bed and started eating again that you could finally breathe easily. He acted the same way he usually did. Just the same caring and sweet soul that you had first fallen for.

But then odd things started to happen. His sense of smell seemed to have gotten better. Even to the point that when he was out in the woods, which he patrolled almost endlessly in case the animal came back, he always seemed to materialise from out of nowhere because he could smell that you were making him a sandwich for lunch. That had actually happened a couple of times. Didn’t matter how far away from the house he was, he could smell food. His wounds also healed at a speed that seemed far from normal. About a week after he had gotten attacked, all that you could see were faint markings on his skin, like they were old scars. And one night you had found him in the kitchen while he was eating a raw steak that you were going to cook him the next evening.

Odd things. Too many things to count. And now this.

“I know what it was.”

“I thought it was a bear?” Despite the fact that Ubbe had sworn high and low that it was some kind of wolf-like creature that had attacked him, you knew that it couldn’t be the case. There were no wolves near where you lived. But there were bears so maybe he had gotten it mixed up while he had been attacked? It had been night after all. “It couldn’t have been anything else.”

“It was a werewolf.”

“A werewolf?” You shook your head. “Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright?” You instantly recalled a line from a werewolf movie that you had seen a couple of times. “One of those?”

“Not like in the movies.” He held the chain out to you again and you took it with some slight hesitation. “This is real.”

“Come on. Werewolves aren’t real.”

“Just stop arguing with me and do it.” Tired of talking, he grabbed your hand and dragged you down into the basement. There were hooks anchored into the wall down there which one of the previous occupants had installed for reasons that were entirely unknown to you. “Wrap the chain around my chest and arms. Lock them together. Then go back upstairs and don’t come down here to check on me no matter how much noise I make.”

“Ubbe, this isn’t funny.” He wasn’t one to play pranks on you, but there was a first time for everything. “Why are you even asking me to do this?”

“Because I don’t know what I’ll do if I change. Please just…”

“What if I lose the key to this padlock? Am I supposed to just call Ivar and ask him to bring his bolt cutters? How is that going to look?”

“Just do it!” In all the time that the two of you had been together, he had never once raised his voice at you. You dropped the chain out of your hands and stared at it as it lay at your feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He grabbed your hands and angled himself in such a way that you had to look at him. “It’s just… there’s not a lot of time. I don’t know when it’ll happen, when I’ll change…”

“Hey, it’s okay.” You brushed your hand over his cheek and smiled at him. “Do you really want me to do this?” He nodded. “This is definitely one of the weirdest things I’ve ever done…”

Ubbe sat in front of the wall and you picked the chain up off the floor again, but before you could take the remaining few steps in his direction, his face twisted in agony. The chain was instantly forgotten and you made it to his side, cupping his face in your hands to make him look at you, but he pushed at your chest hard instead. You landed on your ass on the hard concrete floor. Swearing loudly, you’d been about to ask him what the hell his problem was, but all words failed you when you looked in his direction again.

He was laying on the floor, back arched, clawing at his chest and tearing at his clothes, like they were constricting him. It wasn’t until he managed to tear the fabric away, that you noticed that his nails had gotten longer and not only that, his hands seemed to have changed. Stretched out and deformed, his palms lengthened to almost inhuman proportions. His shirt gave way and when you saw his chest you started scooting away from him, moving backwards until you were sitting underneath the stairs, your back pressed against the wall behind you.

His claws were tearing at his skin, creating large openings in his skin and fur started poking through somehow. His jeans tore open as the entire lower part of his body started transforming as well, legs getting even longer than they already were. You could hear his bones breaking and he started howling, his own voice turning into something more animalistic the longer he kept going. You slammed your hands over your ears in a weak effort to stop yourself from hearing him, but it was to no avail. Nothing could stop that noise from reaching your ears.

Rolling over, he was on his hands and knees now, his limbs changing to something new, more wolflike. The scream that had kept pouring from his mouth got lower as his rib cage expanded. His face was the last thing to change. His entire skull was shifting. His jaw elongated to properly accommodate his new teeth and where had once been his nose, a muzzle was appearing, pushing itself out of his skull. His ears, longer and pointier, started appearing out of his fur. Somewhere in his howl, his own voice still appeared to be mixed in there, making it sound altogether eerier. Right before he collapsed to the floor, he turned his head in your direction and you saw that his beautiful blue eyes had turned yellow.

You released a shuddering breath when you saw that he wasn’t changing anymore, but when you saw him shift, you were frozen. You found yourself wishing that you could press yourself further back into the wall or that you could get your legs to move. But even if you could make your muscles cooperate, what would you do? He could probably smell you. The fear that was wafting from your pores was bound to be some delicious perfume that he’d be able to follow no matter where you went. On the off chance that you even managed to make it outside, he’d probably pounce on you before you ever got into the car and then he’d tear you limb from limb right there on the driveway.

You didn’t stand a chance.

Where his transformation had obviously hurt him immensely, none of that pain was present now. He got to his feet and shook his head. Where Ubbe had been before, a huge wolf now took his place. A whimper escaped from your lips and he turned himself in your direction almost lazily, big yellow eyes completely fixed on you. His movements were slow, probably not seeing the need to throw himself on you when it was quite obvious that you weren’t going to move anyway. It was almost as if he moved in slow motion and the closer he got, the more that you became aware of the fact that saliva was dripping from his lower jaw. He took in a deep breath, taking your scent in deeply and he blinked once before moving in even closer.

Right before he stuck his head underneath the stairs, you closed your eyes and found yourself silently saying prayers to whichever god you could think of, praying that it would be over soon and that you’d go quickly at least. As soon as his warm breath hit your face, you stopped breathing, too terrified to even take as much as another breath. It wasn’t until your lungs started burning up from lack of oxygen that you finally took in another deep breath. You opened one eye carefully while you waited for him to move. Instead you found him looking at you almost curiously with those new big yellow eyes of his.

Completely out of the blue, he suddenly pressed his muzzle against your neck, taking in another deep breath, before turning his head so he could lick your cheek. You wiped at your cheek when you felt the wetness and he briefly looked down, almost apologetic in his gesture, before fixing his eyes on you again. With shaking hands you reached out, slowly moving towards his head and when he didn’t move, you ran a hand down his jaw. He eased into your touch almost immediately and you saw his back leg move to scratch at his side when you scratched his ear. When you giggled nervously, he fell down onto his side and nudged at your legs with his nose. You stretched your legs out in front of you and he dropped his head down onto your thighs, putting one of his paws over you to make sure you couldn’t pull away.

“What am I going to do with you now, huh?” He cracked open one eye to look at you and you leaned forward to press your lips on his head. “Big bad wolf.”

*****

Tagging: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @methotrex8 (I forgot to do it last night, it was late!)

#vikings #vikings au #ubbe the wolf #ubbe lothbrok #ubbe ragnarsson #mar writes #mar moodboards

[ffangirlingsince2001]

The Princess and the Witcher: Extinquished

*not my gif*

Geralt x Reader

Geralt of Rivia is not a babysitter, he is not a bodyguard, and he has no interest in transporting princesses across the continent. Until gold is offered and for the next 90 days he’s saddled with a chirpy, bubbly, princess, who is betrothed to the prince of Narok and has a desire to see everything before she’s trapped behind another set of walls.

A/N: A little early post to ease off the cliff hanger from the last post, but I am also sorry to say, this is the end, so please enjoy (as much as you can)

Warnings: ANGST

“You’re here to kill me.”

Geralt didn’t think he had heard her at first.

What his ears were convinced they had heard was so absurd he wanted to howl with laughter until no sound came out and he was just shaking. This was all some silly joke, she was trying to get back at him for something, no doubt.

It was a trick, to calm him down after she dropped the news about the prince, or the lack thereof. She was afraid and it was the first lie her childish mind had come up with, something so absurd it was only told in stories about Witcher’s that were meant to frighten children. Now, she was just trying to spare herself his wrath, and honestly, he was prepared to forgive her for everything. There was no prince and she was all his, they even had a home to grow in.

He knew he would live much longer than her, but every moment would be worth it. He would bask in every moment that he could love her. He would enjoy every smile, every soft touch, every worried look she would cast him when he came home from a particularly detrimental kill. She would be his wife, of course. They couldn’t have children, but that wouldn’t stop them from trying. Oh, he was already toying with all the ways they could try to have children. In the loft, in the fields to the west, on the beach to the east, and here in this little house that they would make a home.

All he had to do was forgive her, and hold her, and assure her he was mad no longer, and then they could begin their life together. But, when he moved forward to hug her, she took a solemn step back, tears still running down her face.

“Y/N, I’m not mad, there is no need to lie,” he whispered but all she did was drop to the table and bury her face in her hands, sobbing without restrain. He wasn’t sure what to do. She was lying… and yet. No, she had to be lying. There was no way she could be telling the truth, not when this proclamation was so horrible his hands shook at the thought of it. “Y/N…”

“Please, sit down,” she cried, still hiccupping with tears. He did as she said without a word, dropping his sword for good measure. She eyed it and then turned the teary irises back to him. “I’m not lying. I wish I was, but I am not.”

“Then I have misunderstood you.”

“You have not.”

“Then you must have hit your head as you fled.”

“Geralt, you have to kill me,” she snapped, slamming her clenched fists against the table. He was silent as he stared at her hands, they were so small and undamaged.

“What makes you say such terrible things, Princess?”

“Because they’re true. That’s why we’re here. That’s why you were chosen.”

“Chosen for what?” he yelled, irritation growing as he grew more frantic. He just wanted her to admit it was all a sick joke.

“Do you remember the first night we laid together, in the inn?” she asked, and he nodded. “I told you, you were chosen because you would do whatever it takes, this is what it takes. You were chosen because my father, his advisors, and I all knew that you would do it, when the final hour is upon us you will draw up your sword and end my life.” Geralt stood from the table, shoving it into her stomach as he did so.

“If you are to die, why the trip, why not kill you in your home?”

“Because I wanted to see the world before mine came to an end. It was never to end up like this, you were never supposed to know, not until the very end. And I never meant to become so close, it was supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be easy,” she cried, reaching for him.

“You’re lying. You’re fucking lying, you don’t want to be married so badly that you want me to believe I am supposed to kill you, to end your life before someone can control you. Well, you’ve made one error, I do not kill people, I kill monsters.”

“All the better,” she replied, voice dangerously steady as she straightened herself in the stiff, wooden chair. There were still tears in her eyes, but she meant business. “Please sit down, so I can explain.” He considered leaving, shearing off a piece of her hair and marching back to her father to demand the gold he had promised him, but instead he sat as instructed. She tried to take his hands, but he pulled away. Hurt etched itself across her face but he did not search for restitution.

“It happened before I was born, I didn’t even know it had occurred until a few years ago, and even then, I found out on accident. I assume they wouldn’t have told me until today if they could have avoided it, they would want to spare my sensibilities.”

“Tell you about what?” he snapped, jerking her out of her ramblings.

“The curse.” There was a beat of silence as she waited for him to respond but when he remained quiet, she continued. “Like I said it was a few years before I was born, my father was trying to find a queen to rule along side him. He was looking for someone with royal blood, but even commoners were invited to the parties he was throwing, in hopes of creating something so extravagant that it would attract a woman just as lively as the parties.

“Among the guests was this woman. My father says she looked like an angel that had dropped from heaven like gold from a sunset. He was captivated and mesmerized, so taken aback he was nervous to approach her. He thought about it the entire first night, never quite prepared to introduce himself to the woman he was sure he would marry.

“Because he failed the first night, he hosted another party the following week, and then the one after that, trying to produce something that would be as magnificent as her. On the third week he finally succeeded in approaching her. He introduced himself, and as he nervously stumbled over his name, she must have grown enchanted, because the parties ceased, and she was brought to the palace to be prepared for the wedding.

“Much to the disgrace of the royal family, she was a commoner, nothing more than a milkmaid, but my father was enamored, unwilling to part with her even when his father threatened to send the couple far, far away. The wedding drew nearer, and they were both so happy, so in love.

“And then war broke out. Our borders were shredded to nothing more than desolation, fires ripping across our crops until our farmlands were black scars against the rich earth. The wedding was postponed and for her safety, the lovely bride was sent away to hide. She waited years, and suddenly the war abruptly ended, and she returned to the palace, prepared to wed my father. Yet, when she entered the throne room, she found another sitting on her throne. My mother, the princess of the warring country, had stolen away her place by my father’s side. A marriage of treaty was formed while she was away, and she was left heartbroken and alone, an outcast in the palace that had once welcomed her as their future queen.

“I don’t know if she was a witch or a mage, or maybe she hired someone to do it for her, but the curse was cast on me. A curse that now hangs on the cusp of erupting into violence and bloodshed, a curse that you must end before it begins.”

“What is the curse?”

“A transformation.”

“Of what kind?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then how do you know it is worth your life? How do you know your death is undisputable?”

“Because I know it’s bad. I can feel it in my bones. I could feel it when I killed the monster. I can feel it every time I look in the mirror and my eyes seem a little more animalistic. I just know, call it intuition, call it paranoia, I know that I am destined to be a monster.”

Geralt roared in frustration, slamming the blade of his sword into the door, lodging it in the soft wood. “You can’t know that.”

“I do.”

“I cannot kill you, especially not on the gut feeling of a princess who has not left the palace before three months ago.”

“We’ll know tomorrow, and you will have to be prepared. If you are right and it is nothing more than ugliness you can leave with your sword clean, but if it is what I know it to be, you must kill me. You cannot allow another monster to exist in this world.”

“There must be a way to break the curse, there is always a way,” he growled, head resting against the split his sword had created. He could hear her standing, inching her way towards him.

“You don’t think we have tried? You don’t think my father spent eighteen years trying to find a way to free me of his mistakes? We have tried, I’ve taken every motion, endured every experiment. It still lingers just beneath my skin like thick, black smoke, ready to turn me into a nightmare.”

“I can’t kill you,” he whispered and she took his face in her hands.

“You must, for the world and for me. I would rather die than ever have to kill another living creature.”

“You are so selfish it hurts.”

“I know, but I need you to do what it takes, and I need to remember what you promised me.”

“What have I promised you?”

“That you will not linger on those you kill. You must forget me, move on and continue to do good in this world.”

“Y/N, I love you, you cannot dare to ask me to kill you, let alone forget you.” She seemed taken aback by his confession, but as she pressed her lips to his he could feel the return of her feelings.

“You must, for the world and for me.”

 *******************************************************************************************

Gold is not gold.

Some is tainted with blood and loss.

And Geralt had no interest in coins that would cause him agony to spend. He was not even sure if he had wanted the gold if he would be able to enter the throne room without severing the kings head.

They had spent the night before her birthday making love. They had whispered confessions into one another’s ears long into the evening and into the night, basking in the secrecy of their affair. When she laid beneath him, he was unable to imagine her dead. She was so full of life, even with the sadness that settled itself in her eyes.

They imagined a future together, both silently and aloud. He could imagine her old and still kicking, like age couldn’t hold her back and she spoke of a twin on each hip, a boy and a girl that would talk just as much as she had when they first met. Beneath the candlelight and the peppering of kisses it was almost easy to forget it was all fake.

Then, the night had begun to draw to a close and she had lead him to the shackles attached to the wall, the hooks he had once mistaken as a tether for horses. He had begged her not to make him to do this, all while he assured her she would be okay.

The chains were tight and as the sun rose over the mountains, she was proven correct. In between screams of agony as her body transformed into a creature of no natural creation, she promised she loved him, that she would be with him, that even as his blade ended her life she would know him for nothing but sincerity and kindness.

And then he killed her, staring back into the eyes that did not change with the transformation. They seemed grateful, relieved that he went through with it, she clearly had doubts that he would be able to do whatever it took.

He buried her, it was the only life he had ever taken that he had buried, but he felt unable to leave without hiding her beneath the earth.

And then he left, in the opposite direction he had come, knowing that he would only be able to keep half of his promise.

He could kill her, but never in his lifetime would he forget her.

                                                        The End

@mallorydoesstuff @facelessfiction @aphadriel-fanfic @raspberrydreamclouds @thegreattodd @saint-hardy @ravenclawsstolemybunies @queenofmankind @britty443 @lonewolf471 @utterlyhopeful-fics @persephonehemingway @fuck-me-gently-with-a-slurpee @josis-teacup @gabbysblogthingy @sadttitude​ 

#the witcher #the witcher angst #the witcher x reader #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #the witcher imagine #the witcher fluff #the witcher smut #Geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia smut #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia angst #geralt of rivia fluff

[dreamer213]

Broken machines: Lights the dark

Chapter 2 Beautiful Night

In dark quiet room a young man sits atop his bed waiting. The room itself is opulent and pristine, a queen size bed with silk sheets, oak wood floor, a gorgeous antique armoire full of designer clothing, a full length mirror, silver trend curtains, an ornately detailed desk, bookshelf filled with materials on business, culture, and the arts and even a bath en-suite. Truly a scene ripped straight from a magazine with it’s presentation and uniform coloring. Nothing but dark blues, grays, and whites as far as the eye could see, it gives off a very chic and vintage feel but such a cold color scheme leaves little room for light to enter. With darkness of night sky peeking through the window It is as though the room itself becomes like snow, beautiful and magnificent in appearance but cold and devoid of life. The same can be said for the boy, smooth white hair set neat and tidy in a simple but elegant cut, a long and slender figure with good posture and a gorgeous face with high cheek bones, full lips, a perfect jaw line, long lashes, and beautiful deep blue eyes. But behind those beautiful eyes lays a cold and empty stare, no youthful joy or warmth to speak of, just the cold stare of empty soul. If not for his breathing and movements he could be mistaken for a porcelain doll, left in it’s display never to be moved or play with but to be held up and admired. But that is not important right now. No, what matters right now is if Weiss’s found the back doors they left open for her and made her escape yet.

It’s been a while she should be long gone by now, if she hasn’t left yet it won’t be long before Father finds her then Gods know what he’ll will do. I mean getting caught trying to escape the city after nearly killing a defenseless woman at a public event over some unkind remarks. Cleaning up this mess is going to be hell on its own but if Father finds her trying to run away He’ll-

Whitley tenses up and grips his biceps through his sleeves, there’s a dazed look in his eyes. He closes his eyes, takes some deep breath, and calms himself.

No, I can’t think like that now. I have to believe that she followed through, that she ran away pre her usually sanctimonious behavior. I mean what did she think she was going to achieve by acting like that. Did she think that was going to change their minds? Did she really think that screaming like a child and losing control of her powers was going to do anything but cause chaos. If General Ironwood hadn’t been there we all could been killed by that monster. But no, even after fighting Grimm and seeing how terrifying they are first hand, she still never once gave a thought to what the consequences of her actions would be for anyone but herself. But then again that just might be who she is now. Doesn’t matter if she to her if she’s right or wrong, if she feels attacked she’ll just lash out either physical or verbal. With all her talk of restoring our family name I never thought she would do something like this. I never thought she would go this far but then again I never thought she’d treat me like an enemy. I try my best to engage with her whenever I could and she accuses me of wanting to her get disinherited and acts like I’ve stolen her role away from her. Really? She thought I would want the life both she and Winter ran away from the first chance they could. Seriously? What do I gain from her failure, living at home with a drunk for mother, a tyrant father, and a staff of people traumatized from working with them. Having my every move monitored and commanded by a man who cares more about money than human life. The enormous amount of work that comes with preparing to take over a company of such great magnitude and whatever grunt work Father doesn’t feel like doing. OH! Let’s not forget the fact that you’ll never truly be in charge as Father will surely keep you trapped under his heel until the day he dies! A life as puppet to a man whose dragged our family name through the dirt trapped in a house colder than the coldest of blizzard. Yes Weiss, I so desperately wanted you to run away to live your dreams so I could live your nightmare.

“WHERE IS SHE!!!” “WHERE DID THAT WORTHLESS BRAT GO!”

Whitley hears his father screaming down the hall, the screaming continues for almost an hour until it’s becomes clear that Weiss has escaped. For moment everything’s quite as though the entire manor has become frozen in time. But not long after the silence there’s a crash then another and another. The commotion grows louder and louder with every passing second until the shirks of manor staff become just loud as the havoc Jacques Schnee is wreaking.

Whitley: Looks like it’s time to clean up the mess.

Whitley gets up and walks out of his room towards the commotion. As he gets closer and closer as follows his father’s path of destruction. Broken glass, fallen paintings, and décor pieces smashed and scattered across the floor the halls are in shambles. When he finally reaches his father the situation is much worse than he expected. Jacques has completely lost his composure, he’s throwing things, screaming wildly, his face is beet red and his eyes are bulging. The servants are trying their best to calm down while trying to avoid getting hit. They try and try but nothing they do seems to calms him. As this struggle continues Whitley approaches them, he quietly walks up behind them. He stands there waiting for an opportunity to grab his father’s attention.

Jacques: AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE DONE FOR THAT UNGRATEFUL BITCH SHE DARED TO DEFY ME LIKE THIS!

Whitley: Father please, you need to calm down the stress isn’t good for—

Before he can get another word out an object goes flying past Whitley’s head. It was a small antique clock a gift from a business associate. His father Jacques Schnee, who was now facing him, had thrown it within an inch of his own son’s head. Jacques stalks over towards Whitley, getting closer and closer until he is standing over his son and stares directly into his eyes.

Jacques: What did you say?

Whitley: Stay calm, stay focused, you have to see this to an end before things get worse. I said you should calm down you shouldn’t be stressing yourself over such a minor issue. It’s not good for your health.

Jacques: And do tell me Whitley, how is your sister running away a “minor issue”.

Whitley: Well she’s already been disinherited and made a public spectacle of herself, there’s no real need for her to be at the manor anymore. That and when people ask about her and how she was punished you can say she was kick out and thrown to the streets for her awful behavior. For most that were present at that party the very idea of being cut off is the stuff of nightmares, hearing that the heiress to Schnee dust fortune got herself thrown out for her reckless mistakes should help calm the ruckus Weiss created.

For a moment everyone pauses, they hold their breath waiting for the elder Schnee’s reaction. After what feels like hours Jacques puts his hand above Whitley’s head. He brings it down and begins to slow pat his son’s head.

Jacques: Good job Whitley, you always have your mind in the right place when I need you to.

Whitley: Of course Father, I’m always thinking of what’s best for the Schnee legacy.

Jacques: Good, now then get this mess cleaned up I need to go have a talk with Klein. I just know that dog had a hand in this.

Whitley: Yes Father, I’ll have the staff get this up right away.

Jacques gives an approving nod then walks away. As soon as his step can no longer be heard and he is out of earshot the servants all breathe a sigh of relief and start cleaning up. Whitley walks down the hall, searching for someone. After roughly half an hour up and down the second floor Whitley finally finds the person he’s been looking for, Mary Shellor.

Mary Shellor has been working at the Schnee Manor for several years. When she first arrived no one expected her to last very long but to their surprise she acclimated to the environment rather quickly. She was also a very diligent worker, never making a mistake more then once. And because of her skill, not long after her hiring Mary was promoted to one of the most important and most difficult positions in the manor, Willow’s personal maid. She’d become Willow’s shadow following and serving her wherever she may go unless dismissed. During her first year as Willow’ maid also sought out and obtained another role, or rather a long term investment. You see after observing the family for a time it became clear to Mary which child would inherit the family fortune. The children, Winter, Weiss, and Whitley, had been raised quite incorrectly for their natures. Like wolves raised as show dogs ,they were trained to be obedient, intelligent, and outstanding but because of their strong willed and fierce natures they could never truly be tamed. First and second born were allowed enough freedom to want for more and seek an end to their captivity even if it meant losing everything. Eventuality they were able to beard their fangs and break free of their chains. But the third born, the son, was not allowed such opportunities, No Jacques had learned from his past mistakes he wasn’t letting this one get away. Whitley was kept closer, his chains made tighter, and cage made much smaller then his predecessors. And yet Mary could still see the wolf in him, though different from his sisters it was still there. Unlike his sisters he couldn’t attack or run from his situation so the boy did the only thing he could and did it well, he played along. He played the role of Father’s loyal dog so well that even his sister believed the act without question but unbeknownst to her or their father beneath that mask Whitley’s fangs were growing strap, he was waiting. Whitley knows when he’s at a disadvantage he knows when to act and when to retreat, he knows how to play games, the game of Atlas politics, his father’s games, and the games of the business world. The day Whitley would strike would be the day everything would be returned to a true Schnee, one who knew how to survive in this world, who knew the mistakes of the past and how not to repeat them. Mary wanted to be on the right side when that day came and so she became Whitley’s eyes and ears in and outside of the manor as long as he promised to keep her in mind when the time came. That was their argument one Mary never doubted would play out in her favor.

Whitley: Mary where’s Mother?

Mary: The Mistress has retreated to the library. After the shouting started she ran inside and hid. I asked her if there was anything I could do and she dismissed me.

Whitley: Thank you Mary, stay here I’ll be back in a moment.

Mary: Yes, Young master

Whitley walks pass her towards the library, once at the doors he pulls them open only to find that the lights are off and the scent of alcohol is heavy in the air. Whitley follow the scent deeper and deeper into the library, gagging slightly the closer he gets, as he draws nearer to the source he finds a trail of wine bottles.

Whitley: They’re all empty, she’s close.

He picks up the bottles as he follows the trail until he finds a blanket covered figure sitting on the floor tucked into a corner. Whitley puts the bottles down and slowly approaches the figure, small sobs escape it as he drew closer, he kneels down in front of them with his hands on his knees. He then gently pulls the blanket off the figure to reveal his mother Willow Schnee, sobbing and trembling beneath the blanket she’s wrapped herself in.

Whitley: It’s over Mother, Father’s gone back to his office. You can go back to your room now he won’t be coming out for some time.

Whitley holds out his hand towards Willow, with a shaky hand Willow grabs onto her son. Whitley grabs onto tightly, wraps his free arm around her shoulders and pulls her up. He steadies her as she gets on her feet, and guides her through the darkness and into the hallway. Once they’re out out of the library he hands Willow off to Mary.

Whitley: Take her back to her room she can barely walk, make sure to leave a bucket by her bed. And don’t let her have anything else tonight she has too much in her system already. She’s also left a good amount of empties on floor again, have someone clean those up before Father’s next reading hour.

Mary: Of course Young Master, we’ll have everything clean and in order before Master Jacques get up for breakfast.

Whitley:Thank you Mary , that will be all for tonight.

This was why Mary chose to put her faith in the boy, for as cold and defensive as Whitley was he was also incredibly loyal. Whenever the Master flew off the handle the Young Master would do everything in his power to calm him down and keep him calm for as long as possible. At first Mary thought this was more his loyal dog act but after a few more incidents it was clear what he was doing. Whitley would never sacrifice another’s safety for his own. His true purpose for playing the Master’s game was not to obtain power but peace and freedom from the chains that bind this manor and the people in it.

With that Mary and Willow depart towards Willow’s bedroom while Whitley retreats his own. Once there he closes the door behind himself and pressing his back against the door. He takes a deep breath then slumps down the door, gets into the fetal position and starts to sob. He cries and weeps for a long, long time, until his face is red and his voice horse. Once he finally he stops Whitley gets up and goes to his ensuite to clean himself up. After a long bath he puts on his sleepwear and lays down on his bed, he stares up at the ceiling until he finally succumbs to his own exhaustion and falls into a dreamless sleep.

#whitley schnee #broken machines #rwby #rwby fanfiction #fanfic #Someone hold this baby #sad #fanfiction

[cowboyified]

Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them. 

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest. 

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’. 

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places. 

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep. 

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge. 

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door. 

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room. 

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life. 

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday? 

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with. 

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun. 

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass. 

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why. 

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault. 

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years. 

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.” 

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist. 

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all. 

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field. 

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring. 

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore. 

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace. 

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him. 

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar. 

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that. 

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic. 

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway. 

“Am I to be forgiven?” 

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind. 

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails. 

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest. 

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

#wip dump #wincest #my words

[castielchitaqua]

kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R         my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

[monstersandmaw]

Male Uruk-hai x reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Here's another Orctober (!) prompt, of which my lovely, patient Elves over on Patreon had a brief preview a while ago, and my Pixies and Goblins have had access to for a little while. The prompt was 'injured', and this one got so long that it practically grew legs and ran away with me...

Hope you enjoy!

Content: gender-neutral reader, belligerent, tough-as-nails Uruk-hai warriors, one seriously injured mountain of muscle, some violence (not lasting) towards the reader, one loyal centaur bestie, and some sexy times Wordcount: 9769

___

At the clamour of two opposing orcish war-bands sweeping through the countryside to the north of your village, the sounds of the skirmish carried on the wind, people went scuttling for the shelter of their cellars. The orcs and Uruks in the area didn’t tend to bother your remote little community because they knew you had little to offer, but still, being caught in the crossfire was a frighteningly real possibility.

Although it was better to gather plants in the morning, when they were still hydrated and fresh, you had been out in the meadow in the late afternoon light, gathering chamomile both for tea and for (separate) use in medicinal poultices when the first orcs had climbed the ridge on the outskirts of town and your heart had stopped beating. Instantly, you dropped into the long grass, crouching low and holding your breath. As they spilled down the steep incline towards the curving, shallow river, you saw with plunging horror that their skin was not the green of the orcs who lived in relative peace at the nearby stronghold, but the dark, bruised looking, purplish-brown of Uruk-hai. This was a true war band then, and they roared down the hill like a tide of locusts, their hooked scythe-blades held high, their harsh, rough voices yelling in their own language.

You prayed in silent whispers to every deity you’d ever even remotely heard of and hunkered down as low as you could get like a leveret in long grass.

The first group that thundered past were few in number, bloodied and battered. They were the clear losers of the fight; driven to fleeing by the stronger horde following on behind. As you hunkered down in the sussurating grasses, heart in your mouth, praying that none of them would see you as they thundered on towards the trees to the north west of the village, you saw the second band clear the ridge, and almost passed out with fear.

Numbering easily twenty five in strength, they raged on, relentless, yelling and snarling. They caught up with a straggler who had been hobbling desperately on a nastily wounded leg, and simply cut him down, hamstringing him and moving on in an inexorable tide of muscle and leather, white and blue war paint, blood and steel.

You stayed still in the fallow pasture for a long time, letting the sounds of pursuit fade into the woods before you stood shakily and looked around. The meadow had been trampled in a wide swathe at their passing, their black blood staining it in places. The corpse of the one who had not made it just lay there like a felled tree, cooling in the late afternoon sun.

Your eyes drifted away from the sight of the corpse towards the woods, and your heart leapt into your mouth when you saw a figure at the very edge of the trees, leaning against the thick trunk of an ash tree. He was one of the largest Uruks that you’d ever seen, larger by far than any of the passing horde, but as you stared at him, you saw him sway and then stagger off into the shadows of the forest, clutching at his middle and limping badly.

