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#mmm werewolf jam
lacteaway · 2 years
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quick Travis between commissions BACK TO WORK
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rachelsfav-queer · 4 months
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Fuck I like that medical kink oh gkd. Enid on all fours getting checked up? Fuck
Mmm, so I’ve got some med kink enjoyers with me here?? Okay, how about this?
We have Enid in a proper doctor’s check up seat, lied back with her arms tied down by the wrists either side of her. Her legs are separated by stirrups and Wednesday is between them. Wednesday has a medical mask and some latex gloves on.
(Bonus: Yoko is acting as Wednesday’s “assistant” and is standing above Enid’s head, holding her head and “comforting” her (there for color checks as well as more degrading) and sometimes gropes and slaps Enid’s tits at their girlfriend’s command)
Anyway, Wednesday is between the werewolf’s legs, doing a very thorough examination of her. She roughly jams her fingers all over and around her pussy, enjoy the humiliated (plus very horny) tears welling up in the blonde’s eyes as she tries not to look down at her shame. Wednesday will have a tape recorder, “recording her findings” and eventually just force her fingers inside Enid roughly, eliciting a loud cry from her that sparks Wednesday to slap her clit (lightly so she doesn’t overwhelm Enid) and tell her to quiet down.
Wednesday continues her “examination” while Enid softly cries from so much pleasure and humiliation at the same time. And afterwards she gets some of the most dedicated aftercare ever, her girlfriends so extremely proud of her for being so brave for them 🥰🥰🥰
Ughh, sorry I took the opportunity and ran with it. Sorryyyy
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amaranthkick · 3 years
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A Therapy Werewolf, part 10
(ao3) 
“You should have seen it, Pidge! Shiro threw his head back, a noble howl resonating around the area catching the attention of the space wolves. All Shiro had to do was growl, showing off those pearly whites and they were cowering with their tail between their legs. Ah, as a fellow lupine, it brings a tear to my eye.” Lance dramatically wiped a non-existent tear from his eye.
Shiro knocked Lance down, laying on top of him and trapping him underneath. “You know that is not what happened in the slightest.”
“Mmm, yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened.” Pidge said to Lance, voice dripping with sarcasm. She raised an eyebrow. “What really happened?”
Lance hid his flushed face behind his hands while Shiro whined softly and put a paw on top of his muzzle. Hunk tilted his head at their reactions and gasped as an idea popped into his head. “Oh! Is it like on TV where dogs sniff--”
Everyone froze as the alarm blared throughout the castle and in an instant they rushed to the bridge.
“It's as I feared.” Allura informed them as she pulled up the map, showing an enemy marker heading towards their location. “The Galra are sending a warship to our position. Fortunately, it's not a robeast. ...Not this time yet. But this means we don’t have the leisure to wait here for a way to change Shiro back to normal. Never mind, we’ll talk afterwards. Paladins to your Lions!”
Shiro huffed as he waited on the bridge as the others worked together to take down the warship. He could feel the Black Lion purring in apology in the back of his mind but as otherworldly and advanced as these Lions were, the controls proved difficult in his current state.
Though he wasn’t able to fight with his team, he perked up in pride as they managed to take it down. They have really grown from the first time they piloted the Lions to be able to work together even with one Lion missing.
---
Even though they were victorious it was tense when the paladins returned to the bridge. Keith was tense with anger, of course the Galra wouldn’t let them catch their breath. It’s just a matter of time until they keep sending stronger and stronger reinforcements. Pidge was fiercely staring at a screen as if her glare can make a cure form faster. Everyone else was frowning thinking of what they could do.
Lance started when he felt Shiro nudge his hand with a wet nose. “You said you had a plan B, in case things don’t pan out. Well… things aren’t panning out. Can I hear what it is?”
Hearing Shiro bark made everyone turn their heads in their direction. Lance rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, there is something I’d like to try. I think it’ll be able to help Shiro.”
Lance explained that he wanted to turn Shiro, give him the bite and turn him into a werewolf. He got the idea thinking about Coran’s remarks about his body rejecting the space wolf chemical. The turn would also pretty much be instantaneous. The idea surprised them and certainly piqued Coran’s interest in how the turning works but more importantly brought a spark of hope back in their eyes.
“How interesting, is it magic based or perhaps it works like an infection passed through a bite wound?” Coran was holding a magnifying glass too close to Lance’s mouth for his liking.
“I have no idea.” Lance leaned away from Coran’s good-natured prodding. “I’ve never tried it but it does involve a bite, which obviously hurts. Not sure how I feel about biting our leader. Are you sure you want to try it?” He asked Shiro.
“I’m willing to give it a try.” Shiro nodded, appreciating his concern.
“Are you sure this will work?” Keith asked, highly concerned for Shiro’s safety.
“I don’t know how this’ll work on a space wolf but uh… ok, something like this happened before. They say that no one has turned anyone in a while but my dad or his friends might have done it but don’t you guys tell a soul! My family might get in trouble.”