He was wounded, and severely.

As the village’s healer, you felt the instinctive tug to help him, to ease his pain, but this wasn’t just another member of your community in need of aid - this was a violent, vicious Uruk-hai. They were best left well alone unless you wanted to risk being captured and taken as a human slave to one of their awful camps, or passed around for their pleasure. You shuddered at the thought and looked away from the gap in the trees where he had been.

Turning your back on the meadow, you picked up your basket in trembling fingers and walked back to your simple cottage on the outskirts of the collection of brick and wooden houses. People were beginning to emerge again now that the immediate danger had passed, and you looked up to see a familiar bay centaur trotting quickly towards you with a mix of worry and relief on his handsome face.

“Gil,” you smiled, pausing and waiting for him to catch up to you. “You alright?”

“Are you?” he asked, his dark eyes wide. “Fuck, I was so worried about you. I saw you going out into the meadow earlier, and then when I saw all those Uruks pouring down the hill and into the woods… I thought for sure you’d have been cut down or trampled, or… or…” his lip trembled and he surged forwards and threw his arms around you, picking you up and hugging you so tightly that your ribs creaked. “I thought they might have taken you…”

“I’m fine,” you wheezed with your face pressed against his softly-rumpled linen shirt. “Gil, put me down… I can’t breathe…”

Apologising, he set you back down and stepped back, his large hooves clopping on the cobbles of the village street, his one white sock dancing in the daylight.

“I’m fine,” you reassured him. “You want to come back for a cup of tea?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to go and help Martha with the waterwheel. A big old branch has got jammed in the mechanism and she needs me to help haul it free. I’ll stop by later though?”

You nodded and he smiled once before trotting off to help the miller. Gil was a good soul, and you’d known him all your life. He’d asked you out back when the pair of you had been about sixteen, but it hadn’t lasted long, and you’d mutually fallen back into a deeply affectionate friendship after only a few months.

Alone in your cottage, preparing the chamomile flowers for drying, you focused on the task in hand, fingers delicately pinching the stems off, but the figure in the trees kept haunting you like some kind of malevolent spirit, its purpose unfulfilled. Over and over, you replayed that moment when he’d gone from staring directly at you to lurching out of sight between the trees. Would he be dead by now? Would he have bled out? Would some other Uruk have found him and gutted him? Would the rival band have captured him and dragged him away to do dreadful things to him?

You’d heard the jongleurs’ tales of Uruks who butchered their enemies and displayed them as grisly decoration on their spiked palisade walls while they died in agony, pinned like living specimens in a necromancer’s collection for their last few hours… Fighting off a wave of nausea, you gritted your teeth and snatched up your healer’s bag which contained bandages, dressings, salves, ointments for cleaning, and needle and silk for stitching. Taking a bottle of boiled water from the table on your way out, you slammed the door behind you and strode off into the early evening light.

It didn't take you long to cross the meadow and slip into the trees. Listening you fell still, straining your ears to pick up the sounds of… of what? Enemies between the trees? As if there would be any other Uruks here now.

The ash tree was smeared with a lot of black Uruk blood, and it didn’t take an expert tracker to follow the trail to a deep hollow where a massive tree had been ripped out of the ground by a storm, leaving its roots standing up in a disc as high as a single-storey house. At the bottom of the deep divot in the earth lay the Uruk.

One hand rested on his stomach which glistened with black blood, a deep gash in the material of his armour showing his bruised purple skin beneath and the extent of his grave injuries. ‘Grave’ might have been the operative word; you couldn't see his chest rising and falling, and his eyes were closed.

Terrified, heart in your mouth, you stepped down into the leaf-littered hollow and nudged him in the thigh with the toe of one boot.

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you knelt beside him and placed your fingertips on his thick, dirt-smeared neck. His eyelids flickered and you nearly recoiled in surprise when he grunted. His tusks weren’t as big as those of the Uruks’ green-skinned cousins, but they were thick and filed to a treacherously sharp point. Uruks fought like the wargs they rode, not afraid to latch their jaws onto their prey and tear them to pieces if deprived of a weapon. Some even favoured that method of ending their enemies’ lives, if the tales were to be believed. And here, beneath your tentative fingertips, was just one such creature.

“You’re hurt,” you said stupidly, and he just blinked at you. His eyelids were barely open more than a crack, and his breath came in minuscule, shallow gasps. With a deep inhale for courage, you reached for your bag and then began to unbuckle his thick, leather jerkin, lifting it away from the sticky black of his half-clotted wound. You knew that Uruks healed quicker than almost all other creatures, not counting those whose magic allowed for rapid regeneration, but even so, this was a terrible injury.

He snarled softly at you but didn’t even have the strength to swat you off him.

“Keep still,” you snapped in a hoarse whisper.

His face was bruised and swollen, with a cut on his chin and another on his forehead, but they were superficial and had already scabbed over. Behind the swelling, you could see strong bone-structure, thick brows framing a face that was monumental rather than handsome, as if carved by ancient masons with no care for subtle detail. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail which was full of bits of leaves and sticky black blood. He was filthy and he smelled revolting.

You treated the wound in his torso, cleaning it and ignoring his growled curses in the Uruk dialect of orcish. You knew enough orcish from trading with the clan to the south to recognise that you were the subject of his complaints, but you couldn’t decipher any more of his thick, guttural speech than that. Using what little orcish you knew, you snarled at him to stop making your job harder, and, to your surprise, he fell still.

He relaxed so suddenly that you thought for a horrible moment that he’d died, but when you looked into his face, you found a new expression sitting there behind the perpetual, heavy-browed scowl. Whatever it was, it was unreadable, but it was better than open hostility.

“That’s better,” you said, tying off the last stitch. “Now, how many other leaks have I got to plug before you bleed out here?”

He twitched his right leg and you looked down and saw a broken-off arrow sunk into his thigh.

“Really?” you exclaimed when you saw it. “You snapped it off? Do you know how stupid that is?”

The growl that rumbled from him was like that of a colossal wolf, but he quickly silenced himself when you grabbed a pair of small pliers that you had knocking around the bottom of the bag, wiped them with alcohol, and set about extracting the barbed arrowhead from his thigh. Field medicine didn’t exactly call for finesse, especially when dealing with an Uruk. They were tough bastards, as he had already proved.

He passed out shortly before it was free, and you stitched that up as well before sitting back on your heels, rinsing your hands in a little of the water that was left, and staring at him. “Now what?” you mused aloud. You hadn’t really thought this through at all; it was all very well patching him up, but this was hardly the clean, sterile environment conducive to healing. It was a filthy, bloodstained forest floor crawling with bugs and gods-knew-what else. There was an old forester’s cabin that had been derelict for years, but it was easily half a mile from where the Uruk had fallen and you couldn’t even drag someone his size and weight an inch, let alone that distance.

Just as you had thought about leaving him there and returning to the village to see if Gil would help you - a stupid idea if ever you’d had one - the undergrowth moved and out of the fading light stepped a colossal warg. Its eyes glowed red in the shadows, but instead of being the usual brown or black, this one’s pelt was a pale, smoky grey, all tangled and matted.

It was carrying one front paw up, clearly in pain, and its ears were folded back flat against its head. From its snarling maw, saliva dripped onto the brambles and old leaves, and you sat there with your joints seized in terror, more frightened than you had ever been in your entire life. You’d never seen a warg, though the same tales which told of the Uruks’ bloodlust and cruelty spoke of the voracious wolf-like beasts that they rode like chargers into battle. You’d not seen any wargs with the war-band earlier and had no idea if this one belonged to the Uruk on the ground or to someone else. Had the scent of his wounds drawn the hunter?

“Please don’t be a wild one,” you murmured aloud.

At the sound of your voice, it seemed to relax a little, limped a little closer, and snuffed at the Uruk in front of you. Then it looked back at you, snarling more gently now.

“Is he yours?” you asked. “You’re hurt too, aren’t you?” you added, seeing that talking to it had seemed to reassure it. It looked like a hyena crossed with a white wolf, with huge, muscular shoulders and a thick, heavy muzzle, but with the more agile body and thick, flowing pelt and tail of a wolf. “You want me to take a look at you?” you offered, holding out your palm. “Come here…”

The warg seemed to know that command, spoken in orcish, and it hobbled over. You pushed the fur back to see that it had clearly been licking it, and in so doing it had kept the gash free of gunk and debris from the forest. You poured some clean water onto the last of your scraps of clean cloth and held your hand out to the warg again.

The creature reluctantly let you take the heavy paw in your palm and you dabbed it clean. It growled, but let you continue, even when you flinched. The weight of the paw was frightening enough, but it was large as a dinner plate and each pad ended in a vicious looking black claw.

“What the hell am I doing?” you asked yourself at one point, halfway through tying the bandage around the warg’s lower leg, just above the paw itself.

From beside you, the Uruk stirred and turned his head to watch you. He asked something in his thick dialect and you frowned. “I don’t understand you,” you said gently.

He let out a soft grunt of frustration and the warg turned and started licking his face.

“Is he yours?” you asked, having checked and discovered that the warg was male. The Uruk groaned and tried to swat the warg off him, but he gasped as he raised his arm, and let it fall back almost immediately. “Easy,” you crooned, shuffling closer. “Hey, come on now,” you said to the warg. “Give him a chance, ok?”

The warg sat down heavily on his haunches and stared at you with what you could only assume was a sullen look in his red eyes. He was as big as a pony and about as strong and hairy as a bear, and as you made the comparison between him and a bear, you turned back to the Uruk and said in tentative orcish, “Hey, so… listen, would your warg be able to drag you, say… half a mile or so?”

For a moment you thought you’d said something wrong, but the Uruk blinked and nodded. He seemed so weak and you wondered briefly if the weapons had been poisoned somehow. They didn’t seem to be suppurating or anything though, and he had lost an awful lot of blood before you’d found him.

The injured Uruk spoke to the warg and the creature snuffed in a decidedly disgruntled manner, but he latched his jaws around the collar of the orc’s armour and looked at you expectantly.

Standing and grabbing the medical bag, you took a deep breath and said, “Come on.”

It took forever, with the warg yanking and dragging the Uruk along. It might have been an amusing sight were it not for the fatigue that was greying the edges of your vision and for the fact that the Uruk himself was so gravely wounded. Eventually the cabin drew into sight and you pulled open the door and stepped inside. It smelled a bit damp, but it didn’t seem as though anything had taken up residence - or worse, expired - in there; it was just a little leaf-strewn and musty. The modest stone hearth sat cold and empty, the chimney was probably blocked, and there was no bed for him to lie on - no furniture at all - but the warg dragged him in and dumped him in the centre of the room.

When he looked up at you, seeming very pleased with himself, the warg wagged softly and you approached him and petted his shoulder without realising quite what you were doing. “Well done,” you crooned.

The Uruk had unsurprisingly passed out again and you knelt by his side, inspecting the bandages carefully. No blood had seeped through, so - somehow - he’d not split his stitches on the rough journey over. Trying not to congratulate yourself too much, given that Uruks were exceptionally tough creatures and that most of the credit was probably his for being almost indestructible, rather than yours for your deft needlework, you straightened and reached hesitantly for the warg’s head again. As you scratched behind his ear this time, he wagged his fluffy tail and leaned into the touch. “Good boy,” you said. “Thank you for your help.”

It was now full dark, and an owl’s harsh shriek outside startled you, the sudden movement making the warg growl.

“I need to get home,” you said, suddenly remembering that you’d promised Gil that cup of tea earlier. If he came round to your house and hadn’t found you, would he have worried? Would he have looked for you? With Uruks in the area, would he assume you’d been taken after all?

You turned to look at the Uruk and found that he had come to and was staring at you. His eyes were a dark gold, ringed with a coppery tone, and they stared at you with an intensity that made your heartbeat falter. He looked so angry. Kneeling beside him and trying to conjure a bit of courage, you pressed your hand very gently against the most severe of his injuries which made him hiss but drove the point home well enough. “You stay still, alright? I’ll come back tomorrow with something for you to eat, and to check on you. I’ve left a waterskin here for you if you get thirsty,” you added as you pressed it against his knuckly fingers.

He snarled something at you and you frowned. You’d caught the orcish word for ‘die’, but nothing else.

“Hey, you’re not going to die, alright?” you said firmly. “You’re my patient now, and I don’t let my patients die. You’re not allowed to die, you hear me?” and you looked up at the warg to add, “Don’t you let him, alright?”

The creature didn’t understand the words, but he caught the intensity of your tone, and he curled up beside the orc, whining softly.

“You keep him warm til I can get a fire going in that grate,” you added and then left them alone to return to the village.

Outside your house, you found Gil pacing up and down, iron shoes ringing on the cobblestones. When he saw you, his eyes went wide and he stared at the black blood that you’d managed to smear on your linen shirt.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, gaze fixed on the stains. “What happened? Where were you? I came over after I left Martha’s, but you weren’t here, and… is that… Uruk blood?”

“Long story,” you said, unlocking your door and stepping inside. “Lemme clean up and put the kettle on and I’ll… I’ll tell you everything. But you must promise not to tell a soul, alright?”

Gil’s dark eyes narrowed but he nodded and stooped to follow you inside.

Finally, with a cup of tea cradled in your hands, you sat on the floor beside Gil who had lowered himself down onto the floorboards beside the fire, and told him everything that had happened.

“You’re insane,” he said. “You’d actually help one of those monsters?”

You shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave him there. I had to know if he was alive, and if he was, I couldn’t just let him die without trying to help him.” Anxiety flared as the silence stretched between you and you looked up at him. “Are you really angry with me?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m just… stunned, I guess.” He laughed and stretched. “You haven’t changed a bit since we were kids, you know that?” he said. When you scowled, puzzled, he chuckled, “Remember that adder you found under a rock?”

“The one with the crushed tail,” you smiled. “Yeah… that was a mean son of a bitch, but I nursed it back to health and somehow avoided getting bitten by it…”

“I just hope you don’t get hurt this time.”

“I’ll be careful,” you said.

He shook his shaggy dark head and said, “Bit late for that, what with bossing a feral warg around and sticking needles in an Uruk-hai…”

With a grin you said, “Well, things just get so dull around here, Gil…”

He rolled his eyes. “I should get going, but… please be careful won’t you? I’m going to worry myself sick about you going out there tomorrow…”

When you did return to the abandoned hut, you found the wounded Uruk sitting up, resting his back against the body of the warg whose growls filled the otherwise empty hut as you approached. “Hey, it’s just me,” you said, hanging back in the doorway. “Remember?”

The orc muttered something and waved a hand slightly as if swatting away a fly, and the warg fell silent.

“Alright to come in?” you asked in tentative orcish, and the Uruk nodded. His eyes were brighter and his focus seemed sharper now. “You’re looking better,” you commented as you stepped inside and closed the door again.

He nodded.

In an attempt to make conversation while you laid and lit the fire, you asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Killuc.” It even sounded like the right kind of name for an Uruk. A moment later, he licked his dry lips and tilted his head slightly. “You?”

When you breathed your name, voice surprisingly thin with anxiety, staring at him over your shoulder as you set the last of the small bundle of firewood onto the top, he repeated it almost reverently and you smiled. “And what’s your warg called?”

He looked askance at the warg, who had laid his muzzle back down on the chilly floorboards and was watching you work the flint striker in your fingers with his steady, red gaze. “Ghâsh. It means ‘fire’ in Uruk.”

“For his eyes?” you asked and Killuc nodded.

As the coils of dry kindling caught fire and the smaller sticks around them began to crackle and spit, Ghâsh raised his head and you caught the soft thump of his tail on the floor. He wasn’t a pretty animal, but behind the thuggish face and frankly enormous teeth, you could see a playful, intelligent, and curious creature.

When you looked back at Killuc, he was staring at you, eyes glowing too in the firelight, and yet again you were forced to admit to yourself that the rough-hewn beauty of his face wasn’t entirely unattractive. You’d been drawn to orcs before, when you’d visited the neighbouring clan for trade, and they’d seemed more than interested in you for some reason, but the scrutiny and obvious interest in his face left you more flustered than you’d ever been around his kind. Well, not that the green-skinned orcs were really quite the same as their more brutal, war-mongering cousins, but still.

Clearing your throat, you took a deep breath and then suggested that you take a look at the wounds and change the dressings. With a wry smile that made your heart’s rhythm falter for a second, he nodded. “Is that alright?” you asked and again, he nodded. “Man of few words, eh?” you snorted, more to yourself than to him. “Suppose if I’d been gutted like a fish I wouldn’t feel too chatty either.”

He surprised you by grabbing hold of your wrist as you passed to fetch your bag and staring up at you. Now genuinely frightened, you turned to look down at him and he released you the instant he saw your expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I…” his gaze fell to his lap. “I don’t know how to talk to a human.”

“It’s alright,” you said shakily and stepped away. His strength as he’d squeezed your comparatively fragile, breakable wrist in his fingers had been prodigious. The skin of his hand had been tough and leathery, with hard, smooth calluses from years of weapons training, but the way his grip had faltered when he saw your face had spoken of a kinder creature underneath the brutality.

Returning to him, you watched as he let his hands fall softly to his sides, palms up, showing that he meant you no harm. He even turned his face away slightly. The smell coming off him was… well, it was definitely enough to make you think less favourable thoughts about him, and when he saw your new expression, he growled, “What?”

“You need a bath,” you said, aiming for stern though it came out with a slight squeak.

“You going to wash me too then?” he grinned.

For that, you smacked him on the chest with the back of your hand and he laughed before you could panic about assaulting an orc. Not that you’d hit him very hard.

His blood-encrusted shirt was crispy beneath the slashed, studded leather jerkin which creaked as you opened it up. Removing the bandages, you saw that the wound was healing nicely, with no inflammation or heat to the site. He sucked in a sharp breath as your fingertips curiously brushed his thick, purplish-brown skin around the wound and you watched his muscles clench impressively in his torso. “Did that hurt?” you asked.

Killuc scoffed dismissively and rolled his eyes. “As if you could hurt me,” he laughed but very abruptly cut off with a grunt as you pressed your thumb into the bandages of the arrow wound on his thigh. When you cocked an eyebrow at him, he laughed heartily. Uruks didn’t make much sense, but his body relaxed after that and he let you do what you needed to without complaint in order to change the bandages. That done, and with the fire roaring and filling the hut with warmth, you rinsed your hands off and dried them.

“Here,” you said, just as his eyelids began to close and his head to nod with exhaustion.

When he discovered that you were kneeling beside him again, just below his eye level, he blinked and brought up one hand gently to cup your jaw in his vast palm. He ran his thumb over your cheekbone and smiled. His sharp tusks glinted in the firelight and his eyes had a brightness to them that hadn’t been there the day before. The sight of it warmed you more than the flames did, and he smiled slightly.

“Here,” you repeated, pushing a cloth-wrapped loaf of bread into his lap and unfolding the fabric. Beside it you placed a couple of cured sausages and a hunk of cheese. “You should eat something.”

Killuc’s stomach growled comically and the warg, who had been watching your exchange with his steady, red eyes pricked up his ears and snuffed surreptitiously at the edge of the napkin, as if he had any hope of stealing a sausage without Killuc noticing.

You reached across Killuc’s lap and patted the warg on the head before announcing, “I brought something for you too.” As you held up a cony that you’d nicked from one of Thomas’ traps in the forest for him, he whimpered and wiggled free from behind the Uruk. Killuc grunted as he braced himself on his right arm at the sudden loss of the support, and you tossed the rabbit on the floor before the warg could chomp your whole arm off in his enthusiasm for the meat. It was little more than a snack for the warg, but it was better than nothing. You also hoped that the village’s hunter, Thomas, wouldn’t notice that his trap had been reset without bait.

Killuc was staring at you with his eyes wide and a slightly slack-jawed expression on his face.

“What?”

He shook his head and returned his attention to the food in front of him. He ate as voraciously as the warg did, though without the bone-cracking abandon with which the warg crunched his rabbit down. Your stomach rolled unpleasantly and you headed for the door.

“Look,” you said, pausing there and resting one hand on the door frame. “I reckon you’ll be good to move around tomorrow. I’d suggest not coming to the village though. Head north, find your people, and… don’t come back here.”

His expression hardened from soft and gentle to something unreadable and he ground his heavy jaw. Finally he grunted, “Yes.”

Without another word, you gathered your bag from the floor and opened the door. Ghâsh looked from you to the Uruk and back again, and then let out a long, low, heartbreaking whine. “Sorry pup,” you grinned. “You can’t stay here.”

Just as you stepped outside, you heard a grunt and a rustle and found that Killuc had levered himself to his feet and was making his ill-advised and faltering way over to you.

It was the first time you’d seen him standing since your brief glimpse of him at the edge of the forest, and you felt the blood drain from your face as he loomed over you. Leaning on the wall beside the door for support, he reached for you again and tilted your chin upwards with the very tip of his index finger.

“Thank… you,” he said in broken, hesitant common speech.

You had been on the point of saying ‘you’re welcome’ when something else entirely just fell out of your mouth. “You still smell horrible,” you grinned at him, still speaking common.

“You didn’t wash me,” he said, switching to orcish.

“Dream on, big guy,” you said, turning away. “There are some springs just up the hill from here,” you added. “I’m sure you can manage. Tomorrow though… let them heal up a bit more first.” The thought of him without clothes on was making you hot all over and you knew you’d have to get away before you said something you genuinely regretted. A quiet little village was no place for an Uruk-hai and his war-fluffball.

You’d gone no further than the edge of the little clearing when the patter of paws on leaf-litter behind you made you turn around and you saw that Ghâsh had wriggled free of Killuc’s grasp and had bounded across to you. He now blocked your path, lowering his head and growling. You weren’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t attack, but, squaring your shoulders, you stared him straight in the eye. “Stop that,” you said. “You know I can’t stay, and neither can you.”

He growled louder and you heard Killuc snarl something at him from the hut which had absolutely no effect whatsoever on the slathering warg.

You jabbed your finger back at Killuc and spoke to the warg in a firm, quiet voice, “Get out of the way. Go back.”

The warg’s ears swivelled to lie flat against his head and he licked his chops once before his tail sank between his legs and he whined pathetically. Raising your eyebrows silently, you twitched your pointing arm again, and he slunk away, dejected and defeated.

Letting out a private breath of relief before turning to look at them, the waves of adrenaline started to wash out of you to leave you weak and shaky. When you mustered the courage to look back, you found Killuc scratching Ghâsh behind his ears in a gesture of commiseration, and you waved once. Killuc nodded and then backed into the shadows of the hut, closing the door behind him.

It was impossible to return to normal again once you got back to the village.

You tried, and for a week you stubbornly refused to dwell on the harsh, statuesque plains of Killuc’s body, on the rich, bruised-plum colour of his skin, the vivid gold of his eyes or the gentle power of his enormous, battle-scarred hands. You refused… No. You didn’t. You spent every night that week with only your hand to occupy your body and only the memory of him to occupy your mind. It was a miserable torment, but you knew you’d get over your little obsession soon enough. You had to. He was an Uruk-hai for goodness’ sake. If you came harder than you’d ever come before, with his name on your lips and the feeling of his touch in your mind, it was just a coincidence.

Six days after you’d left Killuc and Ghâsh in the woods, you woke to a commotion of screams and shouts in the village.

Dressing hurriedly into practical clothing, you slung your belt on last of all, and the long knife you used for gathering herbs and stripping willow bark from the trees down by the millpond slapped reassuringly against your thigh in its leather sheath. You flung open the door and immediately discovered the source of the panic.

The urge to shut the door instantly and bolt out of the back was overwhelming.

Six towering Uruk-hai were standing just up the road in the centre of the village, and one had a small faun, Hazel, dangling in limp terror from their grip. You didn’t recognise any of them as Killuc, and wondered vaguely if he knew them. They didn’t have the look of the losing side about them.

Sucking in a deep breath for courage, you marched down the road towards the square where the village well sat at the centre of the space used for selling goods once a week. You’d barely gone ten steps down the cobbles when you heard iron shoes clattering and Gil shot out and grabbed you, yanking you into the shadows between two houses. “What are you doing?” he hissed in a half-whinny.

“They’ve got Hazel,” you snarled back at him, twisting your hand free. “I can’t just let them kill her!”

“They’ll kill you if you go near them!” he insisted, looking like he might try to grab at you again to hold you back.

Before he could lunge at you again, you ran for it like a rabbit bolting from one hole to another while a fox waited in the grass. “Stop!” you yelled, thinking about pulling your belt knife on them, but at the sight of their cruel, curved weapons, you decided it would only amuse them. “Let her go!”

“Or what?” the female holding the faun sneered, dropping Hazel onto the flagstones at her feet. The baker’s apprentice scrabbled frantically to get away, but a second Uruk stepped forward and trod on her stomach, pinning her down with just enough force to keep her winded without breaking her ribcage.

“Let. Her. Go,” you said as fiercely as you could, fists balled at your sides.

The female just laughed again and shoved you hard in the chest with so little effort that it might have been funny under different circumstances. As it was, the gesture sent you sprawling and you landed heavily on your backside, winded. “Pathetic,” she chuckled.

Anger and hurt boiled up in you and you glanced over at Hazel, who lay there, paralysed with terror beneath the iron boot of the Uruk, staring wide-eyed at you. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be like Killuc,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, as you tried to stand up again.

“What did you say?” a third, slightly smaller Uruk demanded, grabbing you by the collar just as you righted yourself and ramming you back into the wooden strut of the well behind you with the force of a charging warhorse. The whole mechanism rocked, the bucket swinging wildly as you collided with the wooden frame and the breath was knocked from your lungs again.

Stunned and blinking stupidly, you just wheezed, “Killuc…” but you couldn’t get any more out. The orc’s grip had shifted to your throat and he was tightening it. He stank of rotting fish and his teeth were vile, breath unspeakable. He cracked you across the cheek with a fist and you tasted blood.

Without warning, a roar rent the air from a little way back and your eyes travelled vaguely towards the grassy meadow beyond the village. All the Uruks froze and a second later, through blurring vision, you saw a streak of grey dart across the field towards you. Following behind was a darker figure but you couldn’t make much out at that distance and with your airways choked off.

The Uruk holding you released you with a snarl and you crumpled, knees buckling beneath you. The white streak was Ghâsh, and he had launched himself at your aggressor, flying at his arm and pinning him to the ground, snarling and gnashing his jaws shut repeatedly in the Uruk’s face. The Uruk fell still instantly.

Walking slowly, deliberately, unhurriedly across the meadow was a dark, towering figure. His hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail, his leather jerkin was slashed and bloodied, but there was no trace of a limp or falter in his steps now. Killuc paced like a wolf himself towards the others and they all swallowed hesitantly, adjusting their weight slightly and shuffling.

One of the onlookers gathered at the edges of the square, a half-dryad, darted forwards and scooped Hazel up, helping her back and when Gil moved to do the same for you, you shook your head, holding up a hand.

“What?” he mouthed incredulously.

“Just wait,” you whispered and he looked at you as if you’d suffered a serious concussion and weren’t talking properly. Perhaps you had…

Just as Killuc joined the group, the female grunted something in the Uruk dialect and made a grab for you again, as if planning to hoist you up like a war trophy. In fact, he didn’t so much as join it as ram into it with another primal roar. He wrenched the female off you before she could get a good hold and snarled something at her in their language that you understood through tone rather than translation. He was livid, shouting at her until she backed off, smacking his hand off her with a belligerent and petulant swipe of her forearm and stepping away.

When he was satisfied, he turned to you and you tried not to shrink back from him. You did flinch, and he swallowed thickly, hesitating as he offered you his hand to help you to your feet again. Feeling braver than you probably looked, you accepted it and he tugged you gently upwards, steadying you when you swayed. His fingertips came to your cheekbone, where the smaller male had hit you, and a low, earthy growl rumbled from his throat. It was a sound you expected to hear more from Ghâsh than him, but you didn’t mind in the least.

The female stepped forward and spat one more sentence at you in Uruk and Killuc flipped. He turned and backfisted her, sending her reeling, and let out another string of thick, impenetrable orcish curses at her.

At the light pressure of your hands on his arm, Killuc stilled immediately, falling silent and turning back to you. “Enough,” you murmured. “I don’t care what she said, but take your warriors and get out of here. And don’t come back.”

His flattened nostrils flared at your words, expression faltering slightly, but he nodded grimly. “You will not see any Uruk-hai again,” he said gruffly. “This village is not to be touched.”

Your eyebrows rose. “You have the authority to do that?” you asked.

He nodded. “I am their warchief. My word is law. Anyone who sets foot in this village without my permission will lose that leg.”

“Right,” you said shakily. “Sure. Ok…” You took a slow inhale and then said, “Well… thank you. And Ghâsh too,” you added, glancing at the warg who still had the unfortunate Uruk pinned beneath his paws.

Killuc roared something at the other Uruks and they finally slouched away towards the meadow and away from the buildings of the village. Ghâsh stayed put and stared at you as if he expected you to be coming along, and when Killuc whistled at him, he yipped and snarled, dancing on the spot. Killuc did not ask him again, and instead kept walking.

You approached the warg and scratched him under the chin, even as he head-butted you gently, wagging pathetically. Pushing him away, you felt a lump forming in your throat, and he whined in complaint before realising how far the others had gone. With a final snap of his jaws that carried no threat, merely frustration, Ghâsh bounded away faster than a galloping centaur. He barrelled straight into Killuc from behind and knocked him flat, at which the Uruks all laughed. Killuc staggered to his feet, swiped playfully at the warg with a fist, shoved the small male into a broad patch of stinging nettles, and stumped off with his head down.

His was a world of belligerence and uncertainty, his subjects volatile and tough as old boots - that he’d healed almost completely in a week was astonishing - and he did not belong with you. Fantasies were one thing, but seeing him there in the midst of the clean and tidy cottages, with his blood-spattered fighting leathers and his colossal war beast, had reinforced that. You glanced at Gil who stood nearby, still staring at you with a strange look on his face, and you turned away from the sight of the dwindling figures.

“You alright?” he asked as you joined him. You glanced at Hazel who was still shivering in the arms of the half-dryad as she let herself be led away.

With a nod, you said, “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“That was so dumb,” he blurted. “You could have been killed…”

You shrugged. “I wasn’t. Hazel’s fine, and they’re not coming back, so I’d chalk it up as a victory.”

His gentle brown eyes surveyed you for a moment longer and he said, “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” you said, managing a weak smile. “Thanks though.”

He nodded and let you go back to your cottage at the edge of the village to mull things over. You couldn’t shake Killuc’s roar from your mind. It had been like no beast you’d ever heard, thundering in your ribcage and ripping through you with the power of a mid-summer storm. And Ghâsh too had leapt to protect you. “Stop it,” you snarled, slamming your front door behind you. “He’s a bloody Uruk-hai for goodness’ sake.”

To take your mind off recent events, you threw yourself into village life. Another week later, as the harvest festival was approaching, you helped out at the inn when a delivery of casks came, helping Skalen heave them inside and down into his cellar, and you were rewarded for your efforts by the dwarf with a huge tankard of slightly lively ale. The next day, however, your joints and muscles were aching all over and regretting the physical work just a little bit.

“Go up to the hot spring,” Gil suggested. “You should have just asked me to help unload them, you know?”

“I know, I know,” you said, thumping his withers affectionately. “Mr. Big Muscles.”

“I’m not showing off,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “I’m just…”

“Bigger than me. I know,” you laughed. “Fine, I’ll go. You want to come too?”

He smiled. “Sure. You want a ride?”

Gil had let you sit on his back only a few times, and it was a mark of just how close you were to him that he had even suggested it in the first place. You nodded your grateful thanks and said, “Let me just grab a change of clothes.”

“I’ll meet you at your door in a minute then.”

At roughly sixteen hands high, Gil was not a small centaur, and he had to swing you up onto his back. You landed awkwardly and apologised, shuffling until you got settled. Riding a centaur without a saddle was hardly comfortable, but the only centaurs who ever allowed someone to ride them in harness or tack were the elite Kingsguards and the swift, light-boned centaurs of the messenger corps. They had one rider, one partner, and it was almost a sacred arrangement between them. This was something much more relaxed and friendly, and you let the syncopated rhythm of his four-beat walk lull you. Naturally they drifted to a mountain of dark skin and a pair of blazing gold eyes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked as he crossed the meadow and began to climb the hill towards the ridge where the mineral springs bubbled up through the rock and created three steaming pools of blissfully hot water.

“You don’t want to hear them really,” you said after a moment.

Gil laughed, stepping over a fallen branch. “You’re thinking about your four hundred pound Uruk hai saviour?”

“How’d you guess?” you said flatly, resting your forehead on Gil’s broad back for a moment. “I can’t get him out of my head.”

“Your knight in filthy leathers?” he pressed and you thumped him gently with a closed fist. “Got to say, I’ve never heard of an Uruk getting involved with someone of another species like that. I know of orcs up at the stronghold who have taken humans as their partners, but it’s rare for Uruks to give a crap about anything other than running someone else through with their sword or sinking their tusks into someone’s throat, you know?”

You shuddered, recalling the power of his grasp, and the lethal point on his tusks.

“Sorry,” Gil muttered. “Hold on,” and he scrambled up the steepest point of the slope and emerged at the top, barely winded.

However, once he crested the rise, he froze.

“Gil?” you chirped, leaning forwards.

“Uhh…” he said and you felt his flank twitch nervously. He was clearly fighting his flight reflex hard.

“What is it?”

He shifted slightly and the view of the three steaming pools swung into view. You were not alone, and, to your immense surprise, the Uruk who had just stood up from the water was not only Killuc, but he was completely stark fucking naked.

Gil glanced back over his shoulder at you and hissed, “I thought you said he wasn’t welcome back here.”

Through gritted teeth, you replied, “I told him that he couldn't come to the village. I didn’t say he couldn’t bathe.”

“You want to go?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I want to go,” Gil grumbled.

With a shy laugh, you slid off his back and gave his withers a friendly, grateful pat. “I’m sorry. And I’ll be careful,” you said before he could say it for you.

Shaking his head, he backed off, grumbling about having been looking forward to a nice hot soak. “No way I’m going in there for at least three days now…”

“Oi!” you yelped indignantly at his retreating backside, but he gave no reaction.

Turning back around, you saw that Killuc was still standing there with the water sloshing around his knees. The rest of his body was every bit as beautiful as you’d imagined it would be; all brutal muscles and hard lines, slashed and criss-crossed here and there with scars and marks, and perhaps even a brand on his chest. You winced at that, even as you approached and ditched your bundle of spare clothes in the lea of a huge beech tree nearby.

He rumbled your name and smiled at you.

“You here alone?” you asked in common before remembering that he didn’t really speak it. Dammit, but your orcish really wasn’t that good.

Killuc nodded once.

“Why are you here?”

His grin grew until it was a cheeky, wonky, lopsided smirk. “You told me I needed to bathe.”

“Really?” you snorted. “You really came all the way back here to wash because I told you that you smelled like a midden heap in high summer?”

“That bad?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And now?” he asked. He still hadn’t moved a muscle, just standing there as if he were part of the rocks surrounding the pool. And as if he weren’t completely stark fucking naked.

The springs weren’t the sulfurous kind, but they did smell strongly of minerals, though that had to be better than whatever he’d smelled like before. “Probably much better,” you said, making no move to approach him.

A low-frequency rumble, half-snarl and half-challenge, spilled from him and he took half a step towards you in the water. Your eyes roved down his body, drinking in his muscles and his raw power until you saw that his cock was starting to show some interest too, thickening and occasionally twitching. When he saw you staring, he growled again. “Come here,” he rasped.

You’d just begun to take off your clothes when he lost his patience and splashed through the water to the edge of the pool, ripping the last of your clothes clean off you and letting his hands roam over you with an appreciative growl.

“Careful of those tusks, eh?” you chuckled nervously as they flashed dangerously close to your neck.

“Trust me,” he demanded, his eyes blazing and, despite what he was and what his people were like, you did. You knew he wasn’t going to hurt you.

“You really are the warchief, aren’t you?” you gasped as he gripped your hips with his strong fingers and dug them in hard enough to leave bruises.

Killuc didn’t answer. He picked you up at the waist and you instinctively wrapped your thighs around his hips, letting him carry you to the water. He stepped straight into the hot spring water and set you down on the edge of the rocky pool where thousands of years of deposits had built up around the rim, creating an enamel-smooth lip. He lost no time in putting his mouth on you, using his tongue, sucking, sometimes scraping his front teeth over your most sensitive areas, always careful of his lethal tusks. His hands pressed hard into the muscles of your thighs, pulling you apart to give him better access to you until you thought he was going to tear you in two.

The pleasure of the heat of his mouth, his tongue against you, over you, and sometimes in you, sent heat sparking all across your body and under your skin until your back arched and you yelled that you were close. He didn’t stop. You felt his thick fingers slide inside you and when he crooked them just so and they hit that spot inside you that lit you up, you came with a shout, vision darkening. He kept his mouth on you the whole time, relishing the taste of you as you shuddered and gasped, body convulsing with the force of the orgasm he’d practically ripped from you. His fingers were still inside you as you clenched around him in waves of pleasure.

“I want you,” he finally growled as he drew back and you lay limp and exhausted and sensitive all over. “I want you.”

The idea of him being inside you suddenly seemed like all you’d ever wanted, and you nodded. That seemed to surprise him a little, but once he’d spent a bit more time teasing you, working you, worshipping you, waking you up again and easing you back to him, he picked you up and sank down into the water with you so that he was sitting with his back against the smooth walls of the pool. He lowered you into his lap, facing him, and you felt his hard cock nudge against your entrance. He eased you gently down and you kept your heavy eyelids open just enough to watch his expression as he nudged his huge cock inside you, inch by inch.

As his tip sank into you, you groaned softly and his strong arms shook.

“Please,” you said. His fingers had not been nearly enough. “I’m not going to break, you can -”

Apparently that was all he needed, and he rolled his hips upwards, sinking himself into you right to the hilt. Killuc’s head bowed suddenly and he began to breathe rapidly. “So… So tight,” he grunted, frozen. “I’m…”

“Move,” you demanded, practically baring your teeth at him and grabbing a handful of his long, wet hair, tugging his head back to expose his neck to you.

At the command, he obeyed. The fierce, apparently indestructible warchief of the Uruk-hai bowed to your orders and began to thrust upwards into you. The shape and thickness of his cock was just perfect, and in no time you felt yourself coiling up again. His fingers would leave bruises on your hips for sure, but that only seemed to make it even better. Your hands wandered over his colossal, solid body, over his scars, that warband’s brand on his left pec, feeling the flex and strain of his arms and back and shoulders as he held himself back. Even seemingly lost in the depths of his own pleasure, he had not completely forgotten how dangerous he was. That thought alone was nearly enough to make you come again, and he felt you shuddering, body going limp as you sensed the rising crescendo in you once more.

“Wait,” he snarled. “Don’t… Not until…” and he picked up his pace. Water sloshed around you, and each thrust of his hips became more and more strained, his breath ghosting across your wet skin as he struggled not to lose all control. He began to snarl and grunt, the sounds deep in his throat, and then he hissed something in Uruk just as his rhythm faltered. He bellowed as he released inside you, hips sealed against your body, the warmth of the water caressing your waist as his muscles bunched and his back bowed forwards. He filled you so completely at that angle, and you followed him a second later. He was still breathing like a galloped horse when you had finished, and you stroked his hair as he shuddered violently, gasping, sweat beading on his brow and mingling with the rising steam from the water.

The thought suddenly struck you that it felt as though he’d never allowed himself this kind of closeness with anyone, and perhaps he hadn’t. That was a conversation for another time though. Right now, words were not what he wanted. As if the tenderness of your touch drained him of all his remaining strength and willpower, he slumped against your body, hugging his arms around you and resting his forehead at your collarbones. Killuc’s breathing was harsh and rapid, but the longer he stayed there, the calmer and quieter he got.

Eventually he pulled himself upright, leaning back a little, and looked almost sheepishly into your eyes. “Did I hurt you?” he asked and when you smiled and shook your head dazedly, he seemed to let out a breath of relief.

“We’re not that fragile,” you said. “Humans, I mean.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, stressing with his tone that there was a difference this time.

You took his anvil of a jaw in your palm and stroked his cheekbone as he had done with yours, and kissed him. It was a gentle, unexpectedly sweet kiss, and he growled softly like a distant thunderstorm or a fireside cat, his golden eyes rolling closed. Killuc’s thick, dark lashes were surprisingly long. You kissed his closed eyes too and another unsteady breath left him, his thick arms tightening around you until you nearly wheezed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered again, so quietly that you almost missed it.

“You haven’t,” you said. “You never have,” you reassured him.

“You saved my life,” he said. “You nursed me, and then you drove me away…”

“I…” you faltered, leaning back a little too. His arms continued to support you, but he let you draw back. “I thought it was probably best… given that, you know… you’re an Uruk-hai…”

He glowered, dark brows furrowing. “I would not have hurt you. And I’m sorry that they disobeyed my orders. The village was not to be touched. Even before you…”

“I can see that now,” you said. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I hurt you…”

Killuc grinned, the expression spreading slowly across his brutishly beautiful face. He rolled his hips once, his cock just beginning to soften but not enough that he couldn’t still make you moan.

“You smell better now,” you added, cracking a joke.

With a sound like a contented lion, he said, “I smell like you.”

“Exactly; much better.”

Laughing, he lifted you up and dropped you in the middle of the pool of gloriously warm water only for you to come up a moment later, coughing and laughing and cursing him all at the same time.

—

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#uruk hai #orc #orc x reader #orc boyfriend #exophilia #some typical fantasy violence where uruk-hai are concerned #but a lot of it is fluff #orctober #orctober prompt

[cobrakiin]

I Wouldn't Fall For Someone I Thought Couldn't Misbehave

Cojeel | Mentioned Lulev + Stingue | Rated: M (Nothing Super Explicit but ends with Very Spicy Fluff)

When Gajeel signed on for helping re-stabilize the Magic Council after the bombings, he didn't expect all the redundant paperwork, nosy coworkers, or the smokin' hot redhead that likes to play dangerous games with him.

And he should really learn to lock his front door... but why should he? He's practically rewarded for leaving it unlocked!

Aka the post-Rhodonite/Road Knight oneshot that my brain decided to inspire me to write by repeatedly chanting "COBRA SHOW HIS LEGGY" repeatedly until I finished writing it.

[AO3] [FFN]

________________________

"Everything okay?"

"Nn?"

"You've been quiet," Levy reiterated.

"'Course I am, I've got all these bullshit reports to do," Gajeel grumbled, motioning to the mess of papers on his desk. "If I'd known helping clean up after the Council was gonna involve so much goddamn paperwork, I would've told 'em I can't read and saved a hundred trees."

"That's very noble of you," Levy said, unconvincingly flat. She leaned her elbow on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. Her honey brown eyes narrowed, watching him suspiciously. "I meant that you haven't seemed to be your usual self recently. You've been way more distracted lately."

He snorted dismissively. "I ain't you. Sue me for findin' never-ending paperwork boring."

"Come to think of it," Levy ploughed on, "It started right after that mission to recapture that Oracion Seis member." She tapped her index finger against her chin, feigning thought. "And he got away…"

Gajeel sharply eyed her.

His position in the New Magic Council was… unique. Gajeel was only handed cases regular Rune Knights couldn't handle - he was a Dragonslayer whose magic made near-unbreakable iron objects and also happened to be an expert tracker, so he became the guy who could track and capture the more elusive, difficult targets.

An escaped, dark mage Dragonslayer? Right up his alley.

Officially… Gajeel had found Cobra, but the sudden issue of an active child trafficking ring took precedence and Cobra 'got away' in the mess of it all.

Unofficially… Gajeel had found Cobra and they'd exchanged blows at first. Testing each other until Cobra's real target had revealed itself. Then the two Dragonslayers tore those kidnappers to shreds. Once the kids were safe with Council forces, Gajeel had managed to track Cobra down again a few remote towns over. (Gajeel tracked him; Cobra didn't 'let' Gajeel find him again - nope! Finding him again was all Gajeel!) And that's where everything got a lot messier and a lot hotter… and a lot stickier...

Dragons were very much creatures that abided by the Universal Law of the Four F's - food, fight, flee, or fuck - sometimes there was a Fifth F in there, too… something about "Friend" or whatever.

Gajeel meeting Natsu? Fight on sight.

Meeting Laxus? Yeah, there was a Fight, but Gajeel was a little more honest with himself these days that he had actually wanted to Flee the Thunder God.

Wendy and Rogue? He guessed that's where "Friend" came in. Maybe also Food somewhere mixed up in there; they both really needed to eat more. That counted, right?

That blonde idiot mated to his brother? Well… if Sting weren't practically plastered to Rogue's side every waking minute of the day, Gajeel wouldn't mind a Fight with him. (Besides, the guy reminded him too much of Salamander.)

But meeting Cobra? That was the first time his inner dragon skipped past all the other F's - looked right at that cocky little shit-eating elf - and decided on Fuck. And it soon became apparent that Cobra's inner dragon had come to the same conclusion about Gajeel.

It was not at all what he had expected when he'd been handed that case file. He'd expected a Fight and not a Fuck. And while he got both - he was getting plenty of the second one. Even now.

He wasn't stupid: Cobra would do a lot more good out there slaughtering slavers than locked back up for, what? Crimes he committed as a teenager? (Following that mission, Gajeel had checked what was left of Cobra's file after the bombings. While he was sure the redhead had done much worse than what was in there, legally all they could hold him on now was "association with dark mages" and a couple of assassinations they "suspected" him of.) Killing traffickers the Council couldn't (or wouldn't) go after was basically community service, in Gajeel's opinion.

An added plus to all that "community service" was that Cobra sometimes showed up after Gajeel was done with a mission. Always approached him alone, always knew where they wouldn't be seen, always teasing so many somethings without saying anything directly. And sometimes whispered somethings led to somewheres - like the bed of a shitty inn for the night or a tent deep in the woods... or that alley behind that diner that one time.

"It's okay to give yourself some slack, you know," Levy's voice dragged him unwillingly out of his thoughts. "Sure, you didn't catch him. But you saved twelve kids and stopped more from being kidnapped. That's an accomplishment, too!"

Gajeel rolled his eyes. He 'hasn't been himself'... tch, yeah - 'cause he's been getting regularly fuckin' laid! He wanted to brag and practically had to bite his tongue to force himself not to.

"I don't really care that much about catching him," he half-lied. He did want to catch Cobra - to keep chasing and catching him, over and over - he just didn't want to arrest the poison dragon. "I ain't beating myself up over that. I've- Look. It's somethin' else, okay?"

The short bluenette blinked her surprise at him before her mouth widened into a smirk. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay," she said, pretending to go back to her own stack of reports. "I thought you might have been upset about the Cobra situation. But from that reaction, I'd almost guess you were seeing someone."

Gajeel forced a scowl in an attempt to squash the heat rising to his face. "So? Even if I was - and I'm not sayin' I am - it's not a fuckin' crime." Except that in his case, it most certainly was. He snorted indignantly. "I didn't bother you half this much when you an' cosplay girl went away on that gal-pal trip to that couples-only hotspring."

Levy's eyebrows immediately arched at that. "Gajeel, you sent me a text message that contained a book, a bunny, and a scissor emoji. Fourteen times." She shook her head. "Lucy saw it and almost passed out from embarrassment because she doesn't know what a kind, supportive asshole you are."

He spluttered. "Don't remember, didn't happen."

"If you ever start dating someone, just know I'm going to have my revenge. Tenfold."

TWUNNNG.

The sound of a lone, reverberating guitar string being plucked played as his lacriphone buzzed in his pocket. (With his tough skin, he couldn't always feel when his phone vibrated. When he had first started using it, he had the notification sound set to an annoyed cat's meow, but Pantherlily refused to go out on missions with him if he didn't have his phone set to silent. Reluctantly, he'd change it to a guitar twang to appease his friend.)

The lock screen showed he had two messages from a number he didn't recognize.

The first message was an image. Taken from a bathtub... his bathtub! In his house! A leg - warm chestnut skin dripping wet as soap streaked down the exposed, toned thigh - casually hung over the side of his bathtub, suds and the shimmer of the overhead light on the water obscuring anything more tantalizing lurking below.

Light, faint purpling could be seen on the inner flesh of the thigh, and Gajeel's mouth went half-dry at the memory of suckling and pinching the soft skin there between his fangs.

The second message flat-out taunted Gajeel: [You should really learn to lock your doors, Mr. Councilman... who knows what kind of criminal could break in?]

Gajeel could practically feel the blood rushing from his rapidly blanking mind to somewhere much, much lower. He managed to hold back the approving, dragonish purr that threatened to rumble from his very core.

"So you are seeing someone," Levy troublesomely commented over Gajeel's shoulder, causing Gajeel to jolt and nearly fumble his phone onto the floor. That sneaky little shrimp! When the fuck did she even get there?! "You know, you don't have to hide it, we're friends. Who is she?"

Right. The pic was only of a leg. (And it was a fuckin' nice leg, the guy had a great pair of them with a perfect, shapely ass to match.) All Levy had seen was a leg. Sent from a burner phone, not that she'd know that just from the quick peek. Nothing identifiable.

Taking a few calming breaths, Gajeel grit his fangs in a friendly yet dismissive frown. "It's a he, Shrimpy. Don't go makin' assumptions 'bout who I bed." Despite how they picked on each other, she was his friend, and he'd toss her that one bone. "And he would prefer if my work life didn't go poking into our personal life. As a matter of fact, so would I."

Levy feigned thought for a moment. But the teasing, troublesome glint in her eyes remained. "You mean to tell me that he doesn't want to be seen with a grown man that collects Hello Kitten merchandise and refuses to lock his own front door?"

________________________

It was impossible to ignore the other male's scent in his home, warmly dampened by a recent bath. Gajeel tossed his uniform coat on the hook by the door and kicked his boots off in a hurry. The scent carried into the kitchen, where it was obvious a certain home invader had definitely helped himself to the contents of Gajeel's fridge, and he followed it to the living room and to who he knew was waiting there for him.

Gajeel knew who he was dealing with by now: Cobra went where he pleased, when he pleased. Nothing could hold him in one place for long and, knowing how much Cobra valued his freedom, Gajeel didn't care to try. Besides... the redhead was just as enticing whether he was standing in front of him or walking away - neither was a bad view.

And it wasn't a bad view that waited for him at all.

Freshly bathed and stretching the length of the couch lounged a certain redheaded poison dragon. His hair was still damp and… and Gajeel had to blink a few times, because Cobra was wearing his clothes: a loose black t-shirt and pair of gray sweatpants, both a little big on his lithe frame.

"What," the lounging elf playfully sneered, "Did you stop for flowers?"

Gajeel crossed the space between them in two strides and practically dove into the arms of the smaller man. Their mouths met and the battle for dominance began. And Cobra pulled, fought back in their embrace; he didn't lay there passively. Cobra was flexible and could move with ease, but Gajeel had more mass on his side and used it to his advantage as he rolled them both off the couch and onto the carpet.

He managed to pin Cobra beneath him, settling his hips between Cobra's legs, and almost losing all rational thought as he rutted against him.

The iron dragon's lips parted as a husky growl rumbled from his throat and slipped out past his fangs: "So ya broke in, used all my hot water, stole my clothes, and cleaned out my fridge? And you expect me to let you get away with that for free?"

Gajeel was far from mad. Cobra being in his house, seeing Cobra wearing his clothes, knowing his mate was sated by food he provided - it was all pulling right at that primal, possessive side of him in all the right ways.

"Not breaking in if you don't lock your doors," Cobra replied cooly. "You were practically asking for it."

Gajeel wanted to fuck him through the goddamn floor right there and then.

"Let's play a game," Cobra said, mouth still so close that their lips brushed with each word, single violet eye glinting up at the man above him.

"Yeah? Since when do you wanna play games...?"

Smirking, Cobra pulled back, knowing just how to egg Gajeel on: "If you're afraid you'll lose, I could always-"

Gajeel silenced him with a kiss, pressing him firmly against the floor with his body. "I like winning games," he rumbled, "'Specially against you."

"If I can pin you to the couch, I get to fuck you," Cobra explained the first part of the game.

The iron dragon immediately perked to attention. He loved when Cobra spoke dirty, and loved the sound of this game - just as much as Cobra knew he would. "That sounds kinda one-sided," he said, though he shifted his weight in anticipation anyways.

"Let me finish," the redhead scolded him, enjoying the way Gajeel's breath hitched as he pressed himself flush against him. Cobra's hand slid between them, sliding down, and his palm paid special, gripping attention to a growing bulge in Gajeel's pants. "If you can get me upstairs, you can tie me to the bed and do whatever you want to me."

Gajeel clenched his eyes shut as Cobra's hand squeezed suddenly, firmly, as a faint groan escaped him. "Really, you're s-sure?"

"Yeah," Cobra confirmed. It hadn't been too long ago that the thought of being tied up and fucked would have made him recoil, but he trusted Gajeel. He knew Gajeel had a thing for bondage and trusted him to not take things too far - and Gajeel wanted to show him that trust was not misplaced.

Iron claws surfaced and flexed, hungry fangs peeked out of Gajeel's mouth in barely contained urge. "Funny, you gave yourself the closer spot."

"You've got more muscle on your side."

"You've got fancy ears, you know what I'm gonna do," Gajeel pointed out.

Cobra gingerly traced a finger down Gajeel's jaw, fangs glinting in a devilish little grin. "When's that ever stopped you...?"

________________________

"Hn?" Gajeel cocked a studded brow, noting how easily his fingers had gone in.

The tied-up redhead under him still somehow managed to scrape up enough cockiness in his voice: "I was ready for either of us to win tonight."

"Ya mean ta tell me that you were up here pleasing yerself in MY bed and you just let me sit at my desk ALL FUCKEN DAY?!"

#fairy tail #gajeel redfox #erik cobra #cojeel #fanfic #cobra #i can now say that i've titled a fic after a hozier song so i'll cross that off my bucket list #no beta bc my mind would not stop going LEGGY until i posted this please let me have peace now

[lifebeginsbyleaving]

We Don’t Know Whats Out There

Description: 

Stiles can't sleep, and if he told enough people that was all it was, maybe he would start to believe it. Still, as tensions were rising about them losing their territory he couldn't bother them with something he didn't even fully understand. Maybe he just needed something fun and easy to help him relax. Like the hot neighbor that he keeps catching staring at him.

Derek can't sleep, and if he cleans his house enough maybe people won't realize how he doesn't care enough to clean up other parts of his life. Still, as he worried about his job and obligations, he couldn't let them down about finding a place they belonged. Maybe he just needed something interesting to keep his mind off of it. Like the clumsy man he can't keep his eyes off of.

This is for @sterek-bingo I used the tags overworked, insomnia, and neighbors. Around 20,000 words.

------------------------------------

Derek threw his keys on the counter and sighed heavily when he heard them clatter to the floor. In the darkness of his apartment with the dull yellow light from the street lamp outside he could see them pathetically on the floor. He decided to leave them as he headed for his bed, it wasn't worth the effort.

He sluggishly took off his uniform. He placed his BHPD badge on his dresser as he yawned. It had been a long day and an even longer and stressful night. He had come in at one on his day off to help out and the next thing he knew he was helping the sheriff track an omega through the woods at one in the morning.

Now two hours later, he was finally able to strip down to his boxers to crawl into bed. He knew he should take a shower, but he was just so tired. The tired that goes right down to your bones.

He laid on his side staring into the darkness.

His cruiser needed a tune up soon. He should have gotten bagels for the morning so the sheriff wouldn't eat the leftover cinnamon rolls in the break room. He needed more coffee grounds soon too.

He turned onto his back and looked at the dark ceiling.

He closed his eyes. He laid in the darkness for several minutes.

He sighed as he whipped the blanket off.

"Tomorrow is going to suck ass." He spoke to the empty room as he swung his legs over the side of his bed.

He padded into the kitchen and turned on the light. He was met with the sight of a mountain of dishes from the previous lasagna night.

A blur of black fur jumped on to the counter.

Derek smiled and reached out to pet it. "Might as well, huh Lucian?"

Both the name and cat came from Cora. She had picked up the cat while traveling and it didn't get along with her beloved dog nor her girlfriend, so it had to go. When she called him to vent about having to bring him to a shelter Derek had immediately volunteered to drive all the way to pick him up.

Lucian meowed loudly in protest as Derek reclaimed his hand to start running the water.

He yawned once again, but knew he wouldn't get any sleep even if he did lay down. He cleaned the dishes as Lucian perched on the breakfast bar with his black tail slowly swishing side to side.

It was a half hour later by the time he had tamed the messy kitchen and only had a few more dishes to do. His shoulders ached and his eyelids drooped, he longed for sleep he knew he wouldn't get anytime soon.

As he let the pans soak, he went around the house collecting dishes.

He had forgotten a plate on the balcony and as he retrieved it, he caught sight of a light on in the apartments across the street. It was a corner apartment like his own, but this one had two windows. One was facing the woods at the back of their buildings, the other faced Derek's balcony and the alley between them. He set the plate down again on the railing as he took in the sight of a man. It looked like a youngish man, late twenties at the oldest, waving his arms around wildly while pacing in front of a desk in the corner of the room that looked out both windows. He was talking so adamantly Derek almost wanted to listen in. He decided against breaking the man's privacy and just watched. The man had a Batman shirt on and what looked to be matching bright yellow booty shorts on.

A small smile found its way to Derek's face.

The man looked to be practically shouting, for a moment Derek was worried he was shouting at someone, but then the man held up a large rubber duck and pointed an accusing finger at it.

Derek let out a full body laugh.

The man threw the duck with a triumphant grin and ran to his desk, which was facing the window Derek was looking in.

It was hard to make out features from across the street, but he could tell the intense concentration as the man tapped his computer keys rapidly.

Suddenly the man tipped his head forward and banged it against his laptop a few times. He leaned his head all the way back with what must've been a long groan.

Derek wanted to bring the man a cup of tea to soothe his frazzled state, and well, if he also wanted to leave a few marks on that long pale bared throat, that was only in his mind. Derek leaned against the railing to settle.

The man finally looked back up at his computer and muttered a few words. He ran his hands through his chestnut hair, making it stick up haphazardly.

Derek wished he could see the man more clearly, be able to see if he had any wrinkles from how expressive he was. See if he looked as rumpled as he seemed. See if those brown eyes looked as enchanting as he felt like they would. If those eyes w-

The eyes that squinted up at him. The eyes that looked directly at Derek.

He quickly stood up nearly knocking the plate over the side, but catching it at the last second.

When he looked back up he could see the man was bright red.

Derek quickly moved to go back inside and fumbled with the door. The stupid latch always stuck so he had to jiggle it for a moment before he could flee into his apartment.

He closed the curtain behind him and let out a breath. His cheeks were hot at being caught.

He quickly shrugged it off and finished the rest of the dishes trying to not think of the man catching him perving.

---

Stiles raced down the sidewalk trying not to bump into people. As he turned a sharp corner he banged his elbow which made him jump back and shove his computer bag into a very unhappy man.

"Solwry." He mumbled around the papers he was currently slobbering on.

He stumbled slightly as he looked down to shove them in his bag. He looked up and nearly was squashed by the door opening in front of him.

"Whoa! Sorry." He gave the exiting couple a nervous wave.

He entered the cafe with panting breath and his computer bag snagged then hit the wall with a bang.

Everyone in the cozy coffee shop looked up at him.

"Sorry!" His eyes scanned the crowd. "Sorry I'm late."

His father looked at him with an exasperated fond look. "Ten minutes Stiles. I only have a thirty minute lunch break."

Stiles scoffed as he sat down in the corner booth. "You're the boss. Who's coming up to you like," His voice went stern and low as he frowned. "You were ten minutes late coming back from your lunch." He added a wag of his finger to be dramatic.

The sheriff laughed. "Hale would. He's about as upright and lawful as they come. He wouldn't be insubordinate, but he would point it out to be a shit. Anyway it's about setting an example."

Stiles rolled his eyes. He'd heard many stories about Hale before. He was glad that his dad had someone like that to watch his back, but he put him up on such a pedestal. Stiles was worried that when they finally did the meeting his dad was pushing for so hard, he would introduce the wrong man as son.

"Yeah well, tell Hale to take that stick out of his ass." Stiles said before gulping down the molten sugary drink before him.

Stiles frowned. "Did you not get my text?"

"I did, but if I can't have fries you can't have a triple shot." His father looked smug until he took in his son's appearance. "Jesus kid! When's the last time you slept?"

"Counting the time I closed my eyes in the shower too long and almost lost my balance?"

His father didn't look impressed.

"I know, I know. I've just got this really big project right now. The client doesn't care when it's done, it's just really frustrating work. There are so many things going wrong that aren't easily fixed, and I can't figure them out. All these little problems keep popping up and as soon as I figure them out I think I can go to sleep, but then something goes wrong and I ca-"

"You can't just leave well enough alone. When there's a problem your brain won't let you sleep till you fix it." He had a faint smile. "Your mom was eight months pregnant when we bought your crib. We got home from the store exhausted, so we said we'd put it together in the morning. When your mother woke up I was passed out on your nursery floor surrounded by the shreds of the directions and your crib looked just like the display. You're so much like her, but you got some things from me."

Stiles smiled at him. "I've never heard that story before."

He shrugged. "That was back when I didn't think that moment would be important. Back when I thought we would have so many more the little ones wouldn't count."

He had that wistful sad look in his eyes, but a smile on his face. Stiles was grateful for how far they had come. Neither of them were able to even mention her for so long, to be talking freely in public meant the world to Stiles.

His father reached a hand across the table and he took it. He looked at him concerned. "Stiles, are you happy?"

Stiles plastered on too wide of a smile. "You don't have to worry about me pops."

He shook his head. "I always worry about you. I know you said you're good at this programming job, but I still think you should give that FBI offer another try. It was your dream job! You could consult from here, while still being in on the big cases. You'd use your education and degree. It was perf-"

Stiles put his hands up with an uneasy look. "I know dad. But I am good at the progra-"

His father cut him off just like he had to him. "I know you're good at it. Hell you're smart enough to be an astrophysicist if you damn well pleased. Stiles you're good at a lot. And anything you aren't, you've got enough drive and brains to keep at it till you are the world's leading expert." His father gave him a considering look and then deflated. "I won't push you on this today, but one of these days you're going to have to tell me what happened. Stiles you were mooning after that job since the end of high school. Then, you were bummed about having to give it up because you had to move home after college to help me and Scott with all the mumbo jumbo. But now, they offered you an at home position and you can't be bothered with it. I just don't understand, hell I don't even know if you do. I just hope you aren't doing this programming thing because for some reason you think you couldn't do what you really want to."

Stiles sighed. That wasn't it, but he was getting closer. Eventually he would have to explain to his dad and Scott what happened, but he'd have to figure it out himself first though.

"I love you for caring, but I can handle it. And I am really good at this, besides Danny's company needed the help." That was true when it started, but now Danny didn't need his help and they both knew it.

"I just want whatever will make you happy." His father squeezed his hand, then let go.

"My work is great for where I'm at right now."

The conversation switched over to the omega Stiles had narrowed down the possible hideouts for as they got their food.

They parted ways with a hug when his father went back to work.

---

Stiles got out his computer and tried to solve the problem he hit the night before.

Thinking back he wondered if he should have mentioned his stalker neighbor to his father. He dismissed the thought with a snort and got to work.

---

Erica's laugh was so loud he had to move the phone away from his ear.

"And you just went inside?"

Derek called her in his patrol car on lunch to try and get rid of the awkwardness of the previous night.

"What else would I have done? Shouted over, 'Hey sorry for watching you for a creepy amount of time. You just looked cute.' No, I fled like a normal person."

She cackled again. "You should take over some muffins, and then bang him."

Derek choked on his sandwich.

"I'm serious. You need to unwind. Nothing like a good dick to get you to relax."

Derek's cheeks went red. "Erica! I haven't even met him."

"So introduce yourself first. I'm like two weeks away from dragging you to The Jungle myself."

"You're worse than my sisters."

Derek's face went wide with horror at his slip up.

"Have you told them yet?"

"Yes."

She smelled blood in the water. "You haven't!"

"Erica no! Don't even think about it! Erica?" He looked at his phone to see she hung up. He banged his head against his wheel. "You never learn Hale." He would definitely have a couple texts from his sister's by night.

---

Derek had soon enough forgotten about that night after his sister's pokes faded.

He had a quiet week, till tonight that is.

He kicked off his boots not caring where they went.

Half the department had been chasing down a, supposedly, kidnapped teen. When Derek finally sniffed out the end of the trail that lead all over town, the scent of the boy was closely intertwined with marijuana.

He got ready for bed in a haze and the stress of the day finally hit like a weight on his chest. He had been so scared he wouldn't find the boy in time. He was so scared he would have to tell a frantic mother that he found her boy, but it was too late.

He finally realized why the sheriff had gripped his shoulder in a grounding squeeze like they hadn't found him in time while asking if he was alright. It was for this moment. The moment when it all became real. When he realized there was a boy they thought was in trouble and it would've been on them if he wasn't found. It was his job to get him back safely. It happened this time, but the sheriff knew this would come. He'd probably had moments just like this so many times.

Moments of staring at the ceiling and wondering what if. Wondering and imagining the worst, all the while blaming yourself for outcomes that didn't even happen.

Derek sighed and got out of bed. He wouldn't get any sleep with the mood he was in. It was much too somber and contemplative. He figured it had been awhile since he dusted his apartment anyway.

He worked silently while thinking intensely. He had a few morbid thoughts and decided he needed to get some fresh air to clear the dust clogging his lungs and cluttering his eyes. He opened the sliding door to his balcony, but soon enough the night's chill beckoned him out.

It was a welcome sensation on his skin. He breathed in the fresh air for a few moments before he caught sight of a familiar window lit up.

This time the man was sat at his computer furiously typing with headphones on. The man lifted a frankly unlawfully big coffee mug and tipped it completely. He rattled the mug before lifting it to his ear. The man seemed to freeze for a moment before shaking his head while setting it down.

Derek chuckled as he rubbed his hands down his face and slapped his cheeks.

The man must've been up for too long. As if to prove his point he yawned and pushed himself away from the computer. He grabbed the giant mug and disappeared from Derek's view. He came back a few moments later with the mug filled to the brim. He settled back into his groove.

Derek liked watching the man's gestures and how expressive he was, even if Derek couldn't make out all of his facial movements. He only felt slightly creepy for thinking of grabbing his pair of binoculars. Okay, he felt really creepy for that.

The man lifted the coffee to his lips while still typing and burned himself.

Derek could tell he was screaming cuss words.

In jerking back from the sensation the man spilled coffee all over his lap and he jumped up while patting his legs.

Derek was already highly amused and smiling broadly, but when the man left to get a towel only to be yanked back by his headphones he barked out loud laughter.

The man came back, now in black instead of blue sweatpants and looked to be shutting down his computer. The man stretched and Derek could tell his shirt rode up slightly. He was distractedly trying to look at him. When his shirt fell back down he looked back to his face.

One that was now pointed towards where his light was on and he was once again staring creepily.

Derek shot up and was thankful he had left his door open so he could just slip right inside without the wait.

Derek mentally kicked himself as he decided to just lay down, so he wouldn't be tempted to peek out his curtains to see if the man was calling his co-workers. God that'd be embarrassing. Parish would laugh his ass off if he got that call.

After a few moments thinking about the man he fell asleep with a smile remembering the hilarity of his sleepy mistake.

---

Lydia spooned the last of her dressing onto her salad. "And the guy just went back inside?"

"Yeah. He seemed embarrassed both times, but I don't know if I should tell my dad. On the one hand sheriff dad scaring off creepy guy, yay. On the other worried dad shooting creep."

She tilted her head in consideration. "Keep an eye out for him. If it becomes more of a problem or if he makes you uncomfortable then tell him."

"I don't know, I've never see him out there other nights. He doesn't really make me uncomfortable. I guess he's probably just curious about the weirdo up and three."

She laughed. "Probably. And what did I say about getting proper sleep? You'd get laid more often if you ever left your house not looking like a sleep deprived troll."

"Really feeling the love Lyds."

She narrowed her eyes and pointed her fork at him. "You know it's true. I didn't move back to Beacon Hills just for you to get us all murdered because you fell asleep researching and got us the wrong info. You need sleep, you insomniac workaholic." She stabbed a piece of chicken and stuffed it in her mouth menacingly.

"Has that ever happened?"

She swallowed and was undeterred. "No, but you need to be especially on your toes now. We all do. With this Malikhai pack circling we cannot show weakness. They're already sowing doubt about Scott's hold on Beacon's territory. Everyone concerned knows he didn't steal shit, but if they bend enough ears it could be a problem. A big one at that meeting in two months."

He nodded. "You're right. I'll get more sleep."

She assessed him, then shook her head. "You aren't going to do shit. You're restless and won't let anybody help you."

He considered her words. "Sometimes you're scary with how much you know."

She laughed as she gathered her things and dropped money for their lunch. "That's cute. I'm always scary because of how much I know. Kisses."

He waved at her bouncing curls.

---

The third time it happened Stiles could hardly blame him. He should've closed his curtains, but he loved being able to look outside. Even as he was dancing wildly to ABBA at four in the morning while in his boxers. In his defense though, how else are you supposed to organize your house?

Stiles had just finished quite literally boogieing to dancing queen when he looked up and saw that light on again. They both stared for a brief moment. Stiles had no idea what made him do it, but he did a tiny wave. Which the man returned hesitantly. Stiles smiled and it seemed like the man did as well. It was already hard to tell from the distance, but the man also had dark, albeit hot, facial hair.

He was just about to turn when the man started to clap. It confused Stiles for a second, until he realized the applause was for his performance. He bowed dramatically and when he straightened he was met with the sight of laughter. The man pointed back to his apartment before once again waving.

Stiles waved back and in a mindless moment blew a kiss.

He instantly internally panicked.

The man looked confused and he turned half way back to his door before reaching out his hand and catching the kiss. He then rushed inside.

Stiles' joyful insomniac energy was burst and he hid under his covers till he eventually fell asleep.

---

"He blew you a kiss?!"

Derek's voice was muffled by the counter it was pressed against, but it sounded vaguely affirmative.

"And you caught it."

This time the yes sounded more distressed.

Erica patted his back as she let out vigorous laughter.

When she finally settled down she offered, "Well, maybe he won't think you're as weird because he's weird too."

"Thanks for your comfort." He said deadpan.

She responded in kind. "I'm here for you in this difficult time." She steered the conversation back to her weekend plans with little consideration.

---

The only reasons he took night shift were because it was understaffed and if something supernatural happened he needed to be there anyway, but now he was thinking of adding so he could look to see if the light across the way was on.

These last few weeks he didn't linger, but he still smiled when he got home to see that light burning just like his own. He would check and some how that was enough. On the two nights he had stayed until he was caught it was no longer awkward. The man had just looked up and they waved before Derek left. Another night Derek just listened to the man's heartbeat and his soft mutters as he washed his floors.

He knew it was creepy, but something about the man was just...

Comforting.

Derek realized it was comforting to come home and have someone there.

God when had he gotten so lonely that a complete stranger waving at him from across the street felt intimate.

It was soothing, he supposed, to come home after a hard day to see that you weren't the only weary soul too tired to sleep. To know you weren't the only one battling things in the dark.

Derek set his wallet and keys on the table with a yawn. It wasn't an eventful day whatsoever. He had done nothing but paperwork and battle his drooping eyelids. He had been so tired all day, but now that he was home his mind jumped from one thing to another. After he got changed he grabbed a beer out of the fridge and decided to sit on the balcony. Might as well see what his neighbor was up to.

The light was on, but the man wasn't in sight.

Derek sat enjoying the calm night air while drinking his beer.

Just as he was starting to get worried, the man paced past in a flurry.

His arms were flailing and his lips were moving a mile a minute. Derek looked with fondness for a few moments. Then he noticed how heavily and fast the man's chest was heaving.

Something looked wrong. His movements, while normally clumsy, were erratic instead. Almost frantic. Derek knew it was not okay to listen in on the man under normal circumstances, but the man looked about ready to burst into tears.

"You're okay. Stop freaking out. Stop. Ju-just stop. Y-you're ok-kay. Just s-stop!"

The man looked down at his fingers and looked to be counting them. He then looked around his flat to name items with different colors.

Oh.

The man was having a panic attack.

The sheriff had taught them all different methods to calm someone having one, in case they encountered it on a case. The rainbow method was one. The man was trying to calm himself down.

The man repeated that he was okay over and over.

Derek listened to his heartbeat hammer. He needed to calm down or he would pass out. Derek knew he was on the third floor so he'd just have to figure out which apartment number.

He was just about to turn to go inside when the man ran to his desk and fumbled with his phone.

Derek felt a small amount of disappointment, but it was quickly pushed down. He was happy the man was getting help, even if it wasn't him. Besides how weird would that have been. 'Hey I'm your neighbor I heard you having a panic attack from across the street so I decided to find your apartment.'

The line rang for a long time and Derek hoped the person answered and was able to help.

Derek wasn't able to hear the other voice, but he could hear the man's. "Scott. P-panic a-t-t-" The man tried to force air into his lungs.

He didn't talk anymore, but he looked to be listening intently and he nodded his head even though the man on the line couldn't see it.

"B-better. But I- I'm still shaking." The man held up his shaking hand as if to prove it.

Derek listened to his heartbeat. It was no longer thudding, but it was still fast.

"No you d-don't have to. You're already on y-your way?" The man sighed, but went out of sight and Derek heard his door unlocking.

They stayed on the line until a car approached, headlights almost blinding on the empty dark street.

An obviously sleep ruffled puppy of a man got out and walked around to the building's entrance.

Derek heard knocking.

"What's the password?"

There was a sigh. "Rubber baby butter beans." The door unlatched.

Derek stifled a laugh.

Derek heard a muffled thanks and figured the man's face was pressed tightly into a hug.

They both walked in the view of the window and Derek got a little better of a look at the stranger. He looked like he could be handsome, but from this distance it was hard to tell.

He was too busy focusing on the man's face he didn't catch their conversation. Soon enough the lights went out and he heard two people settling into bed. The man's heartbeat had settled slightly, but his breaths still had a few hitches.

"Focus on my breathing. Feel my chest move. We're safe here. I've got you."

Derek started to wonder if maybe they were together. A boyfriend would be more inclined to get out of bed to check on someone than a friend. But then again if he called Erica in the middle of the night she'd break his door down. Maybe they were just friends. Then again, the magenta, purple, and blue flag hanging on the man's wall had Derek wondering.

When he first saw it, it had made him glad, but now it caused a rolling in his stomach. It was ridiculous, he shouldn't be jealous over a neighbor he hadn't even met!

He decided to go inside and clean Lucian's litter box then organize his bookshelves.

He was deeply engrossed in a book by the time he heard movement on the street. He decided to put his book down to check it out.

"Thanks for tonight Scotty."

The stranger, Scott, got his keys out of his pocket as they hugged. "Yeah yeah. You know you can call me whenever."

The man stuck his hands in his pj pants pockets. "Yeah well, still tell Alli sorry for stealing her boyfriend."

Scott grinned. "We all know I'm both of yours."

The man let out an obnoxiously loud laugh for the quiet morning. "True. Now get out of here. Don't want to keep Mr. Cryptic boss waiting. Love you bro."

"Love you too." The man started his car and Derek realized he was dressed for the day. He must've borrowed some clothes. Or maybe he has a drawer.

Derek's head was starting to hurt trying to figure out what their relationship was. He had said both of yours, like he was both of their boyfriend. Maybe they were poly? But then why hadn't this Alli come too? Maybe they were just friends and it was a joke.

Derek got into bed still trying to figure it out, but drifted swiftly after thinking of his loud laughter. It was an oddly soothing sound.

He wanted to hear it more often.

---

Stiles spread the burgers and fries out on the counter. "Oh please, iron man's ass is forged of metal. Cap's is pure squats and muscle."

Scott pinched the skin of the kitten's neck. "You mean, pure super soldier serum." Scott gave it it's shot before soothing the kitten.

Stiles waved a fry at him. "But still muscle. The serum just amplified his muscle definition. But it is still muscle, and there for, it is America's true ass."

"What about Deadpool? He's got a good ass. What about him?"

Stiles snorted. "For starters? He's Canadian."

Scott tilted his head. "Oh yeah."

Stiles rubbed the grease and salt from his hands on to his jeans. He tried to sneak a few fries from Scott's, but he looked over.

"Hey! Paws to yourself! Those are mine."

Stiles stuck out his tongue and grabbed his burger instead. "Best super hero ass hands down is Dick Grayson."

Scott softly placed the kitten back in the pen and grabbed another. "No way. Black canary all the way."

Stiles scoffed. "Sure, bud."

Scott gave the last kitten it's shot before washing up to eat. "That isn't what I called you here to talk about though."

Stiles raised and eyebrow. "What. No way. You didn't call me here to debate superhero glutes?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "I wanted to talk to you about next month."

Stiles took a huge bite so he didn't have to respond.

"This is important." Scott tried to meet his eyes, but Stiles avoided him. He sighed. "What is the matter with you lately dude? We all agreed as a pack, we need this meeting to go well. If we are going to hold Beacon as McCall- Stilinski territory, next month is important. Why does it seem like you're checking out?" Scott focused on his face. "Are you okay? If something is wro-"

"I'm okay Scott. You don't have to worry about me. I'll get my head in the game before then, I've just had some personal shit going on."

He gave him a sad look. "I miss the days when your personal was mine."

Stiles looked down. There was a pit in his stomach as his throat dried. "I know Scotty, but I will tell you, eventually. I just need to work some stuff out."

"You keep saying that, but I don't think you're working anything out. I think you're just keeping things to yourself because you don't want to worry anybody."

Stiles mindlessly stirred his ketchup with a fry.

"But you are. You are worrying us. We just want to help."

"I know." Stiles met his eyes. "We'll deal with the Malikhai pack and their challenge of our territory first. Derek Hale is one of my dad's newer deputies. He brought two other betas with him from New York. They talked and Laura is still their alpha, so the Malikhai pack doesn't have grounds for a refusal because Derek is just a beta. Even if this has been Hale territory for centuries, with Laura setting up a pack in New York, Beacon is forfeit unless a Hale alpha shows up to claim it."

"What if Laura shows up to challenge us?"

Stiles shook his head. "Derek told my dad she isn't interested in Beacon. She gave her word she never intends to take Beacon for her territory as long as we take care of it. She thinks we're doing well enough from what she's heard."

Scott nodded. "Let's go over the protocol again."

Stiles gathered his trash. "You'll be fine, but if you want we can."

---

Derek reached for the bottle of wolfsbane laced whiskey in the back of his cabinet. His eyes had already healed from the puffy state his call with Laura and Cora had left them in, but he felt new tears at the back of his eyes.

A family had left a roast in the oven overnight, accidentally on high, but thankfully it was called in soon enough. Fire calls usually left him shaken, but there was a little girl that looked exactly like Cora. She was coughing the smoke from her lungs that also clung to her clothes and hair and soon enough Derek was the one unable to breathe. He tried to hide his claws and fangs and closed his eyes when they flashed red. He didn't know how long it was before he felt the sheriff's arms wrap around him and send him home, but after his phone calls it was now three in the morning.

He refilled his glass and went to get changed. He struggled with his pants already feeling the alcohol, wolfsbane made the effect almost instant. By the time he had finished getting changed he needed to find the bottle again.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the frightened ones of the little girl. It was times like this he longed to feel the shift take over and get in a much more simple state of mind, a much more primal one. It felt like the smoke was in him and the flames were licking his face. He needed air.

He went to the balcony and like he knew it would be, that light was on.

The man was hard at work, tapping away at his computer. He was chewing a pen cap in-between his teeth as he focused intently on his screen.

Derek wanted the man to look at him. To notice him so he wasn't alone. He wanted to feel like he was seen and his pain was normal.

He had moved back from New York because everything was just too impersonal. You could fade into the city and no one would ever know you were gone. But a small part of him hoped that the man would notice if he never had his light on at an ungodly hour again. He wished that someone cared about him like he was important.

Derek hung halfway off the balcony as he began to frantically wave. He sloshed his almost empty whiskey as he flung his arms out.

Eventually the man looked up. He hesitantly waved and Derek raised his glass to him.

The man laughed and raised his coffee mug in return.

Derek laughed finding it funnier than it was. He got an idea and before he could think about it he held out his flat palm with his other fist placed atop it. He moved both hands forward in question.

The man looked confused and shrugged.

Derek thrust his hands out again, and then he pounded his fist three times on top of his palm.

The man laughed and mirrored his hands.

They pounded their fists in unison, and on the third beat Derek held up rock and the man held up paper. The man pumped his hands in victory. Derek threw both arms out in mock defeat. Derek watched the man throw back his head in a laugh with rapt attention. He held up a finger to tell him to wait before pushing his computer chair away.

Derek wanted to tell him not to leave, but soon enough he was back. He held up something to the window, it looked like marker. He uncapped it and began writing on the window backwards. He made two columns, one labeled, me. And the other, you. He put a tally mark under the me column before setting the marker down.

By the end of the night Derek could barely see the man with all the marks on the window. He had his computer chair pushed away as he leaned over his desk to get closer to count them. The man won by two points and he did a victory dance. The man acted like a wave was passing through his arms and he pointed it at Derek. He was just drunk enough that he pretended to continue it with a sad excuse of a robot.

Derek could almost hear the man's laughter ringing in his ears as he laid down to sleep. He fell asleep picturing his wide grin and cute dance.

---

Cora's laughter was booming. Laura spoke in a consoling tone, "Oh Derbear. You did your robot?"

Derek just groaned at her.

Cora spoke with no mercy, "Your robot sucks ass."

"I am aware, devil spawn. Well, sober me is."

"Hey call me devil spawn all you'd like, I'm not the one that scarred their cute neighbor with the abomination that is you dancing."

"Laura tell her to stop. Order her to be nicer, use the eyes."

"Sorry lil bro. She's right."

"Ugggh." Derek groaned into his pillow. "You both are terrible."

---

Derek tried to avoid the balcony out of shame for the next week.

The loud banging in the alley drew his attention before he could remember to stay inside. For a second he didn't see anything below, but then a trashcan tipped over and circled before a plump raccoon crawled out. Derek looked up, relieved it hadn't been someone trying to break in. He didn't want to have to deal with that tonight. He saw that light on and inside the man's head was tipped down still looking at the raccoon.

He looked more distressed than normal. Mugs stacked around his desk and there were papers strewn about. His hair was frazzled and he had tension in his shoulders. Derek wondered what stressed him so much. Maybe it was his job, he could have an upcoming deadline. Maybe he w-

He was staring back up at him.

The man brightened and waved enthusiastically. Derek waved back.

There was a pause.

Derek tried to mime that now that he had checked out the alley, and it was just raccoons he was going to head back to bed. But the man looked confused at his gestures. It probably looked like he was trying to make shadow puppets. He pointed a thumb back at his apartment and the man looked down. Derek started to move back reluctantly. He felt so rude, like he was leaving in the middle of a conversation, but he was also still embarrassed.

The man grabbed something from across his desk. He held up the orange marker. Derek stood there considering for a moment. The man took that as a no and set the marker down.

"Don't do it Hale." He whispered to himself.

He held up his hands and the man energetically moved to get ready.

They played till something drew the man's attention to his computer. He held up a hand to motion for Derek to wait.

He clicked for a few moments before pointing to his computer. Derek nodded and settled into a chair while pulling out his phone.

Derek's attention was drawn back upwards when he saw a fast movement. He looked up to be met with the sight of catastrophe. There were papers spewing out of the man's printer at an unearthly rate. The man was shouting and waving for the printer to stop. He jabbed at a few buttons, but to no avail. The printer just kept going and in one final power move the man unplugged the machine. It stilled and he sagged with relief.

The man looked up at Derek. Derek finally absorbed the situation and burst out laughing. The man quickly joined in. Once they had calmed down he gathered the papers and shook his head at them. He closed down his computer and span his chair in a circle before meeting Derek in their next match.

Derek won the night and the man put a little mark on the top window opposite to an identical mark.

So this was a thing. The man clearly expected to play again. He expected to play enough games where they would need to keep track on the window. Maybe this would be their thing. Rock, paper, scissors from across the street.

Derek got cozy in bed as a warm feeling settled in his chest. It was nice to have something, some sort of connection to someone. This was the sort of thing he missed in New York. He missed helping little old ladies at the grocery store and talking to neighbors while getting the mail. He missed seeing the same face multiple times just going to the bank. In the city everything was constantly changing, shifting. Derek just always felt like backdrop rather than a person. He missed being a part of a community. He missed feeling like he made an impact.

He supposed that's why he joined the PD. To help people. Feeling like he helped someone was the best thing to Derek. He wanted to have people around him and to be able to take care of them. No matter how close he was to his sisters, traveling never felt settled enough, and Laura's pack felt solid enough without him. He didn't have an integral place with either of them that truly felt like his own. He'd been back in Beacon hills for months now, and a couple games of rock, paper, scissors and an over protective boss was as close as he got to finding a place he belonged. No matter how much he saw them getting closer or he enjoyed his job, his co-workers were still just work friends and his job wasn't going to make him feel fulfilled.

He wanted someone to belong to. Someone that felt like home.

He drifted off wondering how soon he would meet someone like that for him, or if he already had.

---

Allison looked at Scott concerned. "Stiles, you sound pretty gone."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "He gave you a pen and I had to convince him to not propose the next time he saw you. I think me having a crush on my neighbor/rock, paper, scissors pal/stalker is sane in comparison."

She gave him a, 'Yeah keep telling yourself that.' look.

"I think if it makes you happy you should do it. You know how to take care of yourself. Maybe you're soulmates."

Allison rolled her eyes.

Stiles slung an arm around Scott's neck. "See, this is why you're my best friend. You always support me."

Scott beamed.

---

Derek grimaced as he tried to not smear blood on his door or walls.

He went straight to the bathroom and put his torn, soaked top right into the garbage. He turned on the water and steam started to billow into the room. He stripped and looked at the damage in the mirror.

They had been looking aimlessly for the omega for weeks now. But the night before another body was found, so they were determined. The sheriff came in with another map that had random circles on it. He had been bringing them in from his pack. Derek was glad that beacon had the McCall- Stilinski pack to look out for it, they wouldn't have been able to search even the narrowed down areas without the pack's help. The sheriff and him finally found the omega and cornered him.

Derek winced as he prodded at the claw mark across his side.

The omega had been able to get in a few surprise attacks before Derek fought back.

He stepped under the spray and let out a content grumble, happy to have the omega's blood swirling down the drain instead of sticking to his skin. He washed away the day and was satisfied that they had finally dealt with the wayward wolf.

He turned off the water wanting to collapse into bed, but still having a little bit of adrenaline left from the fight.

He decided to check in on his neighbor before bed. He threw on a pair of sweatpants before padding out to the balcony.

After his hot shower the air outside raised the hair on the back of his neck and arms. His eyebrows pulled together once he saw the blinds closed with the light on. He could see the silhouette of the man sitting at his chair.

That was odd. He never closed his blinds. Maybe he didn't want to see Derek anymore. Maybe he weirded him out. The man seemed happy to see him last time. Derek shouldn't feel this hurt, this shut out. It just felt like they were building a relationship, even if they just played a game.

Maybe he was just embarrassed about the printer thing, like Derek had been. Or maybe he was having more computer problems.

That thought brought conflicting emotions. First, it brought a smile, but then he thought about how easy it was for the man to be able to shut him out.

Maybe he was in trouble. He doubted it, but maybe. Derek had a worrying thought. What if the man was having another panic attack, but he didn't want him to see?

Derek internally debated for a moment longer before deciding to just listen in to check on him.

He focused and could hear the man's heartbeat thumping rapidly. His breathing was shallow and fast.

Derek panicked. Why wasn't he calling his friend?

There were sounds of movement that Derek couldn't make out.

He heard breathing sounds that sounded like they were coming from his computer and Derek was puzzled. Was the man trying some breathing exercises to calm down? He heard an extended groan and Derek's eyes widened.

Oh.

He heard a loud breathy moan that faded off into a needy whine and his face flamed.

Oh.

That was why his blinds were closed. Derek heard more decidedly not breathing exercise noises from the man's computer. Now that he knew what it was Derek could easily tell exactly what the noise of movement was from. There was a gasp then a guttural moan. Derek quickly blocked out the noise again and he scurried inside like he was the one caught jerking off.

He laid in bed with red ears. He closed his eyes to fall asleep, but he kept replaying the sounds over and over. He let out a frustrated groan before pulling his pillow over his face like that would muffled the noise in his head. The man's moans had gotten to him more than he'd like to admit. It would be very uncomfortable to fall asleep now.

He threw the pillow off and muttered, "Oh for God's sake!" Before shoving a hand past his waistband.

Later he fell asleep feeling satisfied, content, and very embarrassed.

---

Erica practically cackled off the couch and even Boyd cracked a small smile.

"Oh God Hale, only you!"

Derek stabbed his spoon into his ice cream and it clinked harshly against the ceramic. "How was I supposed to know! That he was..."

Erica gleefully finished his sentence. "Masturbating?"

Derek looked down to hide his burning face. "Can you stop enjoying my pain please?"

"Nu-uh I'm your friend. I have to make you more embarrassed. It's my job."

He scowled at her and she stuck her tongue out.

She spoke through a bite of cookies and cream, "What did you do after you realized what he was doing?"

"I went inside and I..." He avoided looking at her.

"You what?" She looked at him and then at Boyd's smirking face. "You didn't!" She asked shocked. She laughed at him again.

He groaned and forcefully stirred his ice cream.

"Oh my God, you so did!"

---

Stiles couldn't breathe.

Correction, the breath entering his lungs left just as fast as it entered. He could breathe in the same way that he could think. In a way that only made the situation worse and more panic inducing.

He needed to calm down. He tried to breathe. He tried to think about something else, but his thoughts kept circling back. He couldn't call Scott because he had a difficult surgery in the morning. If he called Allison it would wake Scott. He didn't want to call Lydia because it always freaked her out when she wasn't actually there to help. Sometimes she just made it worse no matter how much comfort she wanted to offer. Jackson was in a completely different time zone. He couldn't call his dad because he would still be on shift. Liam, Kira, and Malia all didn't know about his panic attacks and now wouldn't be the best time to have them figure it out.

He muttered to himself, "Y-you can d-d-o this." He tried to calm himself down, but knowing he didn't have anyone he could call made it worse.

He grabbed at his hair as he paced. "S-stop! S-t-top! Fuck-k!"

The tears were rushing down his face and his vision was blurred. His mind whipped in a frenzy as thoughts frantically raced.

He couldn't take it anymore. He ran over to his desk. He shoved papers trying to find his phone, but he could barely see thought the tears. He looked up and cursed, "F-fuck! Stupid f-f-fucking pho-one!" He closed his eyes harshly and when he opened them that light across the street was on.

He met eyes with his shocked pajama clad neighbor.

His mind was a torrent of thoughts. Oh God he was so stupid. This was so stupid. He was an idiot! Why! Why was he doing this right now! Why did his neighbor have to be there! He wouldn't ever want to see him again. Wh-

He went to move out of sight of the window, but his neighbor waved his hands frantically.

Stiles watched with curious eyes as his neighbor put a hand on to his chest. He slowly lifted it up and held it before placing it back on his chest again.

Stiles looked at him with curious eyes and his breathing still hammered in and out.

His neighbor repeated the motion and deeply inhaled this time.

Oh. He wanted Stiles to synch his breathing.

A small smile fought its way through all the panic and distress previously on his face. His neighbor wanted to help him, to calm him down. Even though he barely knew him he cared.

Stiles payed attention to the rhythm his neighbor set, but his breathing wouldn't calm.

More frustrated tears fell. "I-I can't." He whispered as he shook his head.

His neighbor used his other hand to gesture for him to calm down, then he paused the breathing motion to tap his own heartbeat. He resumed the breathing motion. He said something that Stiles couldn't understand.

Stiles tried again. He dug his fingernails into his palm as he tried to ground himself. He was fine. There was someone with him. They cared. He wanted him to calm down, to breathe. Just breathe. It was going to be okay. He was okay. As he thought he kept his eyes on his neighbor's moving hand.

They stood there together for several minutes.

The motion eventually soothed him into a normal breathing pattern. His tears were still falling, but his head was no longer pounding and he could breathe easily. Stiles wiped his eyes and focused on his neighbor's, which were still staring at him calmly.

His neighbor pointed at Stiles and then himself, after he pressed his pointer finger to his thumb as the rest of his fingers fanned upwards.

He smiled. He was trying to tell Stiles that they were okay. Stiles nodded and lifted his hand to copy his gesture.

His neighbor smiled and dropped his hands.

Stiles tried to convey he was sorry and moved his mouth exaggeratedly while he spoke, "Sorry."

He waved his hand in a dismissal. And once again mimed that it was okay.

Stiles was trying to figure out the best way to flee and watch Netflix, not being able to sleep, while they just stared at each other.

His neighbor tentatively raised his hands in a very familiar way.

Stiles smiled and sat on his computer chair. It was a way to pass the time. And a way to not be alone with his thoughts.

They played till the morning light invaded their hidden game. Stiles counted the tally marks and reluctantly put another tally under the you column. Stiles stuck out his tongue.

He held up a middle finger and Stiles clutched his chest with an overly shocked look. He laughed at him and Stiles smiled in return.

---

"I still wish you would've called me."

Stiles shrugged at Lydia. "I couldn't find my phone."

They both drank their smoothies while walking to the next shop in silence. She looked over at him with an assessing look.

"What?"

She only squinted further.

"What."

"Nothing. I'm just surprised he was able to calm you down like that."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I was desperate. If fricken Elmo popped up and started counting breaths with me I probably would've gone with it."

She hummed and turned back to look where she was going. "I think you should make him cookies. As a thank you. Besides, it's neighborly."

He looked at her like she was crazy. "Are you crazy?! How weird would that be? To just show up with cookies. Like, 'Hey I'm your crazy neighbor that had a panic attack and you had to spend several minutes calming me down. So thanks. Here's some double chip.' No, thank you. I will stick with rock, paper, scissors and pretending I'm not falling in love with a man I've never met."

A passing couple gaped at them, having clearly only caught the last sentence. Stiles squinted at them and they looked away quickly.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Do you really want to live your life not taking chances and connecting with people? You live and work in your apartment. The only time you leave is when the pack or your dad drag you out. This guy seems sweet, albeit a bit creepy, but sweet. I think you should give it a shot. Do you really want to play rock, paper, scissors with him till one of you moves? You have no social life Stiles."

Stiles argued, "Hey I trash talk ten year olds in Halo, just fine."

She didn't react to his joke. "Stiles."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know."

She squinted. "Do you? Do you know what it's like to see one of your best friends waste away and not even care about their life? I don't know what the hell happened to you at college, but you didn't come back the same. At first I thought it was some left over nogitsune bullshit, but it's not. You just don't seem to care about your life. Do you know what that's like for us? For your dad?" She got a little choked up. "For me?"

Stiles pulled her into a hug and fought tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"And you won't let us help you. Why?"

Stiles kissed her head. "Because you can't. I know that's difficult to handle, but you can't. And I'm sorry. I'm so fuckin sorry Lyds."

She spoke through her tears, "We just want for you to b-"

"To be happy. I know." He rubbed his hands down her arms. "I'll try the cookies."

---

Stiles drummed fingers on the container as he waited for that light to go on. He tried to busy himself with work, but the problems that wouldn't let him sleep couldn't hold his attention.

He was staring off into space nervously chewing a pen when that light flicked on. He shot out of his seat and bulleted to the door, getting to the doorway before remembering to go back for the container.

---

Derek loved his job. He loved it. He enjoyed his work and actually looked forward to it. He liked feeling like he was doing something important. But all this week there was this itch under his collar, his badge felt heavy, and he just wanted to put his gun away. He couldn't wait to get home.

Who knows how long the man had been panicking for at the start of the week. Derek felt unease in his chest all day and night until he could get home to check on that light and the man it created a halo for. Each night they waved and if the man didn't have work to do they added another mark to the window above.

Derek was becoming worryingly dependant on their routine. He was starting to think if the man wasn't there one night his wolf wouldn't rest till he hunted him down to make sure he was safe. Derek shook his head at that thought. He had more self control than that. He kicked his boots off and flicked on his light. He unbuttoned his top button and didn't even have the patience to change first before opening the sliding door. He frowned at the light on, but the chair was empty and moving in a circle. Maybe he went to get something to drink. Derek listened to the empty flat and started to wonder if he had as much self control as he thought.

He went back inside to change.

After throwing on a pair of sweatpants he paced thinking about what could've happened. Why would've he left his light on? Maybe someone called him for something, like Scott. Maybe Derek just couldn't hear him in there for some reason. Maybe he was safe.

Or maybe someone broke in and took him.

Derek strode to his door deciding to just go over and see if he could smell distress outside his door.

He was across the room from the door when there was a knock.

Derek froze.

Who would be knocking at three am? The Erica of his mind supplied that it could be the man, naked, with flowers. He dismissed that thought as he took a deep breath through his nose as he got closer.

One man. Nervous, very, but excited. Home, like baking and happiness. Like cookies and cinnamon. There was a hint of the scent of rain and thunderstorms. There was a undercurrent of a drug. Nothing he was familiar with, so not illegal. Prescription most likely. There was a Woody scent too. Sandalwood, cedar? There was a pungent coffee and sugar scent like it was all the man consumed.

There was another, much smaller, knock.

Derek opened the door. His mouth opened and his breath was lost.

It was most definitely the man. Derek didn't need to have seen his face, he'd know that messy hair and bright cartoon pajamas anywhere. But now that he did see his face, there was no going back after seeing those wide bright brown eyes. He had moles everywhere and God those lips. Having that hair close enough he wanted to run his fingers through it, or just tug on it. Fuck, he was so gone and the man hadn't even spoken to him yet. Derek took in the man's expression, he looked terrified. He could practically hear the man's dry throat trying to swallow. He realized what his own must look like. He probably still had defensive posture. His face still scrunched in what his sister's called, 'The murder face of concentration.'

He opened his lips to talk, but the man blurted instead, "Oh god this was a terrible idea. I can't believe I did this. Why did I listen to Lydia. You were so nice to calm me down and I just show up on your doorstep like a weirdo. This was weird, this was bad. I mean look at you, god look at your arms!" The man flung out an arm vaguely at Derek. "You probably don't even eat cookies, you probably eat bullets! Lydia was so wrong. You were just being nice helping me, and I've made it weird with cookies. God how does someone even make something weird with cookies? You probably were just humoring me with the rock, paper, scissors. Just being nice, waiting till it wasn't rude to just never look over at me again. You were probably just enjoying the night out on your sick balcony, when you saw a crazy person up at three and were curious, but now the crazy person is on your doorstep. And you'll probably call the cops which would be real fuckin awkward bec-"

Derek got the sense the man could go on the entire night. And he didn't know how much he could take without finding some very boundary pushing ways of shutting him up. "I eat cookies." Derek interrupted.

The man took in a large breath. "What?"

Derek held down a smile. "I eat cookies. Not bullets."

The man seemed checked out as he nodded. "That's good."

The man stared up at him with those Bambi eyes and he had to fight the urge to let his wolf maul him. Derek lifted an eyebrow. "So... Cookies?"

The man seemed to come back to himself. "Right! So raspberry and cream cheese kolaczki cookies. My grandmother's recipe. I didn't know what you would like, so I just made the best recipe I have." He shoved the container forward.

Derek took it.

The man pointed a thumb behind himself. "Right, so I'm just going to go die in a hole and hopefully never be reminded of this again."

Derek spoke as the man moved, "You better not die. Not before you can reclaim your pride in rock, paper, scissors."

The man smiled at him and Derek swore he had never been that close to death. "I think it's clear from this encounter I didn't have any pride to begin with."

Derek smiled.

"Okay Jesus that is so unfair, so I'm going to go." He started to walk away.

"The elevator is th-"

"The other way. Yes. Thank you."

The man awkwardly saluted and tripped on the hastily put on shoes before disappearing around the corner. He exhaled and whispered, "Smooth. Real fuckin smooth."

Derek smiled and closed his door.

---

"He gave you cookies?" Erica dug in the Chinese container on the table.

"Yeah. I had to look them up, but they're some polish cookie. He gave me like two dozen."

"Where are they? I want some."

Derek ducked his head as he blushed. "I ate them."

Her mouth dropped open. "You ate two dozen cookies in two days?"

"They were really good, some of the best cookies I've ever had! And small."

She kicked him. "Dereek! Now I really want one! You really are them all?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I stress ate like half of them that night trying to figure out a way to see him again before I realized I would have to return the container."

She groaned. "You're a mess."

They ate in silence till she put her plate down. "I talked to your sisters the other day."

Derek's stomach lurched. That was never good.

"They filled me in on the meeting next month."

Derek felt unsettled.

"Why didn't you tell us? You know no matter what you do we would support you."

Derek nodded and opened his mouth.

Erica continued, "Even if your decision is stupid. And dumb. And not the right choice."

He sighed. "Erica, it's not that easy."

Her voice was sharp. "So explain it. Because to me it seems like you're shooting yourself in the foot. If you forfeit Beacon now, there will be no getting it back without forcefully taking it. You would have no claim. Laura doesn't want this land, but you could take care of it. You're building a life here. You moved back here, we followed you here. You know as long as you're here we are, but let us know if you don't see a future here. We need to know if we should put down roots or not. Boyd likes it here and I'm starting to come around to it, but if you plan on leaving we need to know."

Derek shook his head. "No matter what happened here, this is my home. This is Hale land."

"It won't be if you forfeit."

He looked down. "We are a pack of three, this is a supernatural beacon. There's no way we could protect it. I do my part at my job. Besides, I could never take this land from the McCall-Stilinski pack. They've taken care of it since we left. I couldn't do that to the sheriff and alpha McCall."

"Doesn't us not having territory make us vulnerable?"

He tilted his head from one side to the other. "Normally, yes. But the alpha and the sheriff know we're here. They have accepted our presence, so we are allowed on this property. That means we won't have any claim to it, but we will still be protected like it is ours. They could always kick us out, but as long as they don't find out I'm an alpha there shouldn't be a problem. We will be treated as accepted guests from another pack."

She nodded thinking. "And what if our pack expanded? What if Issac came back?"

"We could always work out something with them. From what we've heard they're very unorthodox. Hell, just having a true alpha and the sheriff as it's two leading members is crazy enough."

"Hm. Okay. Well, they better not find out. How did returning the dish to hot neighbor go?"

"I haven't yet."

She gaped. "What? Why not? I thought you'd be all eager to see your boy again."

"I didn't want him to think I ate them in two days."

Erica crunched a water chestnut. "But you did!"

"Yeah, but what if when I told him that, he thought I was lying and he thought I threw them away?"

She threw an egg roll at him. "Just give it back you idiot."

---

It was three nights later and Derek had decided to just go to bed. But damn Erica. Her words were ringing in his ears. He grabbed the container before pulling on his boots.

He knocked on the door and wiped his sweaty hands on his pajama pants.

He heard muffled thumping noises and a yelp from the door. There was a soft noise of surprise before Derek heard a chain sliding and the door unlocking.

The man looked as sleep deprived as always, but he had a bat loosely held in one hand. "You scared the shit out of me! The only other time another soul was at my door this late was when someone tried to break in."

Derek was alarmed.

"Don't worry. I had my bat then too." He gave it an expert twirl that didn't fit with the previously clumsy impression Derek had of him.

"And here I thought we lived in a good part of town."

The man laughed. "The bad parts tend to follow me."

"I can't imagine much of anything not wanting to follow you."

The man turned light pink. "Is that my container?"

Derek held it up. "I washed it."

The man started to reach for it. Derek tried to channel everything Erica told him. He pulled it back. The man looked at him with distrust. "I can't give this back until I get a recipe."

The man scoffed. "You bake?"

Derek raised an eyebrow.

"Fair enough. But no can do. Babcia would roll over in her grave, and she's not even dead yet."

Derek laughed. "Well then, fine." He smirked in the way Erica told him to and leaned on the door frame with a forearm. "How about you give me somewhere I can go to get my sugar fix?" Derek really hoped he didn't slam the door in his face.

The man's mouth was gaping and his heart was fast. "Do you know the grocery store on fifth street?"

Derek's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"For your sugar fix. They sell them there." The man looked earnest.

Derek straightened back up embarrassed. "Oh. Um, thanks. I-"

The man burst out laughing. Derek realized he was messing with him. "You're a shit aren't you?"

The man shrugged. "I wasn't the one that leaned up against the door frame like a douche."

"It was a little douchey wasn't it?"

The man held up his thumb and pointer close together. "Just a bit."

Derek smiled at him. "Well, there we have it. You shouldn't listen to Lydia, and I shouldn't listen to Erica."

"I knew an Erica once, definitely don't listen to her."

Derek nodded. "Well, I should give this back." He handed over the container.

"How about this, if you have more tally marks by the end of next week, I'll make a double batch just for you."

Derek nodded. "That sounds perfect. But be warned, those were some of the best cookies I've ever had. I'll bring my A game for babcia's cookies."

The man smiled. "I'd expect nothing less." The man hesitated slightly. "But if you want, if you're going to be up anyway, I have some more inside." The man bit his lip nervously.

Derek took effort to not immediately say yes far too loud. "I could definitely be persuaded with cookies. Do you have to work?"

The man shrugged. "As long as I get my stuff done he doesn't care when I work and I'm ahead. If I'm being honest I was just about to say screw work and watch Captain America."

"Which one?"

"The first one." The man tapped the container against his palm.

"That one is my favorite."

He opened his mouth before closing it. "Do you want to? If you aren't too tired, do you want to watch it?"

Derek had just finished a twelve hours shift that was so busy he barely had time to eat. "I'm never too tired for Captain America. Do you need to get some sleep?"

"I'm never too tired to see Bucky Barnes in uniform." The man smiled.

"We have that in common."

The man looked surprised. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Derek smiled. "Oh?"

The man smiled right back. "Yeah."

Derek looked into his mesmerizing eyes. "Yeah."

The man looked down and then away. "Okay, make yourself comfortable on the couch. I just have to shut down my computer and g-"

"Get the cookies." Derek supplied.

The man rolled his eyes. "You're like a child."

He shrugged.

---

Parish clapped his back. "I know yesterday was rough, but you look like shit. Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Nope." Derek said with a smile.

"Damn. Why do you look so happy about it Hale?"

He shrugged. "I got cookies and watched the Captain America movies." He didn't mention how there was also hours of debate originally about the movies, but then moved to the entire MCU and then other things. That one of the many times the man flung out his arms, his brushed Derek's and if he focused he could still smell the cinnamon he originally thought came from the cookies.

Parish looked at him puzzled. "You're a weird one Hale."

---

At the end of the week they were tied and the man held up a container enticingly. They had set up the rule that whoever had the most wins by three am won. It was down to the last second and they both sped up so Derek could catch up. He ended up triumphant and the man acted being put out upon briefly before grabbing the container.

There was a knock and Derek had to count to ten, so he didn't know he was waiting at the door.

"I admit. You won it fair and square. Enjoy your cookies."

"Yeah. I definitely will. But if you wanted some, that could be arranged." Derek offered.

"I have some back at my place, but I could go for a coffee."

Derek grinned. "Coffee can be done." He held open the door.

---

"We talked about everything and nothing. He's so interesting. Just the way he thinks about things, god the way he explains himself is like porn. And fuck, his smile. His smile should be illegal. You know?" Stiles gushed.

Lydia stayed still with an expectant look on her face.

Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. His voice went low and mocking, "Lydia you were right."

"I know. So what's his name."

Stiles immediately opened his mouth before snapping it shut and his eyes widened comically.

"Don't tell me yo- Oh my god Stiles! You don't know his name?!"

Stiles rubbed his hands down his face while groaning. "Maybe he said it and I don't remember, but now it will be weird if I ask!"

"For someone so smart, you can be so dumb."

---

"Fuck Laura I don't know his name!"

Cora's laughter was a given, but sweet down to earth Toni's snickers weren't hidden even by her girlfriend's outrageous laugh.

---

He had been working on this problem for hours. The code seemingly mocking him just like his rubber duck that was now in time out. He cracked his neck and changed positions.

Stiles' smile was face splitting when he saw the brightness coming from across the street.

The man waved as he came out ten minutes later in pjs with a bowl of what Stiles assumed to be cereal.

They played a few games before Derek started to yawn. He should get to bed. He motioned that he was going to head in and the man nodded before adding a mark to his own side. Derek nearly collided with the door when it didn't open as he expected. He groan before starting to jiggle it. It wouldn't budge. If he broke it the landlord, who already didn't like him, would be angry. He patted his pockets so he could at least call Erica, but he left it inside. Great. Just great. He turned to see if the man had noticed.

Stiles was laughing his ass off. His neighbor had locked himself out. He had tears in his eyes. He calmed down and met his flat face and it set Stiles off again. This time when he calmed down his neighbor had a small smile. Stiles motioned for him to wait a moment.

Several minutes later Derek heard a rustling at his front door.

Oh great, he locked himself on his balcony, and he was getting robbed. Worst of all the man across the street probably left to get a camera.

He listened and recognized the heartbeat just as the door clicked and gave way. That mop of messy hair looked as cute as ever, even if it puzzled Derek how he knew how to pick locks. The man waved and Derek knocked on the glass before pouting out his bottom lip.

The man laughed once again.

He jiggled the door from the inside to let his neighbor back in. "Welcome to my humble abode." He said as he opened the door.

Derek ignored his comment. "Where did you learn to do that?" He nodded towards the door he closed behind himself. If this man was an international thief or something of the like Derek needed to know.

The man turned on his heels starting to walk, after throwing a suggestive at Derek. "I have a lot of talents, but I'm especially good with my hands."

Derek smirked even if he couldn't see it and walked after him. "And here I was wondering about that mouth."

The man stopped dead, and Derek collided with his back. On instinct Derek's hand went to his hip.

"Oh I'm really good with that too." Maybe it was just Derek, but it felt like the man was leaning backwards into his space.

"Yeah? Am I going to have to lock myself out again to figure out your other hidden talents?"

The man shook his head, and Derek could feel his rabbiting heartbeat. "No. A date. Next Thursday, that new Ryan Reynolds movie is out. You wanted to see it. Didn't you?" A little bit of doubt crept into that question he asked to give Derek an out.

Derek leaned in to breath on his neck. The man was intoxicating. "I want to see that movie so bad, I don't know how I am possibly supposed to wait until Thursday. I want to see that movie so bad, I wish it could just be Thursday." Derek ghosted his bottom lip down his neck. "I want to see that movie so bad, I'm practically shaking."

Stiles' voice shook, "H-how do you know it will be worth the wait?"

"The trailers have been a tantalizing."

"Really? Are you sure you don't need a few reviews? I'm sure it has some glowing ones."

Derek gripped his hip tighter. "I prefer to make my own opinions."

"Yeah? Well, it probably will be good, it's got a stellar lead."

Derek nodded letting his lips drag against his neck. The man shivered. "I would let that sarcastic brunet do what ever he wanted to me."

"Ryan Reynolds is one of the hottest actors."

"Oh, him? I guess he's okay too."

Just like that Stiles was at the end of his rope. He spun around and wrapped his arms around his neighbor's neck to pull him down. "I'm going to k-"

Derek cut the man off by beating him to the punch. And boy, it felt like Derek was punched instead.

Stiles buried his hand in his hair. Derek nipped at his lip and the man's mouth fell open in a groan. Derek seized his opportunity. The man tasted of coffee and desperation, probably as much as Derek did. Stiles pulled his hair and he gripped Stiles' hips and harshly pulled them to his own. Stiles walked Derek backwards until they collided with the glass door.

Time was lost to Stiles. All he knew was the person in front of him. He felt a hand sneak under his shirt. He pulled back. "Fuck." He breathed harshly. "Fuck, if you do that I won't make it to Thursday."

Derek started to bite and kiss at his neck instead.

"Fuck if you do, that, I won't last five minutes." He could feel a smile press against his throat.

"What do you recommend I do?"

Stiles closed his eyes to clear his mind. "Don't do, any of what you're doing." He peeked his eyes open. "In fact, your face? That's got to stop too. It is much too distracting."

"Oh okay. And what abo-"

"Yep, your voice is another thing that isn't going to happen right now."

He leaned back into his neck. "Sorry. How's this?" He rubbed his beard against his neck.

There was a gasp before he gripped his hair and pulled his head back. He spoke forcefully, "You, are doing that Thursday! Everywhere." Stiles slammed their lips together again.

Derek pulled back. "Do you need to get back to your computer?"

"Fuck my computer." Stiles spoke the last word practically against his lips.

Stiles pulled back. "I left your door open."

"Fuck my door." Derek pressed his smile to his lips.

"I'd rather fuck you."

Stiles went to kiss him again, but his neighbor burst out laughing. "No! No laughing. Kiss me!"

Derek's laugh rang out regardless of the pout. They kissed until they were interrupted by a small meow.

The man pulled back with wide eyes. "You have a cat!"

Derek was concerned. "Are you allergic?"

Stiles left him pressed against the glass door. He looked around. "Here, kitty kitty."

Lucian sauntered closer.

Derek started coming closer. "I wouldn't try to pet him! He hates all people and will bite you if you don't leave him alone. Really he's a huge asshole named Lucian."

Stiles held out his hand and Lucian eagerly pressed his head against his hand. Stiles looked back. "Right, sure. A big asshole. He's a sweetie. Aren't you?" He did a pet voice. "Oh, yes you are."

Lucian practically rolled over on to his belly and purred. Derek looked in disbelief. "He doesn't normally do that."

The man scoffed. He went to pick Lucian up cautiously and he almost leap into his arms. "Of course not. Because you're the huge asshole. Isn't he Luci? He is. Lying about you being mean, but you're a little sweetheart." Lucian gave a little meow of agreement.

---

Over the next few days Stiles found just about every single way to tease a man while not being able to speak and with an alley in-between them.

Thursday Derek knocked on his door and was breathless when it opened. "I thought sleepy you would kill me, but those jeans are a sin."

The man flushed. "Oh, well I prefer you without a shirt. I haven't had the pleasure yet, but I figure that rule applies to pants as well."

"Be good tonight and you might get it."

Stiles closed the door behind himself and leaned in to peck his lips. "I'm never good." He winked and walked away.

They whispered jokes back and forth the entire movie and almost got kicked out for laughing. They barely made it up into Derek's apartment before they were tearing each others clothes off. They fell into bed in a whirlwind.

While their breath was calming Stiles had a thought. "I should probably give you my number, huh?"

Derek laughed and agreed, "Yeah, you should." Before he rolled over, caging him with his arms again and nosing at his neck.

---

He felt someone staring at him and he looked up. "What?"

Parrish had a haunted look on his face. "What is your face doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You look... Happy?!" Parrish ran away laughing as Derek threw paperclips at him.

The sheriff appeared beside him with a disapproving look.

"Sir, I-"

He clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy looks good on you, Hale."

Parrish looked surprised. "Are you letting go of your five month plan?"

The sheriff sipped his coffee. "Nah. It just might have to be moved to the five year plan."

Parrish laughed and he smirked. Derek was confused, but he let it go figuring they wouldn't tell him anyway.

Derek called after the sheriff as he headed toward the break room. "I put a yoghurt in the fridge for you! Leave the donuts alone!"

"Christ Hale, you're worse than my kid."

"To be a deputy I need a sheriff!"

"Love you too kid." He called before shutting the door to eat his yoghurt.

Derek felt pleased, but tried not to show it. The warmth in his chest blossomed anyway.

---

Scott's neck nearly snapped as he turned to him. "Dude you got laid!"

Stiles grimaced. "That's so gross! I showered like three times."

"It's not that, you just have this settledness. A contentment that comes after."

"Still weird dude."

---

They texted constantly. Now that Stiles could gloat in-between games and make sarcastic comments it was constant. Derek gave as good as he got, though.

Whenever his phone buzzed he was smiling before he could even realize it. They talked about anything and everything. The man went down the programming rabbit hole once, till they banned work talk before he could even find out what his neighbor did for a living. But other than that they shared everything. Well, he still didn't know the man's name, but that was unimportant when you've held a person as they told you about losing their mom and in turn told them about all the family you'll never see again. Derek was never tired of the man. For two weeks they kept getting closer and texting constantly. It was like normal social rules didn't exist with the man. One moment they'd be talking about video games and the next they spoke about their third favourite ice cream flavor, or how they've disappointed the people closest to them. They always had an argument about something, but it always ended in laughter. This had been what he was missing. This had been what he wanted. Someone to share the little parts of his day with. Someone that cared and couldn't wait to see him.

But in the small moments when they sat in silence he could tell there was something the man wasn't telling him. Sometimes he would chew his nails staring off into the distance with a worry on his face. When Derek would ask what was wrong he would dismiss it as nothing. He kept getting more and more on edge through the two weeks, but he acted like normal until Derek got his text.

It had been a busy day, if it wasn't one thing it was another. Paperwork and deadlines that had to be met, things to be catalogued, and someone to be arrested. He got off around two that night thankfully. Derek wanted to kick off his shoes and just go straight over to his balcony, but his phone buzzed almost immediately after his light went on.

His smile dimmed as he saw that the man had a very important work problem and couldn't be distracted.

Derek understood. He really did. He went to take a shower and tried not to feel the unwarranted disappointment. Sometimes people were busy, that was fine. He tried to settle into bed, but he couldn't close his eyes without thoughts of the man. Maybe if he just saw him, he would be able to sleep. His bare feet hit the cold floor as he walked out to the balcony.

As soon as he opened the door his face fell into a frown. His blinds were closed.

Surely he wasn't... Derek thought about how the man couldn't keep his hands off of him. He listened in, but was met with the sounds of computer typing, frustrated noises, and mumbled complaints. He was definitely working, but why would he close his blinds?

Derek got back into bed still thinking. Maybe he just needed a break from him. Or maybe it was really a big work problem that he couldn't handle being distracted from.

Thoughts about the man kept Derek awake and not even Tom Hardy in a lobster tank could lull him to sleep.

It was four am and he had gotten no sleep. He shut off the movie on his laptop. The more he thought about it the more confused and frustrated he was with not knowing what happened. He was now beyond tired and grumpy. He switched shifts with someone so he went to the kitchen to make himself something to eat and get some much needed coffee before work. He put some toast in before reaching for the coffee tin.

He sighed so loudly Lucian came into the room out of curiosity. "Why of all days? Why me?" Derek threw the empty coffee tin in the garbage. Yesterday was so busy he forgot to get some. There was no way he was going to work without coffee, but nowhere would be open this early.

He had a thought. Hm, worth a go.

He listened and sure enough the man was still up, pacing his flat. Derek grabbed his keys.

He knocked and soon enough the door swung open. The man looked disheveled and Derek was instantly hit with a wall of stress, anxiety, and fear.

Derek immediately forgot that he had been agitated or that he was under caffeinated. "What's wrong?"

The man looked caught off guard. "What? Why are you here?"

It wasn't said unkindly just with curiosity, but it still hurt. "I'm out of coffee, and I have to work in three hours."

"Right. Fine. I've just got to focus on this work thing. It's really-"

Derek lifted an eyebrow then looked over at where his computer was off.

The man scrubbed a hand down his face. "It's complicated."

Derek nodded. "I get complicated. That's okay if things are complicated. I just don't want, you feeling comfortable talking to me, to be one of them. So I'm going to go make us some coffee. And if you want to talk we can sit on the couch until you find a way to make it sound uncomplicated. If not I can take my coffee, go to work, and wait for the day it either is too complicated or it isn't anymore. I'll wait if you aren't ready or if this is too soon, but there is nothing that you could say that I wouldn't want to hear. Simply for the fact that it's you saying it."

Derek was tackled into a kiss that tasted like stale coffee. "It's in the cabinet by the sink."

They stood in silence as Derek made them coffee. The man went over to his bread box and pulled out a container of peanut butter cookies. Derek looked at him softly.

"I know they aren't your mom's, but I figured I-"

Derek pulled him into a hug. "They'll be perfect." Derek turned to get the sugar out and set the mugs down.

"I want the big ba-"

"The big Batman one. I know. It's the one you use the most at your desk."

Stiles wrapped himself around his back while he poured them coffee and he kissed the back of his shoulder. "More sugar."

He shook his head and set the sugar down.

Stiles turned to mouth at his neck and then whispered, "More sugar, please?"

He swore before dumping more in. "Jesus. You'll be the death of me."

Stiles smiled and bit at just the right spot as he crept his hand under his shirt.

"Fuck your hands are cold."

"Why don't you warm them up then?" Stiles danced his fingers along his skin.

"I know what you're doing."

Stiles pulled his ear between his teeth and whispered breathily, "Is it working?"

"No."

He scraped his nails down his side and Derek shivered. "Yes." Derek turned around and held his chin to kiss him. He leaned back to look into his eyes. "If you don't want to talk about it you don't have to distract me, we just don't have to talk about it. I just want you to have someone to talk about things with, even if they aren't happy."

The man looked at him with an undecipherable look, before tears started to gather in his eyes. He pulled him in for a sweet kiss and leaned their foreheads together. "This is much too soon for just how deeply I care for you. This is weird."

Derek smiled at him. "Yeah, it is. So what? You're weird. I'm weird. Why wouldn't we be weird together?"

Derek walked over to the couch and set their mugs down. "So, am I taking a seat?"

Stiles nodded at him. He sat down and started drinking his coffee and pulled his legs up. He waited patiently as Stiles began to pace. "Are you sure?"

Derek shrugged. "There are few things I've been more sure of than you."

Stiles let out a humorless laugh as he shook his head. "You see that right there! I can tell you're a defensive and closed off person. You don't trust easily. You had people take advantage of you, so you don't let people into your life, but with me you, you just trust me. And that scares me. Because what if I hurt you? Then I'll just be another one of the people you trusted that hurt you. And God we're moving so fast! Surely this is too fast? People normally don't go this fast. But it doesn't feel wrong. Well, I mean it does, but only for the fact that it doesn't feel wrong to be going this fast. Does that make sense? It probably doesn't. But God you just scare me because I've dated, I've had boyfriends and girlfriends. I've had casual hook ups and serious relationships, but I have never once thought about if my dad would be proud to walk me down the aisle to any of them. That is a crazy thought to have! And I thought that after the first time we had sex! That's crazy! I'm crazy! I shouldn't think about getting married after knowing you for like less than a month! And I've never felt like I had to be fake with you. I've never thought oh God what if my laugh is obnoxious? What if doesn't like the way I walk or the way I dress or the way I act? What if I'm too much of a nerd for him? What if I like him more than he likes me? I mean you're sex on legs, practically a Greek god and I'm just me. But you never make me feel like just me. You make me feel special. I never once have thought what if I'm too skinny or not muscled enough. I've never thought any of that."

He took a big deep breath in.

"Not a single thing like it. It's just so easy to be me around you, and it scares me. I tell you everything. You know about Scott and my mom and the boy named Theo in eighth grade that broke my heart. I tell you about the history of male circumcision and my time at Berkeley. And I know things about you. You told me that she took advantage of you when you haven't even told your sisters that. Sometimes I think I know you inside and out, but then I remember just how little I know, how little time we've know each other. Hell, I sat on your face and I don't know your middle name, fuck or your first! But I know you had a dog named Lucky when you were six. I know all these things, but when I think of a day I don't get to learn more about you it ruins my mood. I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know everything about me."

The man's eyes looked wild and scared as he flailed his arms.

"I ramble! It's a thing I do! I'm doing it right now! And you don't even care. You just get this look in your eyes like it would kill you if I ever shut up. And let me tell you, I'm used to having the exact opposite. I am constantly told to shut up. But you, you just calm me down from panic attacks and text me so my day isn't boring and look all super hot when you kiss me. And right now I should feel different. I should feel sorry for talking this much, but I don't. Because it's you."

He stopped moving and looked into Derek's eyes deeply. "Because it's you. You scare me. Because it's you. You don't make me feel sorry for being me."

Derek nodded. He sat his mug down and put his legs back down before widening them and patting the space between them.

Stiles walked over and collapsed into his lap. He straddled him and wrapped his arms around his neck.

When Derek encircled his torso the man slumped against him as he buried his head into his neck.

They clung to each other for several moments before Derek spoke, "It scares me too. My sisters are sick of hearing about you and Erica is dying to meet you. I'm nervous to meet Scott and down right terrified to meet your dad. My middle name is Samuel. I thought about if we would move or live here and if you would want kids. This scares me. I haven't had a proper long term relationship where they didn't try to kill me. I closed myself off from everyone for so long to heal that I forgot what it was like to trust someone. How to do it. I shouldn't trust you, not this soon. But I look into your eyes and my life is yours. We already disregard the social norms, why should this be any different? You scare me. But fuck what we should do. Fuck how it's supposed to go. Let's just be scared and trust each other entirely too soon." Derek didn't know if it was instinct, or just the universe finally giving him something, but he knew down to his bones that he could trust Stiles.

Stiles exhaled shakily. "I've started sleeping better because I know you're there. I don't have as many panic attacks, because I know you're a text away. I know you're across the street. I know you're there for me, and I'm not used to that and it freaks me out. It freaks me out how it's felt like there's been this hole in my life for so long, and when I look in your eyes everything seems just a little bit less hard. A little bit less like tomorrow isn't going to happen the way it's supposed to. A little bit like you're the solution to a problem I didn't even know I was asking."

He seemed to absorb that all for a moment as he rubbed soothing circles into Stiles' hip.

He stopped his circles and after a few seconds Stiles prodded, "What, what is it?"

"You don't have to answer, but if you do, answer honestly. I would rather your silence than lies. And it's okay if you don't have the answer." Derek resumed the circles.

Stiles leaned his head up and looked at him searchingly. He put his hand on the side of his face and swept broad lines along his cheekbone. "What is it?"

"Why are your lights on at three am?"

Stiles scoffed and pushed lightly on his chest. "Because I can't sleep dumbass. Why are you seeing my lights on at three am." He asked rhetorically.

His heart hadn't skipped, but it quickened. Derek looked contemplative and serious. "Because I was lonely. Because nighttime feels like the kind of peace around you that you can't help but pull it inward. Because I work the night shift. Because some days it's hard to face myself, but nighttime is made to shadow sin. Because I like to look at the moon. Because sometimes daytime is too stressful. If you want a more recent answer, because my cute neighbor is up then too. And since the first time I saw him I knew he was the type of beautiful that sunlight burned with insincerity, but moonlight kissed with truth. I'm up because sometimes my body just doesn't want to sleep no matter how tired I am." His eyes had a piercing quality. "Why are your lights on at three am?"

Stiles looked down.

"There's stuff I can't tell you. At least not yet. It's not just my secret to tell. I don't want to lie to you, but there is just this one thing, this one side of me that you aren't ready for. But I will be honest about it as soon as I can be."

Derek knew he was honest. Christ, Stiles was the most brutally honest person he'd ever met. Rarely did his heart skip a beat when Derek wasn't doing something to cause it. But every once and awhile Derek could tell he was trying to not lie. Trying not to keep anything, but also not giving. Derek was okay with it. Because even in his big secret Stiles was being open and honest with him... Even with the things he couldn't be. "Okay." Derek nodded.

Stiles' head shot up. "Okay? Just okay? No interrogation? No dramatic, 'What how could you?' come on, where's your sense of flair?"

Derek knew he was trying to hide his genuine shock.  "I trust you, remember? Trust me and tell me about what you can. If you can't tell me it, don't lie. There's things I can't tell you yet either, but I will."

The man still looked like he was trying to peer through his eye sockets to find something that was etched in the back side of his skull. He must've found it, because his air of defensiveness left him in such a big whoosh Derek could almost taste the change in the air.

"I'm awake, because I have insomnia. I'm awake, because my brain won't just shut off sometimes. I'm awake, because if there's a problem that needs solving, I can't sleep until it is. I'm awake, because I was lonely too. I'm awake at night because I'm good at coding and if I do it at three am the only person I have to lie about it being fulfilling is myself. I'm awake, because failed dreams don't belong in the daytime. I'm awake, because in the mornings I itch to solve cases and help people while doing my dream job, so it's easier to just sleep through them. I'm awake, because I'm too tired to sleep. I'm awake, because there's this sleeping beast inside me that slumbers enough for both of us, and sometimes I am terrified if I sleep too much I will awaken to it having woke up before me. I'm awake, because I am scared."

Derek could smell the saltiness of tears. "Scared of what? Something other than me?"

Stiles gripped him harder. "You're a part of it. Well, more like this is the reason you scare me so much."

Derek rubbed up and down his back and waited.

"I'm scared of my life. I'm scared of my future. The only easy part about high school was I knew where I fit in. I was the sheriff's kid. I was up to no good. I was a nerd. I wasn't popular. Scott and I were the most important thing in each other's lives other than our parents. Now it's just like, I'm adrift. Do I stay in Beacon Hills? Do I leave? Are me and Scott still best friends? Should I date, or should I be happy alone? Should I do this job or that one? Should I tell Scott that he should stop being such a cabbage and just marry her already? Should I be encouraging my dad to get back out there more? Should I buy this or do that? It's all of these choices that will shape my future and I'm terrified to make the wrong one. And you know, I can actually see it. My perfect life. The life I think I could never deserve but want to be able to one day. I see it all. And the thing is, I'm great at plans. I made them for everything, but how do you plan for your entire life when so much could go wrong? And it terrifies me. It terrifies me that I could break it. That if I don't do one thing exactly right I'll ruin all the other things. Or if I try one of the things it will break all of the others. I don't want to do that. I can't. Because I see that life for me, and I don't see how I could be happy in another, so I just- I don't mean to- I just accidentally- I-"

"You wreck things before they can break. You turn down jobs because they're your dream job, but you don't have the rest of your dream yet. You push people out of your life, because you don't have all of the people you want in it. You don't build a home that will feel hollow with just you in it. You try to hurt yourself before anyone else can do it for you, I know the feeling." And my god, did Derek. It was like hearing from himself. As Derek finished he could smell the relief coming off of him in waves.

"I don't mean to wreck it, I just do. And some nights I just panic, because how could I be that stupid? Others, I just feel so numb to everything. I don't know how to get to where I want to be and it's fucking terrifying."

Derek nodded. "I guess I don't think about my future. I'm just waiting for it to be taken from me. I know I want to be there for my sisters and my friends, but long term I don't have a clue what I want. It's always just what I have in front of me. I love my job. I have a workable apartment. Things like that matter, but I don't think about them long term."

"Wow. I can't even imagine that. Not thinking about every possible thing."

Derek shrugged. "I usually only think about what could go wrong."

"What do you see going wrong with us?"

"Most of the time? You getting tired of me and just waking up on day wanting to leave."

Stiles laughed. "Well that's bullshit. We already talked about how hard it is for me to get to sleep."

They both had soft unseen smiles.

"Will you tell me about it? What you see for yourself? Do you feel comfortable sharing that with me?" Derek was a little bit worried to see if he would somehow fit into his dream.

"We've swapped enough bodily fluids for that to not be a crazy request."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Will you tell me what you see? What you see for yourself, your future?"

Stiles sighed contemplative. "I see Scott and Allison happily married with kids. At least two, who call me uncle Stiles and I spoil rotten. I see my dad happy and healthy. Hopefully, with someone that makes him even happier and enforces the no double bacon cheeseburgers rule. I see my friends happy and safe, never too far away. I see the town safe, not necessarily quiet because I'd get bored, but manageable."

He paused long enough for Derek to realize he was done. "And for yourself?"

"That's a bit trickier. I see myself working from Beacon Hills. For the FBI as a profiling and strategy consultant. I see my Jeep still clunking around. I see a house. A big one. Not the type you would buy because it was cheap or convenient. The type that you only get when you're ready to fill it. I see family and friends gathering at our place. I see a spouse, a husband."

He seemed shy admitting that and Derek grinned. "Does this spouse have, and I quote, 'The cheekbones of an Adonis and the ass of Captain America.' by any chance?"

"In all my fantasies before they were amorphous. Never male or female for sure. Well, except when I pictured Tom Hiddleston or Jennifer Lawrence. They never looked like any one thing. They were just a concept. Now, he has the most amazing eyes. You would swear they were green, but then again maybe they're a little bit of everything."

Derek was grinning before, now he was beaming. Tears almost pouring out of kaleidoscopes.

"I see a couple of kids. Maybe fostered. But fostered, adopted, surrogate it doesn't really matter." Stiles shrugged. "I want to feel like I'm important to people. Like I'm the person they can't wait to see when they get home. I want to have a home. One that no one can ever take away or claim, because it's mine. People shouldn't be able to take homes from people. Before anything else I have to make sure what is mine, can't be taken."

"I don't think homes should be taken either. Even if you leave, that doesn't make it any less yours. You should have a place for your family, your future. People shouldn't take that from you, they should give it to you."

They just sat there breathing together and clinging to each other.

"If you think about it, what do you see?"

Derek didn't reply right away.

"I don't really know. I mean I know some things. Like I want Erica and Boyd to be there, Issac too if he wants to move back. I want my sisters to be alive and happy. I just want to be a part of a- a family again."

"Would you move back to New York? You mentioned you have family there."

When Erica had asked him things seemed so clouded, now they were clearer than they'd ever been. "No. That is my sister's place. I-" Derek's mind was clear and sure about the future for the first time in awhile. "I have a place here. This is where I belong and I never should've thought otherwise. Besides, I have a reason to stay here now. To build a life. One where I'm happy, in love, and annoyed at my husband. One where I have a family. A job I love, an over bearing boss too. One with kids and a house. Hell, I'd throw in a picket fence to go for the full cliche. One where I have someone to tell all about the family I lost. One with things to keep me on my toes, and people. One where I'm supposed to be."

Derek looked at him appreciatively. "I never knew I wanted that, or that I could. I thought I didn't deserve it, but you've made me yearn for it now. I want a life. I will make a life for myself. And for the people that want to share it with me." Derek's voice had a tone of awe, but certainty.

Stiles laced their fingers together.

Too soon Derek had to disentangle himself for work. As he went to walk towards the door the man caught him by his arm. "At first I thought it was cute and a great story to tell, to see how long we could go, but now I just want to be able to say your name. To hear you say mine. But not yet. There's this thing with Scott. Next Friday night. I'll do that and after it I want to know the name of the man I'm going to build my life with. Next Friday. Okay? After that we can be all cute and shit saying each others names with love in our eyes and all that garbage okay?"

Derek rolled his eyes then nodded. "I'll be ready after Friday too. It's time I made something right. After Friday we can start our lives anywhere in Beacon Hills. It will be ours."

Stiles looked at him with a spark in his eye. "Exactly. It will be ours." He said it like a promise.

---

Stiles' shoulders had been up to his ears the entire week leading up to Friday. Well, until Derek came by to massage them back down. They slept together every night to stave off Stiles' panic attacks. Both of them being soothed by another heartbeat. Stiles tried not to be nervous, but the Malikhai pack had been taunting them all week. Stiles knew it was serious because Jackson flew in. Jackson would only come if Lydia asked, and if Lydia was asking they were in deep shit.

Stiles and Derek had said goodbye that morning with Derek offering words of encouragement in exchange for weak smiles.

Stiles wanted to be more sure. He did. This was their land. They fought every fucking monster that was drawn to Satan's wooden dildo. And no matter how many times they got reamed up the ass they just picked out the splinters and carried on and protected the damn supernatural beacon. Because this was their motherfucking land. This was their home and no body was going to take that. Certainly not some asshole alpha who had no claim besides, 'The pack that abandoned it and left it all to a bunch of teenagers might want it. And they should have first pick because they called dibs.' It was bull.

Stiles' angry thoughts served as a pep talk and his hands stopped their shaking. Scott gave him a reassuring look and Stiles looked back with an affirming nod. They could do this.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the clearing. All of the people that were important to him were here, Scott, his dad, Allison, Lydia, Jackson. Everyone except him, but he was doing this for him. For the future.

Deaton was off to the side as an intermediary.

Stiles was just about to make a comment about tardiness when Scott stiffened.

Stiles looked to the treeline ahead of them and straightened his shoulders and hardened his face.

Six figures, the same as their number as they agreed, emerged from the trees.

Everyone assessed for a moment.

There was an overly happy voice. "Well, nice to see even a bitten wolf and a human can accomplish showing up."

"And nice to see a born one can disregard tradition and be late." Stiles earned a few snarls.

The snide remarks kept being thrown back and forth till finally Stiles had enough. "This is not your land! You have no right to it!"

The other alpha's second spoke up, "Oh? And you do? True alpha my ass. There's no way he is one at his age and skill level. And one that co-alphas with a human nonetheless. What about the rest of your so called pack? Two weak humans, a lizard, a girl who can scream, and worst of all, a hunter." Her fangs grew as she spit out the last word like poison. "You're not a pack. You're an after school club that needs to go down for a nap. Grandpa too."

Stiles chuckled. "Debating our pack's strength will get you nowhere. You could've taken this land right after the Hales left, but you didn't. We took care of it. We made sure this land's people lived. We kept those who wished it harm, out. We made this our home and you can't take it without breaking the most sacred of laws and traditions. This is our land, it is ours. As we have taken care of it, it too shall take care of us. As we dwell within it, it dwells within us. As we draw on it's power, it draws on ours. As we are a part of this land, this land is a part of us." Stiles recited just like the book he read said. He took his father and Scott's hand and the pack linked hands. Stiles smirked. "In other words, I speak for the trees bitch."

His eyes began to glow and the wind picked up. The trees around them all began to bend. The branches closest to their pack shielded them while the other pack was batted and scraped.

The wind died down. The other pack looked pissed, but knew better than to challenge a pack on their own turf with even numbers.

Their alpha turned to Deaton with a sickly sweet smile. "Druid, I request you let one more person enter the circle of sanctuary. No harm will come of anyone, but they will shed some light on how this is their land. They recently changed their minds about some things. And since the rituals of claim need till tonight to solidify, their claim is as valid as any. This is their birthright after all." He said with a sneer towards Scott.

Stiles had a momentary freak out. What if Laura changed her mind? But she said she wouldn't. She gave her word. This was likely some sort of trick.

Deaton looked to him and Scott. They both shared a brief look then nodded to him. Deaton spoke steady and clear. "One can draw near, but they may not cause harm nor fear." A small break in the barrier was broken and they could see outside the circle.

Derek walked in and both Stilinski men stood stock still with shock. Derek looked to the other alpha and nodded before scanning both packs. He looked guiltily at the sheriff before freezing at the man next to him.

"What are you doing here?" Two voices demanded in unison.

Stiles crossed his arms. "You first."

The chill and guard in his eyes hurt Derek. "I came to claim this land."

Just as easily as the bond took hold, the pack felt it ripped from them to neutral territory.

Scott nudged Stiles. "You know him?"

Stiles squinted. Was this all just some ploy from the other pack to steal their land? Had this stranger really cared? Stiles looked into those eyes he had trusted till the moment they walked through the barrier. He was conflicted and confused. "I don't know."

His dad stepped forward. "Derek son, your alpha already forfeited this land. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry sir." He did look apologetic.

Stiles' eyes widened. "Derek?" His neighbor's eyes looked over to him. Had this all been some big lie? Had Derek been there to surveil him? And what, he just got bored and decided to play with his emotions? Stiles' face hardened once again. "You have no right. Your pack abandoned this land. Your alpha isn't here to claim it. You have no right to take from us. We protected this land. We cared for it, we bled for it! It is ours!" Stiles was speaking with force and anger.

That smarmy bastard had another smirk. "Why would Laura need to come? You see, Derek let me in on the most delicious little tidbit a few days ago. He's an alpha."

Stiles' blood ran cold. If Derek was an alpha, if he wanted the land it was his. His family lived here for generations. Hell, they practically built Beacon Hills. All he would have to do is say the words. If he claimed Beacon he could force them out.

The sheriff spoke with conviction, "Derek's not an alpha. He gave me his word. He gave his word that a Hale wouldn't claim Beacon."

Derek looked up with guilt in his eyes. "I said Laura wouldn't claim Beacon." And just like that the guilt was replaced by crimson.

The sheriff stepped back like he'd been slapped.

"I'm sorry sir. I know this is your pack, but this was my home. My territory. I want to build a future. I intended to take Beacon for my pack."

Stiles nearly flinched with how close the words were. If he just changed the tense they would lose this.

"But I think something might have changed." He turned to Deaton. "May I and one of their pack speak in private?" He motioned to the man next to the sheriff.

Deaton looked to Stiles and he nodded once again.

"Whoa, whoa wait. I'm not letting you go out there with some stranger, Stiles!" He grabbed his arm as he spoke.

Derek nearly growled and slashed at him until he recognized him as Scott. He looked and now that he was paying attention, he had seen all of these people in photos the man, Stiles had shown him.

"It's fine. I can handle it. If he tries anything," Stiles twirled his bat. "This is freshly wrapped in wolfsbane and ready to be shoved up an asshole."

Deaton spoke, "Pass may two, the door will shut until they are through."

The barrier once again opened and Stiles followed Derek out.

It was tense till they saw the barrier close.

Derek stepped closer. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what is even happening." Derek went to hold Stiles' arms, but he stepped back.

"I have granted your request. Speak alpha Hale." His voice was detached.

Derek looked crushed and confused. "No, no. Why are you doing that? No."

"You're the one that showed up to steal my land. After all that talk about home, family, and how no one should have theirs taken from them, you go and do this." Stiles scoffed. "To actually think I believed you. God, I am an idiot. Tell your sister bra-fuckin-vo. She must be one hell of a liar to have taught you so well."

"What are you talking about?"

Stiles looked murderous and he let out a scoff with a small deadly smile. "Oh don't give me that! You can stop lying now. God, after all that bullshit about not lying and being honest." The heat of rage flickered out for a moment and blinding hurt could be seen. "After all that shit about not lying, after me telling you things I haven't even told Scott, after we- I thought- I- I-" Stiles had tears threatening to spill as his voice cracked. "I was an idiot. You never cared for me. All you wanted was to take back Beacon."

Derek's eyes went wide with understanding. "No! No. No. No!" He tried to grab for Stiles again, but that made him grip his bat tighter and Derek decided to explain first. "I didn't give two shits about Beacon until a week ago. My pack and I were content to just live in peace on your land. Like I was a beta. I didn't want the responsibility, the weight of it, but you changed that. I realized I was being selfish. My pack deserves an alpha that provides. They deserve a home. And so do you. You made me want Beacon. You. You did that." Derek smiled at him.

Stiles felt a rock in his stomach. His family was about to lose their home and future because Stiles thought with his dick. After all the trouble he gave Scott. "So take it. You know we can't fight a Hale's claim." Stiles went to turn back to the barrier.

"God damn it, just wait! I wanted Beacon for you!" Derek softened. "For us. For our future."

The picture was starting to get clearer to Stiles. He spoke measured and clear, "Derek. You realize, that if you do this, if you take Beacon and force my family out, we won't have one. My future lies with my pack."

Derek looked overwhelmed. "Jesus, give me a second to figure this all out. I just had everything turned inside out. I wouldn't force you guys away. We would find another way."

Stiles shook his head. "If you claim this land we could never be together. It would feel like I was choosing you over Scott and my dad and my pack. That's something I can't do."

Derek looked lost. "If he claims this land my family's tradition and ties would die."

They stood in heartbroken silence.

Stiles tensed like he was shocked. "What if neither of those things happen?" Derek looked confused, but he continued, "What if they both do?"

"If two rivaling alphas compete, it would go to whoever completed the ritual first."

Stiles smiled wide. "Not if they weren't rivals or competing. What if we all claimed the land? I read somewhere that if two people have intent to marry or claim each other, they can share a territory until their bond is solidified."

"What are you saying?"

"Derek, I'm going to ask you something very important."

"Okay?"

"What is your favorite gummi bear flavor?"

"What?"

Stiles looked insistent.

"Orange. Why?"

Stiles looked gleeful. "All Stilinski's hate orange flavor. As soon as I found out Scott loved them I knew he was a keeper. I have something else important to ask you." Derek still looked confused, but was going with it. "I know we are no where near ready for it, but do you, somewhere in the very very distant future see yourself agreeing to eat orange gummi bears for the rest of your life?"

Derek looked confused before looking very freaked out. "Are you asking me to get married?!"

"No. Well, yes. But not until very very far in the future. It doesn't actually have to happen, the intent just has to be there in order to claim the territory. So if you have intent to marry the Stilinski alpha, three people can technically claim the territory, because Scott is the werewolf alpha, not just the human one. The human alpha would claim the territory and their pack alpha and their intended would also have equal claim on the territory."

Derek still looked freaked out and like he was going to throw up.

Stiles started dragging him back. "Magic wall, we're ready."

Derek's eyes widened. "No! No we're not!"

The barrier opened and Stiles shoved both of them through.

The air was tense and more than one person had claws out.

Stiles bulldozed ahead anyway. "We have a solution." He caught all attention. "As the law mandates, if two are intent to marry they can both claim the territory they will one day share. And if one is human, their alpha also has part ownership of the land. In this way three people can claim territory jointly. I declare intent for the Stilinski alpha to one day, very very distantly, to marry the alpha Derek Hale."

Everyone looked shocked, but especially his dad and Scott.

Derek was more red and green than adverts at Christmas time. He yanked on Stiles' arm. "No! Stiles stop! I'm not going to marry your dad!" With that harsh and very loud declaration everyone went deadly silent as they stared at Derek.

"What?" Derek felt like he was in one of those dreams where you'd forgotten your underwear.

Stiles looked calm as he spoke like he was speaking to a child, "Derek. Why would you think I meant you'd marry my dad." It sounded like a statement.

Derek made a wounded noise that seemed like he was saying it was obvious.

Stiles face dawned understanding, but was still carefully blank besides a faint trace of amusement. "Derek. Who do you think the Stilinski alpha is?"

Derek just huffed and threw out an arm to the sheriff like it was the only option.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips to mean, 'Try again.'

Derek stood dumbfounded.

Stiles groaned. "Derek, I'm the Stilinski alpha."

Derek's eyebrows went up to his hairline.

A snooty voice spoke, "Derek, just claim the land already. Your mother would be turning over in her grave if Talia knew what a pathetic bitch and his little human slut were ruining her town, much less that her son didn't immediately put a stop to it."

Stiles found it nice to know that Derek's face could go from, 'I might be a murderer.' to, 'I am two seconds away from ripping you limb from limb.' in two seconds.

"In case you've forgotten, my father was human. My mother welcomed all to her pack and was stronger for it." He had to snarl around large fangs. He grabbed Stiles' hand. "I declare intent to eventually marry the Stilinski alpha."

Stiles reached out for Scott's hand and he took it after a long look and a nod from Stiles.

Stiles spoke, "I declare intent to one day, a really mother fuckin long time from now, marry the Hale alpha Derek."

Stiles squeezed their hands and they spoke in unison. "We claim this territory." All of their eyes briefly flashed red.

Derek was still snarling. "Now get the fuck out of our territory before we declare intent to kill you for daring to use my mother's name like that."

"You can't-"

Deaton dropped the circle of sanctuary.

Stiles had a shark-like grin. "As we take care of it, it takes care of us." His eyes glowed as the wind whipped and trees and vines started to chase them out.

It was calm and still.

Stiles broke the silence. "So... Who wants pie?"

His dad grabbed him by the back of the neck. "Stiles, did you just get werewolf engaged?!"

"Easy pops! No. I got regular, 'Hey we're dating. This might lead to marriage, let's move in together.'ed.

His dad squinted before cuffing him on the back of his head. "I need pie. Then a nap. Then maybe an explanation as to what the hell just happened."

Scott raised his hand. "Ditto." His mouth dropped open. "Wait! Oh my god, dude! Is this hot neighbor! I thought his scent was familiar! But he didn't smell like a werewolf before when I smelled him on you."

They all looked to Derek in shock.

Allison got there first. "That's hot neighbor? Have my babies neighbor that you wouldn't shut up about is Derek Hale!?"

Stiles groaned. "Pie first. Then embarrass Stiles to death please. I want to go out on a full stomach."

An unidentified female voice spoke from behind some trees, "Pie sounds good. Who's treating?"

Instantly everyone was on alert except Derek. "Wait! It's okay. It Erica."

Everyone looked at him like, 'Who's Erica.' except Stiles.

A bombshell blonde walked out followed by a tall quiet black man.

She stepped right up to Stiles and looked scrutinizing. "So this is him?" She looked unsure. "He's so skinny. And nerdy. He doesn't look like he can handle you. He looks like you could eat him alive."

Stiles expertly, and impressively twirled his bat then rested it on his shoulder with a lecherous smile. "Believe me, he already has. Multiple times."

Her face lit up. "Ooo Derek, I like this one! Let's keep him!"

Derek turned to Stiles. "I will buy everyone as much pie as they want. As long as you promise not to be friends with her."

Stiles put a hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes lovingly. "Derek, I love pie. I would do anything for pie. But if you think for one second we aren't going to make your life a living hell, you've got another thing coming."

Erica laughed and Stiles linked arms with her leaving Derek behind.

Scott gave him a pitying look. "He's just like that, no he will not apologize at any point. Get used to it, or get gone."

The fierce protectiveness reminded him of Laura, but not the alpha in her, the sister.

He nodded. "I'm acclimating fast."

Scott nodded and his normal puppish look was back.

Allison wrapped Scott's arm around her neck and spoke to him as she passed almost as an after thought, "Hurt him and I know the best wolfsbane to make you die the slowest and most painful."

Lydia just gave him a look that was somehow more terrifying that facing down fifty alphas that wanted his head. She hmphed and left.

Lizard man was next. "I hate Stilinski. But if I have to deal with his bitchin and crying I'll paralyze you and by the time I wrap my tail around your throat, you'll be begging me to kill you."

By far none of those comments prepared him for the last one. Especially not coming from a man he respected so much. The sheriff clapped him around the shoulders. "He is my world and the only thing I have left of her that means a damn. If you hurt him, know that you'll hurt five people irreparably. One, him. Two, yourself. Three, me. And son you don't want to cross a man who knows the law. We know how to break it, and get away with it."

Derek swallowed. There was nothing quite like a significant other's parent terrorizing you. "And the other two people sir?"

"It would be awful for your sisters to have to lose one of the only remaining family members they have left. Hurt my boy and I'll put you in a hole God herself couldn't find. And they will never know what happened to you." The sheriff smiled. He walked off.

Derek had never known terror until that moment. His future father-in-law was insane. His boyfriend's friends were insane. He remembered all of what just happened and freaked out.

Fuck. His boyfriend was insane!

---

They rode separately, but as soon as they got there they all squished into the biggest setup the diner had. They all ordered food and ate like they were starved. Everyone was laughing and getting along just as much as they bickered. Erica and Jackson instantly mixed like oil and water, but Boyd and Lydia were deep in conversation. Derek could tell this would work, could feel it.

His eyes were glassy and he felt someone squeeze his hand. He looked down and then over at Stiles. He squeezed his hand back.

Stiles looked happy. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just, thank you."

Stiles tilted his head. "For what?"

Derek leaned over to kiss his forehead and then brought his knuckles to his lips. "For showing me, that homes shouldn't be taken. They should be shared."

Stiles grinned at him and then leaned his head on Derek's shoulder as he finished both of their curly fries.

The terror was worth it. Everything was worth it when it came to Stiles.

The sheriff gave him a soft smile. He leaned over to clap Derek's shoulder. "Welcome to the family son." His attention quickly wandered again.

Derek looked down to a beaming Stiles. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I think I'm just realizing the possibility of something wasn't as dead to me as I thought." Derek smiled with shiny eyes.

Stiles leaned up for a kiss. It was too much grin and a weird angle, but Derek swore it was the best kiss that had ever happened. Stiles pulled back with a fond look. "Welcome home."

Derek ended up paying for everybody's pie.

#Stiles #stiles stilinski #teen wolf stiles #derek x stiles #stiles x derek #human stiles #alpha stiles #alpha scott #alpha derek #Derek #derek hale #Sterek #sterek fanfiction #sterek fluff #sterek bingo 2020 #sterekbingo #sterekbingo2020 #sboverworked #sbinsomnia #sbneighbors #magic!stiles #for a bit there anyway #two dorks in love #if theres plot holes about them finding out who the other was... i am too tired to care #derek is a failwolf #but also a creeperwolf #stiles is stressed #derek is lost #and theyre probably both as sleep deprived as i am #oh and i also included that thing i saw in a post about programmers using ducks to explain issues

[harringrovetrashrat]

how about something wih #15 and #32, with lots of hurt!Billy?

You are SPEAKING MY LANGUAGE

#15 I can’t lose you. I just can’t. and #32 Angry Love Confession

Steve gripped the bat in his hand, walking carefully through the trees.  Billy was behind him, axe in hand, and the woods were still, too quiet, except for their breathing.  Steve’s hand spasmed around the bat, clenching tightly as his hairs stood on end.  That’s when the tree came into view.  Steve approached it, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell.  Billy gagged behind him.

“Fuck,” he groaned.  “That shit never gets easier to smell.  Fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed absently.  He pulled his walkie out of his back pocket. “Found one, over.” There was crackle and then Hopper’s voice was coming through.

“Whereabouts, over.”

“Maybe like 500 feet, uh, west?”

“North, pretty boy,” Billy drawled.

“North,” Steve corrected, giving Billy the finger.  “North of the Garrison farmhouse, over.”

“Copy that.  Don’t anything stupid if you see anything, over.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Weren’t you a boy scout?” Billy asked, smile teasing and cocky.  It was fucking hot, especially with the axe slung over his shoulder, leather jacket over a white tank.  Billy ran on hot, always warm to the touch, and Steve found himself wanting to press kisses along his collar bone.  He looked back up at Billy’s face, huffing in annoyance.

“I’ve just never had a good sense of direction,” he replied, not bothering to answer that he’d always relied on a compass, because he knew Billy would make fun of him for it.

“Come on,” Billy said.  “I’ll lead us back, don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

“You’re such a--”

Before Steve could finish, there was an inhuman screech behind them.  He turned, bat raised and swinging, knocking a demodog that was pouncing to the side.

“Fuck!” Billy yelled.  “Steve!” The demodog rolled and popped back up, shaking its head, before launching itself at Steve again.

“Shit!” Steve swung again, hitting its side.  It went flying and Billy swung his axe as it landed by him, chopping into the side.  The screech it let out was piercing, cutting through Steve and making his brain crumple in on itself.  The demodog writhed away, the axe embedded into it, tugging it from Billy’s hands.  Steve moved forward to help, but then the breath was knocked out of his lungs when another demodog tackled him to the ground.

“Steve!” Billy screamed, but Steve could barely hear him over the pounding of his heart in his ears.  The bat was knocked from his hands and he brought his arms up, trying to protect himself.  He wished he had had the chance to kiss Billy.  To have at least gone for it before dying in the woods.  He waited for the bite.  But the weight on top of him was suddenly gone, a scream cutting through the blood pulsing in his head and he sat up.

Billy was wrestling the fucking thing.  It flipped them, biting into his shoulder.  Billy screamed in pain, kicking at the thing until he knocked it off of him.  Steve scrambled to get up, grabbing his bat and running over.  The demodog had just latched onto Billy’s calf, teeth shredding his jeans, when Steve swung the bat like a club.  It went flying into a tree, hitting with a sick crunch.  But Steve was seeing fucking red, like Billy’s blood, Billy’s fucking blood--

“Harrington!  It’s fucking dead!” Steve stopped, snapping back to reality.  He stumbled, looking down and seeing the demodog.  Or what was left.  Most of the front was mashed beyond recognition and when he looked down he was covered in goo.  He almost dropped the bat, but before he could, he remembered Billy.

“Billy!  You fucking--!” He ran over, keeping the bat close.  Billy had scratches all along his torso, and his shoulder was bleeding sluggishly.  The teeth had torn his jacket up, less than his jeans at least, but it had gotten a good grip.  Billy’s shoulder looked almost like ground meat in some spots.  Steve wanted to throw up but instead he grabbed Billy’s face, looking into his eyes.  “Are you-- Can you walk?” He let out a noise of frustration.  “Of course you can’t.  Fuck!”

“Harrington!” Billy snapped, breathing harshly through his nose.  “Help me up and we can get the fuck out of here.  We don’t know if there are any more of them.” Steve inhaled and nodded sharply, helping Billy up before grabbing the bat and situating himself so they had protection, but he could also help Billy walk.

The walk was tense and silent except for Steve’s harsh breathing, and Billy’s hisses of pain and grunts as he shifted wrong.  Steve was fuming, trying to keep himself calm, because now was not the time, but what the fuck had Billy been thinking?  Tackling and wrestling a fucking demodog?  Steve exhaled sharply and forced the thought out of his mind.  He could think about that later once they were out of here.  Billy kept shooting him glances, growing more and more worried.  Steve wanted to give him a reassuring smile but-- but--

“Here,” Steve said quietly, helping BIlly into his car, leaning in to buckle him up.  Billy said nothing, just watched him intently with those blue fucking eyes.  Steve quickly got to the driver’s side and threw the car in reverse, buckling as he went.  “We’re going to the hospital.”

“Harrington,” Billy sighed, “We’ve been through this.  No hospitals.”

“Your shoulder looks like fucking ground beef--”

“We’ll sew it up,” Billy grit out.  “I can do it myself if I fucking have to.”

“No way,” Steve snapped.  “If you won’t go to the hospital, you will go to Mrs. Byers.” Billy grit his teeth, but said nothing.  Steve took that as a when and turned, heading for the Byers.

--

“Oh my,” Joyce gasped.  “Hop said you two were helping him look for trees but--”

“I lost the walkie in the woods,” Steve panted, helping Billy onto the couch.  “I couldn’t reach him.  But he-- His shoulder--” Joyce cut him off with a hand.  She went to Billy and gently looked at his shoulder, ribs, and leg.  Billy trembled and bit his lip to keep from making noise.

“Steve,” Joyce said, looking up, “I need you to grab my first aid kit from under the sink.  Then I need you to get something for Billy to bite on.”

“I’ll be fine,” Billy grit out.

“Your poor teeth won’t,” Joyce chided.  She looked at Steve who kicked it into gear, grabbing the kit and bringing it to Joyce.  “Lighter?” She asked.  Steve got his from his pocket and held it out to her.  She cleaned the wound with alcohol and Steve removed his belt, remembering seeing someone use it to bite on in a movie once, and shoved it in Billy’s face.  He looked so dumbfounded by it that he missed Joyce heating the needle, threading it, and beginning to sew up the tears in Billy’s skin.

“Fuck!” Billy cried, before biting down on Steve’s belt, clenching his eyes shut.  Steve didn’t look, just held Billy’s hand as Joyce worked.  Once she was done, she offered them a place to crash, but Steve declined.

“Just call Hopper for us?” He’d told her what happened, unable to take looking at Billy’s face twisted in pain for a second longer.  She nodded and sent them off.

When they got to Steve’s house, he set Billy up on the couch.

“I’m gonna grab an air mattress,” Steve mumbled, his anger starting to come back now that they were home.  Now that they were safe.  Billy watched him leave, silent.  Steve had to count to ten a few times as he went to get the mattress.  Once again, Billy had thrown himself into danger.  Once again, he had disregarded his mortality and thrown himself into danger.  To protect Steve.  He sneered a little and grit his teeth, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.

Billy always did this.  Would attack the demodogs first, would pick fights with Tommy, would take beatings from his father--

The first time that Billy had gotten involved, the dogs had been attacking in the junkyard.  He’d arrived for Max, but then had seen Steve going to town on the fucking monsters, and had just gone with it.  Had grabbed a crow bar from the ground and started beating the nearest beast with fervor.  Steve had momentarily been surprised, pausing, which gave an opening to a demodog.  Billy had kicked it off and punched the thing in the face, over dramatic, but had finished the job with the crowbar.

Every time they went out, Billy threw himself into the fighting like it was all he was good for.  Used himself as fucking bait half the time.  Did the same thing with the human monsters in his life.

Steve slammed the closet door shut and stomped back to the living room, angrily shoving the cord for the pump into the wall.  He could feel Billy watching him, could feel the tension rising, whirring like the air that pumped into the mattress.  Steve angrily closed the opening once it was done, letting out a low growl when some air leaked out.  It always did, but he was already pissed off--

“What did the air mattress ever do to you?” Billy’s voice was teasing, but strained.  Like he couldn’t help teasing Steve, but knew that something was wrong.  The fire that was burning low inside Steve fucking burst.

“What the fuck is your issue?” He snapped, whipping around to glare at Billy.  “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” Billy looked taken aback, eyes wide, lips parted.

“What?”

“Is this some sort of sick game to you?” Steve stalked over, furious.  “That this is funny?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Harrington,” Billy grumbled, glaring at Steve like he was the one being ridiculous.

“The fact that you could’ve been fucking killed tonight, Billy!” Said boy flinched back, and Steve was so angry, but not enough to not know that looming was something Billy couldn’t deal with, so he backed up, running his hand through his hair.  He began pacing.  “The fact that you always throw yourself at whatever fucking thing is hurting us like you dying doesn’t matter.”

“Does it?” Steve gaped at him.  “This is the only time I’ve ever been a useful part of something.  All my life I’ve been a fucking dickhead who-- who can’t get over his father’s bullshit!  You though, you--”

“Okay okay,” Steve said, holding up a hand.  “Get over your father’s bullshit?  I’m not gonna say you were like, great at handling your anger, but you don’t just get over that shit!  And you don’t go throwing yourself into danger because you think you deserve it!”

“I--”

“And you always put me on this fucking pedestal!” Steve threw his hands up, unable to stop the mean laugh that burst out of him.  “Like I’m some fucking hero!  I’m not!”

“I know that!” Billy snapped.  “Fuck you!”

“Then why--”

“Because I can’t lose you,” Billy yelled, voice cracking.  He sank back into the couch, crumpling into himself.  Steve gaped at him, blinking owlishly.  “I just can’t,” Billy whispered into his hands, covering his face.  “And you-- You don’t even get it.” Steve’s heart beat fast and his mouth was dry.  “If you--  If you die,” Billy said, voice trembling, “I have fucking nothing.”

“What--”

“Fuck!” Billy hit the pillows next to him, wincing when it made his stitches pull.  Steve was at a loss for words, unable to look anywhere but Billy.  Billy and his pretty boy and baiting Tommy and--

“You-- You--” He stammered, trying to fit the pieces together.  Like everything was right in front of him but he had a piece turned the wrong way.

“Fuck this,” Billy mumbled.  He moved to lay down and Steve’s anger rose again.

“No.” Billy’s eyes snapped over to him, narrowed.  “No,” Steve repeated.  “You don’t just get to say that shit to me and then act like it doesn’t mean anything--”

“Just forget--”

“Forget?  Are you fucking joking?”

“Harrington--”

“You just told me you throw yourself into shit without thinking because you, what, you don’t wanna lose me?” Billy grit his teeth and scowled at the coffee table.  “Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t want to lose you?” Steve felt his lungs getting tight as his breath became shorter.  “That maybe seeing you throw yourself at shit that will get you killed makes my heart stop?  Makes me feel like I’m about to die?  I--” Steve gulped for air as angry tears started to spill down his cheeks.  “Do you not see?  Do you not see how much I fucking love you?” Billy stared at him, eyes wide, looking younger than he ever had.  “I need you too.  You can’t just-- You can’t--” His voice wavered and he wiped angrily at his eyes.  Billy hadn’t moved, just kept staring, dumbstruck.  “Shit,” Steve hissed.  “Shit!”

“You love me?” Billy’s voice was soft, quiet, and so unlike him that it pulled Steve back to reality.  He looked at him and Billy--  Billy--

He looked awed, happy, and nervous all at once and the final puzzle piece shifted and Steve saw it.

“I love you so much, it drives me crazy,” Steve breathed.  “It scares me sometimes, just how much I’d do for you.” Billy began to struggle to get up, yelping when he moved his arm wrong.

“Ow!  Shit!”

“Don’t!” Steve said, rushing over and touching Billy everywhere he could.  Making sure he was there, alive, now that his anger was fading.  “Why were you even trying to get up?”

“I couldn’t kiss you while you were all the way over there,” Billy replied, pulling Steve in by his collar, and kissing him so tenderly, so lovingly, that just for a moment, Steve’s world stopped.

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #joyce byers #anon #prompt #blood tw #angst with a happy ending

[ladynightmare913]

Red Rose, Blood Moon

Welcome to Chapter 9! This is an Original Story inspired by the tale of Red Riding Hood. I would like to say a special thank to my best friend and co-author Olivia ( @asunshinepuff​ ) for joining me on writing this world onto paper. 

CW: There are mentions of death, blood, and gore. You have your warning!

This story contains only original characters created by Olivia and myself. For those of you who want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask to me or Olivia on her blog. If you have any questions, theories, or curiosities about any of our characters or how the story will progress, send them to the ask box! I know this chapter is shorter than usual but I promise to make up for it in the next chapter! 

I recommend listening this song while reading. I was listening to it while I wrote this.

Now without Further Adieu!

Chapter 9: Bardolph

1000 years ago

Red collapsed to the snow covered ground, hands reached to grab anything as the searing pain surged through him, he choked and gasped for air. At last when the trills of sunlight warmed his freezing body, did the pain finally cease until there was nothing. Exhausted and starving, he laid there. 

Ice blue eyes opened slowly. Heavy eyelids tempted Red to fall back into his deep slumber, but the scent wouldn’t let him. He turned his head to  get a better look at his surroundings. He blinked slowly, he wasn’t in the forest, or laying on the frozen ground. He was on a bed, in a room with wooden walls, lined with shelves full of books. 

Red swallowed thickly, his throat dry. He shifted his arms, but they were heavy like lead.  He lifted his head to see what kept him bound, but there was nothing restraining him. Only thick fur blankets. His chest however, was bandaged. He glared at the wolf on his chest, he sighed as he laid his head back down. He tried to fight out sleep, but he couldn’t find the strength to do so. 

The next time he woke, his hand rested upon his chest, his eyes didn’t struggle to open. His ears picked up the crackling of a fire. The scent of light smoke and warm broth flooded his newly sensitive nose. He found that he could move his arms at last, and slowly sat up from the bed. Catching the attention of his savoir. 

“Hold on there now, you were nearly dead when I found you.” A man’s voice.

Red looked to the stranger. The man was tall, his hair was a soft curly brown, lightly tanned skin, and the most striking pair of hazel eyes that seemed to have speck of gold in the sunlight. 

Red felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, the wolf on his chest moved, shifting to a stance with its jaw closed into a growl. But not a sound was heard. Red felt the stranger prop a pillow behind him. He cleared his voice.

“Thank you…” His voice croaked. 

Wordlessly the stranger handed him a cup of water with a smile. “Call me Bardolph.” 

“Thank you Bardolph.” Red craned his neck to look around him. “How long have I been here?” 

“Four days, found you up on that snowy mountain while I was hunting for the Golden Doe.” Bardolph chuckled. 

Red snorted, “That’s just a legend.” 

“Maybe, but I’m a dying man. Can’t help it if I’m desperate.” 

Red paled. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have-”

“Pff, it’s alright. I’ve been hunting it for months now, never caught sight of it.” He clicked his tongue. “What were you doin’ out there anyway, in this bitter cold with nothing but the skin on your back?” 

Red sighed. “It’s… a long story.” 

Bardolph leaned back to his seat, crossing his arms. A smirk on his face. “I’ve got nothing else to do, indulge me.” 

Red merely shook his head in amusement. He relaxed, leaning his back to rest on the headboard. His eyes caught a leather journal resting on the self next to him. Herbs littered the shelves as well. 

“You’re a healer?”

Bardolph gave a small chuckle. “Of sorts.” He grabs the journal, opening it to a page and handing the journal over. 

Red accepted it, gently handling the book with great care. His eyes skimmed over the text, how to treat small cuts on the chest. He frowned at the date. 

“773?” He asked, his throat suddenly dry.

“How hard did you hit your head? Of course it’s 773” Bardolph looked over Red.

Red paled. His hand rising to cover his eyes, tears streamed down his face. “Three years. I’ve been trapped in that state for three years.” he choked out.

Bardolph said nothing as he only watched the young man before him weep at his apparent gap in time. When Red calmed, he offered the bed ridden man broth. 

They fell into a routine, Red was a skilled hunter, so it became his responsibility to hunt for their meals. Bardolph would collect herbs, and leave often to the city. And whenever the moon would become full, Red always left for the woods. Bardolph grew suspicious. 

“Where do you go?” He asked. But Red always evaded his questions. 

Bardolph frowned. “You’re hunting for the Golden Doe aren’t you? What does it only come out on the full moon?”

“No, I am not hunting the doe and I honestly doubt that.” Red lifted his cloak over his shoulders. “I’ll be back in the morning. Do not leave this house until then.” 

“Alright, alright you say the same thing every time.” 

“I mean it every time.” Red deadpanned. 

Without another word he left. Unaware of Bardolph following his tracks from a great distance. Hidden behind a tree, Bardolph watched in fascination as Red screamed in agony, his skin fell apart, his bones cracked and twisted until he became an unrecognizable beast. The beast nearly caught him, in an act of desperation, Bardolph climbed up a tree in great haste. And there he stayed until morning. The beast was nowhere to be seen, so he took his chance and hurried back to his home. There he waited for Red. And just like Red said, he returned in the morning. Haggard and half dead. 

Bardolph nursed him back to health, as he always did. On the third day, he spoke at last.

“I saw you become a beast.” He spoke eveningly. Red froze. “You could cure me.” 

“Bardolph, whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong. I cannot cure you. I would only condemn you.” He spoke tiredly. 

“So what’s a little pain? You’re fast, and strong. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how easily you catch your quarry.” Bardolph’s eyes brighten. “You’re unstoppable.

Red paused, sighing as he lowered the dagger he was cleaning. 

“I am not, silver burns me,” Red looked to Bardolph, “I lose my sanity every time. I was trapped in that state for three years.”  

Bardolph stepped closer. “Are there more of you?”

Red shook his head. “No, I am the only one.” 

Bardolph frowned. “You have the chance to cure many people and you just keep it to yourself?” 

“I do not even know if I even can transfer the curse onto another. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. I would never wish this curse upon anyone, not even my worst enemy.” His eyes hardened.

“You know I am dying and you won’t cure me?”

“This is not a cure, Bardolph, I was cursed to become a monster every full moon. The first time I transformed, I stayed trapped in that state for three years. I could not control anything the monster did, I am grateful it stayed in the forest.” Red explained. 

“You’ve been transforming a whole lot more now.” 

“At the cost of my sanity.” 

“You look sane to me.” He snapped. 

Red glared. “You do not understand, I am driven by bloodlust. I have no sense of reason, I could only watch in horror as the monster in me tore apart its teeth with no remorse. If I had stayed here when I transformed, I would have killed you!” 

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I cannot recognize my own family in that state…” Red lowered his gaze. “... I know because I couldn’t recognize you. You were only prey.”

“You didn’t know I was there.”

“Yes I did, but to the monster inside of me, you were nothing to me.” 

Bardolph frowned, he turned back to his knives. Red frowned. “Bardolph, promise me you won’t go after me again. I don’t want to hurt you, it’s not my nature, but it is the wolf’s.” Bardolph only nodded his head. 

The next full moon, Bardolph kept his word. And then the next, and the next, until Bardolph decided not to. He followed after Red. 

The monster charged at the man, but Bardolph did not move, and the wolf bit his entire arm. Bardolph screamed in agony. The monster left him for dead when a group of deer caught it’s attention. Bardolph dragged himself home. Red returned in the morning and smelled the blood. 

“I told you. You promised!” Red growled out. His eyes glowed gold.

“Think of it this way, you didn’t kill me!” 

They didn’t speak for weeks, and when the full moon arrived, Bardolph screamed in agony, transforming into a monster. When morning came, Red dragged Bardolph back to the house. Bardolph was overjoyed that he had returned human, and soon his senses began to grow. 

Red only watched in silent horror as his friend became overcome with bloodlust in his human form. Craving live chickens and pigs for food instead of cooked meat. Liking the blood clean off the plate. He grew more violent, and tempmental. Bardolph had left for the city, the night before a full moon. He assured Red that he would control himself. Red didn’t believe him. 

Bardolph had killed an innocent woman. Red was too late to save her, Bardolph had lost him in the dizzying streets. Red watched in horror as Bardolph begane to feast upon her. 

“Bardolph.” Red pulled the man off of her. “We’re leaving now.” Red ordered, Bardolph whimpered, as if a scolded puppy before he snarled.  Breaking free of his hold, he ran. Red chased after him. 

The full moon rose to its peak, Red clutched his clutch his agony.  The curse mark of the wolf, the wolf was the darkest black, its jaws began to close on his heart. Red refused to turn just yet. “Bardolph please!”

But Bardolph couldn’t stop the transformation, and screamed in pain. Red panted for breath, he couldn’t hold on much longer. Right before his vision faded to black, he saw a large chestnut brown wolf stalk towards him. 

The city was filled with screams in horror as two giant wolves fought each other for dominance, the smaller of the two landed a large wound across the larger wolf’s back, over his right shoulder. Three slash marks from it’s claws. The larger wolf, wounded and in pain, managed to grab the smaller wolf’s jugular, ready to tear it apart. Just as they both began to whimper in pain as the sun began to rise. 

Red left the city, returning to the snowy mountains. Where he recovered from his wounds for a year. He returned to the human world in search of Bardolph, to take responsibility for what happened. How his curse turned a man into a monster in both mind and soul. But he never found him. 

Years went by, how many Red wouldn’t be able to tell you. Only that he would search for Bardolph. But only come across more people cursed to be like him. Red noticed that he didn’t age. He couldn’t die. No matter what he tried swallowing silver, he tried everything. But he would not die. Red grieved for those who didn’t survive the turning, and grieved even more for those who did. And for those who were born with the curse. 

Red started into the large puddle. His face was covered in black fur, his ears were alert, and his eyes glowed gold. For the first time in a century, Red’s consciousness finally broke through the insanity. He finally saw himself in what he had become, he wasn’t angry or bloodthirsty. The eyes that stared back at him were his own, even if they were gold. For the first time in his cursed life, he accepted the wolf as part of him. They were one and the same. Luara’s curse brought the worst in humans, she didn’t turn him into a monster. It was always a part of him, she only brought it out. He growled at his reflection. There was no denying it anymore, He is the wolf. 

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@spookypotato @purple-amaranthe @violetatapiamills

#Original Story #Red Riding Hood #asunshinepuff ocs #Our ocs #Red #Bardolph Sinclair #Luara #CW death #cw gore #cw blood #werewolves #curse #ladynightmare ocs

[wisegiverchaos]

My Dream Last Night

 CONTEXT: I was thinking about sports bras during the day prior to going to bed, so I began the dream in some sort of store perusing sports bras. As is standard with dreams, the locations flowed into each other as if they all exist whithin a single monolithic, labyrinthine structure. The store flowed from a women’s clothing section into Target’s home section, past ottomans and blankets and candles. From the home section it became a back hallway (think employee corridors at malls) which emptied into several different spaces via doorways. The doorway I eventually take in the dream leads to a darkened picturesque chapel. After passing through the chapel I’ll stumble into a spacious office space with multiple individual offices, and a reception area with a couch and a couple of comfortable chairs. (The bad guy that pops up appears to be the Darkling from Shadow and Bone, which makes sense, I guess, because I find him attractive. His minions are generic bad guys as well as Dakota Fanning at 14 and Alexander Ludwig at the same age.) The reception doors of the office lead outside, where I’ll find myself on a wooded mountain containing the occasional house, as well as some towering trees. I rejoin my team (which I apparently have) and end up near a house toward the foot of the mountain, when a dam bursts. (Makes total sense because I was just reading a book wherein a dam burst and many people were killed. It also included a mountain slope with many trees at one point in the story, so that’s probably where that came from.) We must climb trees in an effort to avoid being swept away. So there you go, that’s what I’ve got.

    I held the package of sports bras, debating. They were cute, and a really good price, but there were five in there, and I’d only been after two. It was a steal, I decided, nodding to myself. If I could find my size I was taking them home. I began to dig through the hanging packages, on a mission. My concentration was broken by a rising clamor coming from the store to my right, and I looked for the cause of the sound. After a moment, a crowd of people charged into view, the fear on their faces communicating better than words that they were fleeing something. Suddenly feeling a sick lance of fright slash through my gut, I turned on my heel and ran, not interested in being trampled. I dodged piles of blankets and candles and leapt over ottomans, some endlessly consumerist part of my brain registering that “huh, those are cute,” as I fled.

    I burst through a large set of swinging doors, through which I’d seen many an employee disappear, and found myself in a large receiving bay. To my left yawned a seemingly endless hallway, studded with doors on either side. I chose the hallway. I was about forty feet into the hall when the swinging doors burst open under the flood of people. I poured on the speed. Up ahead, I noticed one of the doors was slightly ajar, and I angled for it. I skidded to a stop, swung inside, and slammed and locked the door. I leaned heavily against it, listening to the horde of frightened humans stampede past, and I noticed absently that I had locked myself into a broom cupboard. A cramped cleaning closet. I jumped as the door handle was jostled several times, and I pushed my weight into the door just in case. The thunder of footsteps began to recede, along with shouts and the occasional scream. I sank to the floor and rested my head on my knees.

    I awoke sometime later, minutes or hours, I’m not sure, shocked to realize I’d actually fallen asleep. That seemed foolish, given that I didn’t even know what I’d been running from so recently. On my knees, I turned to the door and pressed my ear to it, straining to hear even the smallest sound. There was nothing. I slowly unlocked the door, keeping as quiet as possible. I still winced when the lock popped open, as loud as a gunshot to my paranoid ears. I waited with bated breath for any response to the noise, but the hallway outside remained stubbornly quiet.

         Inch by fraction of an inch, I pushed the door open (less than halfway), glad to be lower to the ground in case anyone was out there. Seeing no one to the left (from which direction I’d come) I poked my head around the door and searched the other end of the hall. Empty. There seemed to be no indication of the swarm of frightened people that had crashed through. I squinted. There were a few scuff marks on the floors and along the walls. To be fair, those could have come from before. There! On the floor up ahead, lay a single shoe.

   Shaking my head, I straightened to my feet. I considered returning the way I’d come, but dismissed the notion with a shiver. I had a bad feeling about going back, what I might see. So instead I turned right, and crept down the hallway, gently trying different doors to see if they’d open. I found another closet like mine, this one stacked with rolls of toilet paper, shelves of soaps, and paper towels; supplies rather than cleaning agents.

   Further down, I had luck with another door. When the door cracked open, I could sense that it was an actual room, rather than a closet, and I paused, waiting. When there was no sound or response, I pulled it open far enough to peek inside. All was dark. Without giving myself time to talk some sense into myself, I slipped inside, the door closing and plunging myself into inky darkness. I stood still, blinking, and waited for my eyes to adjust. I could feel that I was in a very large, open space. As I gained some vision, I could see that I was in a chapel with soaring, vaulted ceilings, a weak sliver of light emanating from behind a pulpit. I turned in a small circle, taking in what little I could make out, and nearly shrieked as I realized I was not alone.

   Rows and rows of pews lined the sides of the cavernous space, every one of them filled to capacity with motionless figures. They were so still, that for a moment I wondered if the pews were holding mannequins for the store. The notion was dispelled, however, when I realized I could hear them breathing in the stillness. On tiptoe, I approached the nearest pew, situated against the back wall. I peered at the woman seated in front of me, feeling at any moment she might jump at me and shout and I would absolutely pee my pants. But she just sat placidly, staring straight ahead, blinking occasionally. Her hands rested in her lap, palms pressed together as if she’d been praying. I looked at the man to her left, and the woman to her right, and they sat in exactly the same position, palms together, staring straight ahead with no expression.

              Eerie.

    I nearly screamed when I heard the door handle begin to turn behind me. Finding no empty spaces of the pews, to try and blend in, I clambered onto the back of the pew, jostling the strange, empty people. From the pew, I leapt at the wall, just managing to catch hold of the bottom of the nearest rafter, which arced toward the ceiling. I scrambled into a secure position, clutching to the beam like a monkey, just as the door swung open. A pair of men entered, talking quietly to one another, each with a scary-looking rifle slung over his shoulder. They walked below me, ostensibly unaware of my presence. They paused in the middle of the chapel, and I lost sight of them for a moment when the door swung shut and  the sliver of light that had illuminated them disappeared. I blinked, waiting for my vision to readjust. The men continued chatting.

   When I could finally see again, I stretched my leg as far as I could go, relieved when I felt my toes hit the next rafter over. I carefully rested more and more of my weight on it until I could safely heave the rest of my body over. In this manner, I slowly made my not-so-graceful way across the chapel. I froze every so often, especially as I neared the men’s location, certain they would hear my movements and soft swearing; but any sounds I made were eaten up by the high ceilings, which also explained why I couldn’t make out anything specific that the men were saying. When I reached the far end of the chapel, I could make out the faint, dark outline of a second door. I settled in to wait, realizing there’d be no getting down and through the door without them noticing.

    Happily, I didn’t have to wait very long. After a couple of minutes walking between the frozen people, snapping or waving in front of their faces, the men seemed to bore. They wound their way back to the door through which they’d entered and left. I remembered just in time to close my eyes to retain what little night-vision I’d achieved. Shaking my head to myself, I lowered my body carefully from the beam, until my questing toes encountered the back of a pew. My other foot joined it, and I bounced quietly to the floor. I put my ear to the new door, and hearing nothing, I pushed it open enough to slip through.

  I was blinded again, this time by a normal level of light rather than a lack thereof. Blinking rapidly, I took in my new surroundings. I was in an office, of sorts. Dim, half lighting revealed various cubicles stretched in front of me that ran to my right, and a hall of actual, private offices with windows and blinds to the left. I chose left, creeping down the hall. I peeked into the offices and continued on, pausing at one with a door on the opposite side of the small room. After a brief look around, I padded into the office, heading for the door. I listened again, heard nothing again, and turned the knob. I pulled the door halfway open, and peeked outside. It was a reception area, open and airy, admitting natural light from large windowed doors to the outside. Empty.

   I let out a quiet sigh of relief, the air whooshing out of my and slumping my shoulders. I opened the door the rest of the way and as I stepped through a quiet voice whispered, “Freeze.” I froze. My foot mid-step, my hand clamped around the doorknob. I wanted to look round, see who had spoken, but my head wouldn’t move. Indeed, my entire body suddenly seemed to be more inclined to follow the command of an unknown stranger than my own; I couldn’t even put my foot the rest of the way down. I jumped when a hand clamped onto my forearm… or rather, my heart jumped, and my adrenaline spiked. My body, however, remained still. Frozen, as commanded. What the –?

  “Relax your body, but don’t move after,” came the voice again. I registered a man’s voice before becoming distracted by my body inexplicably following his instructions. My foot came down, and drew back so I was standing rather than walking, my arms dropped loosely to my sides. “What –?” I started to ask, but he cut me off, “Don’t make a sound.” My mouth wouldn’t move, and after some effort, I realized I couldn’t hum or even breathe loudly. My heart pounded, and my traitorous knees felt weak. “Walk to the nearest sofa, then sit down and be still.” Before his words fully registered, my body was carrying me into the reception area toward a couch situated between two armchairs. I reached the couch, and as my body turned around to sit, I could finally see the stranger.

   He was somewhere near thirty, wearing a neat suit with no tie. He had dark hair, swept precisely off his forehead, and a closely trimmed beard. I was registering my surprise at his youth and (embarrassing as it is to admit) good looks, when I felt my knees bend, and my backside hit the couch. I sat, my back ramrod straight, and stared at the human puppeteer. Looking me over appraisingly, he instructed me to place my palms together and rest them on my knees, which I did. The strange, unmoving people in the chapel suddenly made a lot of sense.

    The man nodded to himself, as if checking off a task, then un-buttoned his jacket and sat down beside me, lounging back. Without warning, he placed a firm hand on my back. Again, I would have jumped had his command not rooted me in place. The man reached into his pocket with his other hand, withdrew a phone, and began texting someone. When he finished, he returned it and sat quietly, waiting. His right hand occasionally stroked my back absentmindedly, making me tense.

    I could tense! A flood of relief rushed through me at that tiny bit of agency. While we waited, I tensed all of the muscles I could, starting from my toes and moving up. I couldn’t move anything around, and simply tensing or flexing took massive effort, but it was something. Sadly, I could do nothing with my hands, barely managing a twitch, but the rest of my muscles responded and I was able to flex my arms and even my shoulders lightly. The man’s hand on my back stilled, and my stomach dropped. I’d been so focused on trying to move I’d failed to consider he might notice. There was a roaring in my ears as I waited for his reaction.

       He said nothing, and after a moment, his hand resumed lazily tracing patterns into my back. The relief I felt would’ve normally caused my shoulders to slump, but they stayed still as instructed. I concentrated my focus on my hands. The twitch had been better than nothing, and I could work with that. I couldn’t even begin to pull my hands apart, so instead I worked to flex my fingers, or maybe twist my palms against each other, taking care not to even twitch my shoulders. With the man leaning back into the couch, I couldn’t see him, only his legs next to mine, and an occasional flash of his arm in my periphery. I wondered if he was watching me, or merely staring off into space, so confident in his little trick that he didn’t feel the need to monitor me.

   I had finally gotten my fingers to bend consistently, though they stayed glued together, when I heard footsteps approaching. The hand dropped from my back and the man stood, re-buttoning his jacket, and walked somewhere to my left and back. My body tensed, wishing to run, but knowing I couldn’t.

  I had an idea burrowing into my head that if I could break one of his specific commands, even separating my hands, I’d be able to regain full control. With the man’s attention focused on the incoming footsteps, I put my all into twisting my palms against each other. I strained until the fingers of my right hand pointed straight up, while the left remained pointed ahead. With herculean effort, I pulled my right hand toward my chest while pushing the left straight forward. I just needed my palms to separate!

    Voiced greetings snapped my attention to the present, and my hands back into position. I could’ve screamed with frustration. I looked left, wondering if they’d noticed. Standing where they were, I couldn’t see them, even straining my eyes as hard as I was. After a beat, the man led the well dressed newcomers into my field of vision. My eyes widened slightly, and the three smiled at my minute reaction. They were teenagers. A boy and a girl, both blonde and pretty, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. I looked between the three of them, puzzled.  

    The man stepped forward, “I apologize for the wait, and I thank you for your patience,” he began, smiling at his own joke as if I’d had a choice. “My friends here were seeing to other matters,” he continued, nodding to the teens, “their skills being something of a precious commodity, and I didn’t wish to rush them. Besides,” he mused, eyes twinkling mischievously, “I rather enjoyed our time together.” I would have frowned if I could, but he read my confusion (and annoyance?) in my eyes as if he’d had practice reading frozen faces. Which, I supposed, he had.

     “I have a number of questions to ask you, and, not wishing to waste time waiting for you to pick over what you’d like to tell me, I’ve brought my dear friend Annika here to find the truth.” The girl gave a smile and a small wave when her name was mentioned. “Annika has the incredible ability to hear the thoughts inside your head,” claimed the man. I stared at him. He smiled indulgently at the cynicism he read on me, as well as my internal speculation as to his sanity. “You find your body controlled by the mere words of another and telepathy is beyond belief?” He laughed softly when I looked at the floor in consternation.

                  That was a good point.

   Sliding his hands into his pockets, the man stepped forward. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and when you think of the answer she’ll tell me what it is. It’s quite handy, because it’s not really possible to lie this way. When I say ‘don’t think of a pink elephant’ that’s exactly what flashes through your head.” He shrugged, “In the same vein, when I ask you a question, the correct, honest answer is the first thing that pops up. The notion to lie or make up a story comes after, and by that point Annika has already told me the truth. It’s a wonderful, painless way to obtain information, don’t you think?” he concluded, looking pleased with himself.

   My eyes stayed on the floor. If I could have furrowed my brow, I would have. I was utterly baffled by this current turn of events. I couldn’t fathom any possible line of questioning they’d have for me, let alone one that would require such lengths to ensure honesty. His point had convinced me she was legitimate, or at the very least he believed she was.. All I could do was watch their feet as they approached me. The boy perched on the arm of the couch, and the girl, Annika, sat down on my right side. The man resumed his place at my left, sitting forward attentively this time, his knee touching mine. I watched Annika’s hand take hold of my wrist, her hand dainty and warm, skin to skin. My scalp started to prickle, and I dimly wondered why she didn’t take one of my hands if she had to touch me. Internally rolling my eyes, I concluded that she didn’t want to break Mr. Suit’s favorite pose.

    She let out a small giggle, and my eyes snapped to her face. The man tilted his head and she turned her gaze to him, opening her mouth to speak, a pretty smile on her face. She paused and briefly turned back to me and said, “Thank you!” before again facing the man. I stared at her hand on my arm. Shit. She giggled again and told the man, “She’s funny.” A brow lifted and she continued, “She words things in her head in a way that just makes me laugh.” My heart began to race again.

   I’d thought I believed him, but had I really? She couldn’t…

 “I can,” she laughed, and my heart stuttered. “She only has my name, so she’s been calling you funny names in her head. Not like, bad names or anything, but it’s still funny.” She turned to the boy, “Nothing funny for you I’m afraid, Andrew, she was just calling you ‘the boy’, but you, sir,” She turned back. “You’re ‘puppeteer’, you’re ‘Mr. Suit’, you’re ‘creepy-evil-guy-who-shouldn’t-be-so-attractive’..” She trailed off with a giggle. My cheeks burned. “Aw, she’s blushing!” laughed the boy, Andrew. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the impossible embarrassment. “You guessed right, you know,” Annika chimed, my eyes cracking open to peek at her. “We are twins!” I wanted to nod politely, but of course couldn’t. Her uncanny ability told her anyway, and she smiled.

   “She’s really nice, all things considered. Most people are cursing me out in their heads by now.” My thoughts flashed to a moment prior. Smiling patiently, she patted my hand, “You didn’t call me anything. Thinking ‘shit’ was just you realizing that this was actually, really happening.” She turned to the suit conspiratorially, “She thought I was pretty you know. She’s scared out of her mind and she’s still really sweet. Oh, and his name is Mr. Flint, by the way,” she said, turning back to me, “he does wear great suits, though.” The man smiled indulgently, and I went back to staring at the floor. Could you please not do that? I thought. She squeezed my hand softly. I took that as a ‘no’. A kind one, in spite of the circumstances. She looked at “Mr. Flint”, then turned to me. “Let’s start with your name.” Ava. “And how you came to be sneaking through these offices.”

   Unable to talk, I thought about my day leading up to this moment. How had a simple trip to the store turned into a psychic interrogation? I had no idea who these people were, why they were here, or the purpose behind the chapel of zombies, as I’d taken to thinking of them. Annika tilted her head, frowning. “Is that true, Ava?” Hearing her use my name, my eyes jumped to meet hers. She gazed at me with concern. I don’t know anything, I thought, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know why. I don’t understand what’s happening. I blinked rapidly, quickly clearing the embarrassed/frightened tears that were trying to blur my vision. Her eyes softened. She looked at “Mr. Flint” and tilted her head to the left, gesturing with her chin.

     They stood, walking out of sight, Andrew trailing behind them. I stared after them, trying in vain to pick out specific words from the quiet murmur I could hear. Failing that, I began to flex my fingers again. They were easier to bend this time. Maybe it was because he was no longer touching me. Maybe his commands wore off after a little time. It still took immense effort, but twisting my palms took much less time, and I began the pull-push motion I’d been attempting earlier. I was so close. I could hear them talking, was it louder? Were they moving closer? I could feel sweat beading under my hair. Less than a half inch. My muscles shook, fighting each other.

    My palms parted, and it felt like I could finally breathe. Strength flooded my limbs and I leapt to my feet. Not pausing to wait for them to notice, I charged through the door and outside.

                                                                       * * *

     Blinking in the sun, I found myself on a mountainside, lush and verdant. I looked around, for a moment, then charged down the slope. Dodging trees and leaping boulders, I whooped. It sure was nice outside. I tumbled down the hill and nearly bowled over a small group of people. When we righted ourselves, I was thrilled to recognize my friends. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, we resumed our descent, passing the occasional house.

    As we neared the foot of the mountain, we heard a deep boom, followed by a thunderous roar. The dam had burst. The water was coming. Concluding we lacked sufficient time to make it across the bowl to our vehicles that awaited us on the opposite slope, we searched for higher ground. (That wouldn’t require re-climbing the mountain we’d just descended.)

   The house nearest to us stood in the shade of two massive trees, their trunks so thick it would take at least four of us to wrap our arms around their trunks. We scrambled onto the roof from the top of a shed  next to the house. We ran across the roof, teasing those who tripped even as we lifted them back up. We split into two groups, one for each tree. Two by two, we leapt from the roof onto the nearest branches and began to climb. Shouting taunts and jokes to one another, we situated ourselves as securely as we could, and held on for dear life. The crashing water felled dozens upon dozens of smaller trees, and with a great creaking groan, the house was ripped from its foundation and swept away.

Well, that’s all, folks. It was a weird one, but really, when aren’t my dreams weird?

#writing #dream #dreamscene #insidemybrain #mydreamsareweird #scene writing #wannabe #protagonist #antagonist #mindpowers #telepathy #mindcontrol #target #dam #whatthefuck #zombie #that's about it #justkiddingtheresmore #ihatethestupidhashtags #ofalltheartistsinalltheworld #whoisshe #friedshrimp #newtowriting

[arotechno]

The Heartless: Chapter 4

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Chapter IV: in which ignorance is bliss

The next day found us in the next town over, a small farming village full of stout cottages and open pastures. Petra briefly suggested we snag a few vegetables from whichever farmer’s harvest looked the most plentiful, an idea I promptly shot down with a reminder that we don’t steal. She was not deterred, however, and I caught her more than once snatching a handful of berries or an almost-ripe cucumber out of some poor family’s garden.

On one such occasion, I caught her literally red-handed plucking raspberries off of a row of scraggly bushes behind a small cottage overgrown with vines snaking up the walls around a weather-worn wooden back door.

“Petra, how many times do I have to tell you to stop?” I scolded. “Every time I turn around you’re at it again. I thought we agreed before we left home that we weren’t here to steal.”

Petra stood up from her squatting position between the rows of bushes, dropping a handful of berries into her bag. “How many times do I have to tell you that I have done this a hundred times and have never been caught?” she retorted.

“You have been caught, Petra. Need I remind you yet again that I saved your life?”

“You and I both know that had very little to do with the food.” Petra stared at me incredulously, challenging me to argue further.

I took the bait. “Okay, fine, but that doesn’t change the fact that this food belongs to someone else.”

“Does it, Ace? Look around you!” Petra gestured broadly around us, at the overgrown house and untended garden rows full of weeds that came up past our ankles. To our right stood a run-down stable that looked like it hadn’t seen use in a very long time. I was beginning to consider the possibility that Petra was actually right when the back door clattered and a woman’s voice rang out over the garden.

“Do I know you two kids?” the voice asked, its owner scurrying through the garden towards us, holding a baby of no more than several months at her hip.

Serves me right, I thought, frozen in place at the woman’s approach like a deer at the sound of an arrow being unsheathed. Petra quickly hid her hands behind her back and kicked me lightly in the shin as if to say, be normal in front of this woman or I will leave you here and never come back.

“Sorry, ma’am,” I apologized when the woman stopped several feet from us, her free hand placed on her other hip. “My… sister doesn’t have any manners.”

At that, Petra kicked me again, this time not so lightly, though the motion was obscured from the woman’s view by the row of untrimmed bushes between us. I stifled a wince at the pain and shook my ankle discreetly, ignoring the odd look the woman gave me and every instinct in my bones telling me to run.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Petra echoed softly, sheepishly presenting her overflowing hands to the woman, and I bristled internally at how polite her tone was when she had kicked me moments before.

“Keep them,” the woman urged, to Petra’s quiet surprise. Then she examined our ratty clothing and, turning to me, she asked, “Are you both orphans?”

More or less, I thought. “Yes, ma’am,” I said aloud. “We’re on the road.”

The woman seemed to mull it over for a minute, rolling the idea around on her tongue for a while before she proposed, “Why don’t you help me clean up this place a bit? I’ve been so busy with the baby, lately, and there’s no one else here to help me. I can’t pay you, but I can give you some food and a place to sleep. I don’t have any spare beds, but I do have the stable. It’s been empty for quite some time, but there’s still plenty of hay to sleep on, and I may have some extra blankets.”

I had an excuse that I had been preparing the entire time she was speaking ready on the tip of my tongue when Petra broke in with a resounding, “We’d be honored, ma’am, thank you so much!” that gave me no room to protest.

“Wonderful! Let me put the baby down to sleep and then I’ll show you where the tools are.” The woman shifted the baby’s position on her hip and turned to go back inside. She called back over her shoulder, “My name is Esther, by the way!”

“I’m Petra, and my brother here is Ace!” Petra called in reply. Esther smiled wide and entered the house. When the door shut behind her, Petra turned on her heels and fixed me with her most exasperated expression.

“Why did you say yes? We could be caught!” I hissed before she had a chance to open her mouth.

“Caught doing what?” Petra shot back. “She already caught me stealing and is still choosing to be kind to us!”

I lowered my voice. “What if she figures out what we are?”

Petra narrowed her eyes at me. “How is that you’re the one who has lived on the outside and yet you’re more worried than me?”

“Because you need to learn that the more you press your luck, the closer you get to someone finding out the truth, and that never ends well.”

“You need to learn that not everyone is out to get you all the time. It’s not like you’re walking around with a big sign over your head that says, ‘Hey, look, I don’t have a pulse!’ If anything, acting like a paranoid weirdo all the time is what’s going to put a target on your back!”

I was going to argue further, but Esther returned then, carrying several baskets not unlike those we’d seen at the market the day before. She set them down amongst the raspberry bushes and gestured to a battered wooden bin by the back door.

“There should be some garden tools that my husband left behind over there,” she explained. “But let’s say we start by picking these berries before the animals get to them, and then next week one of the neighbors can take them to the market. That sound good? You can eat as many as you’d like—Well, not too many. I’m going to make some beans for supper.”

That seemed like an amicable enough arrangement, so I agreed, and Petra and I set to work while Esther went back inside to check on her sleeping child. We spent the rest of the afternoon filling basket after basket with the garden’s best raspberries, and taking breaks to lie back in the sun-baked dirt whenever Esther would come outside with something for us to drink or another story she wanted to tell.

When the blazing sun had just begun to dip below the horizon, Esther poked her head out the back door and called, “Supper is almost ready. Would you kids like to come inside to wash up?”

The prospect of “inside” felt daunting to me. Crossing the threshold into this strange woman’s home felt like overstepping some unspoken boundary, one that existed only in my own head to separate the relative safety of emotional distance from the dangers of familiarity. Out in the garden or in the forgotten stable, I could be merely a passing stranger. Entering the house, even if only for a few moments, felt like encroaching on something intimate and personal. Nevertheless, I trailed behind Petra into the tiny cottage, leaving my anxious thoughts in my wake.

The back door led into Esther’s small but lively kitchen. The windowsill was lined with tiny potted herbs, and in the corner stood a faded wooden table surrounded by three chairs to match. At its center sat a vase of striped carnations that made the whole house smell vaguely sweet. The walls were adorned with old portraits and photos of children and happy families, many with Esther and a man I assumed to be her husband. Esther stirred an old pot on the stove, the wood crackling softly as it slowly burned itself out. The baby could be heard cooing somewhere in a different room.

We ate our beans by the light of a small lantern out behind the house where it was cooler, out of small wooden bowls with delicate silver spoons that had clearly seen years of use but still managed to shine in the last fading sliver of sunlight.

Esther was a lot like that herself. She was a kind woman, soft around the edges, but she carried herself with the self-assured air of a person who knew she only had herself to count on. As the moon rose above the trees to replace the blistering sun, she told us about her life, as the baby slept in her arms. I learned that Esther’s husband had vanished on her about a year ago, leaving her to tend to their small farm by herself. She had been pregnant at the time and unable to work, and as time went by she was forced to sell what few animals they had and most of their equipment, leaving behind only what we saw before us. Since then, the farm had fallen into disrepair, and while it seemed clear to me that Esther’s neighbors were supporting her, I knew all too well the feeling that it simply was not enough.

“It gets a little lonely sometimes, with just me and the baby here,” Esther confessed. Then she smiled. “You two are welcome to stay here as long as you’d like. I welcome the help, and the company.”

I glanced down at my side, where Petra had already dozed off in the grass, before looking back at Esther and saying, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

I swallowed hard and averted my gaze out over the rows of raspberry bushes, the question laying heavy on my tongue. “What do you think it means to be alive?”

Esther hummed. “I think that would be different for every person. But to me, the point is to be happy, and to be a good person. Nothing more.”

I nodded. For the briefest of moments, I thought about telling Esther the truth. But the fear of being rejected, or worse, quickly swallowed that idea whole, and just as quickly as the thought had arrived, it was as if it had never existed.

The baby blinked back into wakefulness and stuck out a chubby arm towards me. Unthinking, I reached forward, and the baby pressed its tiny hand against my palm. The contact elicited a soft inhale, but I was left breathless. Esther merely chuckled. This baby, this precious child, knew nothing of curses or of what unexplained evils my calloused palms might hold. To them, we were one in the same, two pieces of the same star, floating under the same sky. I could never be sure if it were true, but that night, I had never been more certain of it.

 After supper that night, Basil and I sat in the tall grass behind his house, waiting for the fireflies to emerge as night fell over the village and the woods just beyond the yard. The summer heat was fading slowly into the gentle warmth of night, but I could not sit still.

“Stop fidgeting or the fireflies will get scared away,” Basil urged in a whisper.

I hesitated, twiddling my thumbs in my lap. “Basil, do you think that story Marcus was telling us is true?”

My best friend tensed momentarily. “About the curse? Why do you ask?” His voice was uncharacteristically flat, as though he were trying to keep it from wavering.

I shrugged in response.

"Well, I mean, I don’t think it matters if it’s true.”

“Maybe.” I paused. “M-Maybe we can go ask your parents if they’ve heard of it before.” I pushed up from the ground to walk back to the house.

“Don’t!” Basil’s hand quickly reached out and grabbed my wrist, sending me falling back to the ground. The fireflies rose from the grass and scattered.

Horrified at the contact, I tried to pull my arm away, but Basil had a vice grip on it. “W-Why not?” I yelped.

“Because if you tell them about it, they might send me away!” he blurted. We stared at each other in shock; Basil didn’t move, but a certain desperation had suddenly filled his eyes. A single brave firefly landed on the hand around my wrist, glowing against his skin, but still he did not move. As realization replaced desperation Basil slowly released his grip at last and quickly averted his eyes toward the dirt. (I wondered if he had noticed I had no pulse.) After a moment’s hesitation I reached a cautious, shaky hand out toward him, but he flinched and pulled away. Instead, I grabbed his hand and pressed his palm against my chest, ignoring the ingrained urge to flee that began to buzz beneath my skin. Basil tugged for a moment, until I felt his hand go still and saw the panic in his eyes settle into calm confusion; when I let go, he brought his hand to his face and stared at it in disbelief. Basil’s expression evolved quickly from shock to awe to relief, and when he tackled me to the ground in a hug, I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, and I cried at the feeling of being understood for the very first time.

#The Heartless #aro #aromantic #aro writing #aro writers #writing #aspec writing #aspec writers #writeblr #op

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 9

It was concerningly easy to lie about the circumstances of their hospital visit. All Ford had to say was ‘there was a bear-’ and the nurse was already taking Stan off of his hands, nodding like this was an everyday occurrence. No questions asked or police notified or rangers called.

Then again, this was Gravity Falls. That seemed to be a sentiment that never got tired.

The nurse also didn’t bat an eyelid at Stan’s jumpiness and apparent inability to communicate with anything other than body language – whether that was a symptom of shock, or of his… condition, remained a mystery. However, when Ford had last seen him Stan seemed to be relaxing somewhat, enough to mutter ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to the doctor’s questions.

Ford had only suffered some scrapes and bruises and minor puncture wounds, so once those had been cleaned and covered he was just… left in the waiting room. To wait, presumably.

Ford hated waiting.

And now he was stuck here in this practically empty sterile room, listening to a clock on the wall tick idly. Tick, tick, tick. It set his teeth on edge. But it couldn’t begin to distract from the complete and utter confusion swirling around in his skull.

Ford pulled his journal from his pocket with shaking hands and began jotting down information, in the hopes of organizing his mangled thoughts.

·      Rebus appears to be some sort of shape-shifter

·      Is also Stanley???

·      Why didn’t he tell me who he was?

·      Why is Stanley here at all?

·      Stanley is a human. But this isn’t a human.

·      By all accounts, it seems to be him.

·      Stan – Rebus? He protected me. Rebus has always been protective of me.

·      Stan was protective of me before he was kicked out left

·      Same person?

·      Why is he so scarred? What has he been doing these last nine years?

Ford hesitated, seeing fresh wounds crossing old scars in his mind’s eye. They’d been visible under Rebus’s pelt and on Stan’s skin alike. Stan’s – pelt? Try as he might Ford couldn’t reconcile the two individuals in his head. There simply wasn’t enough data to come to any conclusions!

No, he could still work with this. The first step in the scientific method was having a question, coming up with a hypothesis, speculating on possible solutions before investigating. But where to start?

Stan certainly hadn’t come to Ford of his own free will, not with Ford rescuing him from being beaten to death and then locking him up. The thought of that cage made Ford feel quite ill, now. The thought of trapping his brother behind steel bars and studying him like any other specimen…

And for some reason, Stan hadn’t revealed himself, despite the fact that he seemed perfectly capable of it. But why? Ford resisted the urge to pull at his own hair in frustration. His life’s work was studying and quantifying the anomalous and unexplained, but somehow his brother’s decisions baffled him far more than any Manatour or gnome civilization ever could!

“Mister Pines?”

Ford startled at a nurse’s voice in front of him. He snapped his journal shut and hurriedly straightened his glasses.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Your brother’s ready to be discharged.”

“Already?” Ford found himself saying. The nurse shot him a funny look.

“It… it’s been several hours.”

…oh. Ford may have been a little more lost in his thoughts than he’d realized. He flushed and cleared his throat. “Ah.”

The nurse roused himself and glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. “He sustained a lot of flesh wounds, but luckily no bones have been broken except for a few ribs. Those have been bound and he’s on pain medication for it, but there’s not much else we can do for those. He needed quite a few stitches on that arm, and – well, just about everywhere else too. That being said, he’s in surprisingly good shape. The doc cleared him to leave but you’re gonna have to pick up his pain meds and antibiotics from the front desk before you go on your way. Wouldn’t want injuries like that getting infected.”

“No.” Ford agreed uneasily. The nurse continued, talking about the importance of taking the full course of antibiotics and proper dosage of pain medication and how Stan shouldn’t be operating any heavy-duty machinery, which Ford filtered out because he already knew it all.

There was paperwork, and a prescription to get filled, and then finally a familiar figure approached, arguing loudly with a nurse about how ‘no, he didn’t need a wheelchair thank you very much, he wasn’t an invalid’ and ‘he’d had worse, who cared about a little blood loss’. He had recovered from his shock enough to be difficult, it seemed. Stan shut his mouth once he caught sight of Ford.

Ford scanned his brother quickly – he was dressed as well as he could be in shredded clothes over bandages and assorted wound-dressings. He was also obviously doped up on some kind of medication, given the slight slur to his words and his unsteady gait. It didn’t help that one arm was pinned to his chest by a crisp white sling.

The nurse sent Ford a harried look that seemed to say ‘he’s all yours’. Stanley shuffled on the spot and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Ford sighed. “My car is just outside.”

Stan still quiet as he followed Ford to the car. It made him uneasy – Stan was meant to be loud and exuberant and big, not quiet and… small. He wouldn’t even meet Ford’s gaze. He stared out the window as Ford turned on the engine and pulled out onto the road.

Ford opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. They drove in silence.

They had just started on the winding forest path when Stan mumbled, “You can just drop me off here.”

Ford slammed on the brakes.

The wheels squealed and both brothers were jerked against their seatbelts as the car jerked to a halt on the thankfully abandoned road. Stan swore and rubbed his chest. Ah yes, broken ribs. Whoops.

“Shit, I’m going, okay-”

“You owe me answers.” Ford didn’t mean to sound so accusing. But good grief, he’d been kept in the dark for long enough. He twisted around in his seat to face his drugged-up brother. “Stanley, you are not leaving this car until you explain to me exactly what is going on.”

“Alright, jeez!”

“Rebus.” Ford said. It wasn’t quite a question. “The whole time, that was you?”

Stan grunted an affirmative, shoulders curling in.

“Just… how. Just how.”

“Apparently I’m a werewolf now.”

…well. Not the weirdest thing Ford had heard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t wanna get kicked out!” Stan snapped. “Okay?”

Ford spluttered. “What on earth gave you-”

“Obviously that plan’s bumpkus now. Well, I had a good run. Later, Sixer.” Stan rambled as he fumbled for his door handle. Ford gaped.

“You’re leaving?”                        

“Well, yeah. No use overstayin’ my welcome.” Stan was still struggling one-handedly with the door. “Now, just – gotta get my stupid car – if it hasn’t been impounded – I’ll just get outta yer hair-”

“Stan!” Ford said loudly. Stan jumped. Ford sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not telling you to leave.”

Stan stared at him like a fish out of water. “But – you-”

“It is quite literally my life’s work to study the paranormal. You really think I would throw you out?”

Something Ford had said must have hit a cord with Stan, because he slumped and turned his face away. “…no. Not when you put it like that.”

Ford nodded, pleased that his brother was finally getting it. “Good. Let’s go back to my house, it’s – well, you already know where I live.” And wasn’t that strange? “I have several tests I’d like to run; and I’m going to need to hear about how this whole thing started. In my studies I’ve never come across conclusive proof of the existence of werewolves. Knowing how it came about would be very useful for classifying…”

He trailed off when he noticed the click of the car door and the fact that the seat next to him was empty.

The crunching of footsteps through leaf litter snapped him out of his shock. Ford undid his seatbelt hurried from his seat to follow his brother, who was currently making his way into the forest.

“Stan!”

Stan whipped around to snarl, “Fuck off, Ford!”

Ford blinked at him like a startled owl. “I… what?”

“Ya made yer point!” Stan’s words came somewhat garbled through fast-growing fangs. The glint of them sent a shiver down Ford’s spine. “M’no’ gonna be yer science ‘periment. ‘Tha mithtake thtaying here a’ all.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Ford demanded. Stan growled out an answer but it was lost in the distortion of his no-longer-human vocal cords. Stan threw up his hands and turned to stalk off into the woods.

“Stanley! Where are you going? Stanley!”

Ford shouted after him, but Stan had already disappeared.

 _______________________________________________________________________

Something’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong.

His head was stuffed with cotton wool. It made the world around him blurry as he stumbled deeper into the forest. The forest was Safe. Trees were Safe. They felt almost like home. Now that he was surrounded by them, he couldn’t even remember what he was running from. Or where he was running to…

He hadn’t been in this form for so long. He’d forgotten how weak humans were. His vision blurred and smeared (to be fair, that could be the lack of glasses), the cold nipped at his skin, his hearing was muffled as if he were underwater, all he could smell was dirt and sweat. He felt naked without his thick coat of fur, only jeans and his torn jacket chafing against raw skin. Everything was wrong. And that wasn’t even counting the oil-slick taste of wrongness that seemed to have pervaded his throat, making every rasping breath taste awful, like he was biting into that weird bear all over again.

But worse was how fucking intense this hurt felt. His chest pinched and it felt like his lungs were tied together with an elastic band, unable to inflate. He almost wanted to crack open his ribs to give them space to breathe. But… he couldn’t remember what he was even upset about. Why did hurt so much? What was he forgetting? Think, think, think.

He staggered and leaned heavily against a tree trunk. The light was all wrong, it glinted and glared and threatened to blind him. Was that his head buzzing, or had hornets encircled him? He swiped blindly at the air around him and his claws bit into bark. Why were his claws out…?

Ugh, it was getting hard to think and his mouth still tasted awful, like the air around that weird crystal, and the blood of the thing that had attacked them. His whole body was buzzing now. He tripped on not-so-human legs and fell forward into a more comfortable stance, spine shifting with a grinding crunch. The cloth binding his throbbing arm ripped and tore at the shifting of muscle and bones beneath it. This… this was wrong, he wasn’t in control here, what was going on? Where was Ford?

Ford. Ford, who didn’t care for him. Who saw him as an oddity to be investigated, and later discarded. He had been stupid to think that his brother would want him around. That hurt, enough to make his eyes prickle. Of course Ford wouldn’t want to help him.

(Yes he would. Brother is Safe.)

(But he only likes not-me.)

(Wait, that’s… me? Who am I…?)

Maybe it was easier to just let go.

Just for a little bit; let the hurt fade into numbness until it wasn’t quite as hard to bear anymore. Let himself forget the ache in his chest. Close his eyes and no longer be…

…who?

Someone who was already dead, just a ghost of pain and frustration.

It was all too easy to let go.

#werewolf!stan #werewolf stan au #gravity falls #my writing #my fic