At their agreement, Lance continued. “A long time ago, when my dad and a few of his friends were young and dumb and unafraid, they asked the age old question ‘can you turn a wolf into a werewolf?’ But unlike normal people and just imagining what would happen, they tried it out. Long story short they ended up adopting a very confused and slightly feral human. Ah, Uncle Jim Jam… the life of the party.” Lance ended with a nostalgic tinge in his voice.
“You guys named him Jim Jam?” Hunk asked incredulously.
Lance gasped, a hand on his chest. “Don’t be mean! He’s doing his best! But anyway, they started a wolf and ended with a werewolf that can turn into a human or wolf. Which is what we’ll end up with, hopefully.”
---
It wasn’t night yet but the moon had entered the sky from the eastern horizon. Lance said he needed some time to concentrate and see if the moon was willing to help. Apparently he had to get the moon’s blessing to be able to turn someone. Shiro found Lance in the usual hall, the moon visible in the window. His eyes were closed and he breathed in deeply, soaking up the moonlight. Once Lance noticed his presence he sat down next to him.
“This moon is happy to help, she feels friendly and kinda curious about me and werewolves since this planet doesn’t have any. ...How are you feeling about all this? Like getting drugged and uh, getting experimented again by the galra?” Lance winced as he asked. There wasn’t exactly a subtler way to ask that.
Shiro was surprised then he deflated with a sigh. It was hard to keep the dependable leader front with all this trauma piling up. “It certainly is not helping that it happened again. Feels like everytime they get their dirty hands on me, I’m changed beyond recognition from who I used to be.” He felt like he could breathe a little easier, having admitted that.
Lance started to gently stroke his fur, he felt Shiro relaxing slightly at his touch. “How about this though? If turning you is successful, you won’t exactly be fully human again.”
“Hmm, but this feels different. Maybe because you offered it and I chose to try it rather than another galran experiment being forced on me.” But still… being a werewolf, it’ll definitely be a new experience, Shiro thought.
“Oh! That kinda reminds me of some werewolf legends, want to hear them?” Lance looked eager to tell him a bit of werewolf culture, his culture. Shiro wagged his tail once, happy to listen.
“Well, they say the first turning was actually a curse.” Lance smiled sheepishly as he started. “Humans were afraid of werewolves so they hunted them. The moon was angry at the many innocent lives lost to the hunters. So she cursed the bite a werewolf had inflicted in self defence and caused the hunter to become a werewolf and thus the hunter becomes the hunted by his own people.
“Oh! But then there’s another legend that makes turning look like a blessing! So there was this werewolf woman whose lover was terribly injured. Since werewolves boasted great regenerative abilities she begged the moon to be able to turn her love so she can save them. And once she did they lived happily ever after and all that jazz. They tell these stories to get pups to not judge things at first glance since something was a curse in once case turned out to be a blessing in another. Ah, I remember when grandma told me these stories...”
Shiro's eyes softened fondly as Lance started to reminisce, happily talking about his family. A blessing, huh? Shiro felt lighter as his nuzzling caused Lance to laugh.
“Haha! Alright, alright. Enough of that, I think I’m good to go. Let’s get everyone and see this through.”
---
Pain.
Shiro was ready to accept that. Sharp teeth sinking into his flesh. But that spike of pain only lasted for a moment.
Then it felt like lava coursed through his veins spreading from the bite to every part of his body. He felt something… in the back of his mind, a gentle pull. Was this how the moon felt to Lance?  Lance told him if he felt it, he should go against the pull as it guided them towards their wolf form. He concentrated on doing so. Shiro gritted his teeth as muscles spasmed and bones started to shift. He could vaguely hear yells of concern from the others.
He remembers Lance trying to tell him to not fight against the change before he blacked out.
---
It was a chaotic few minutes full of screaming, cursing, yelling, honestly, just another day out here in space, Lance thought to himself. But everyone calmed down once Shiro had changed back into a human even though he promptly passed out. They quickly dressed him up in the silky, black pajamas stored in the castle. He was still missing his arm but with Pidge, Hunk, and Coran on the case, Lance doubts it would be that much of an issue for long.
Lance suggested a sleepover, getting everyone bringing their blankets and pillows to fill that circle of couches area in the common room. This way with Shiro’s brand new stronger sense of smell, he’d be surrounded by familiar scents when he wakes up.
Allura took Coran with her to chart their next course to their next destination, taking care to mark some safe spots to give the paladins much needed rest. Coran assured Lance that he would make her join the sleepover so she could rest as well.
As they slept in the soft nest waiting for Shiro to wake, Lance settled in and he let his mind wander. It’s been a wild ride out here in space. Becoming paladins, helping Shiro like he helped his uncle, everyone accepting him even if he was a werewolf and him fully accepting them as a pack. Lance knew this war would be tough but he’ll do what he could for his pack.
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maraudererasmut · 4 years
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Experiment MJ001
TW: Drug and alcohol use. Mentions of drugs and alcohol use by minors. 
Marjiuana is legal in my country. It has been for a while.
I’ve always been very nervous about things in my life. Not anything in specific, just things in general. I had spend so long being repressed by my parents, I had cotten it in my head that drugs = bad and since marjiuana = drug, QED marjiuana = bad. 
Today, I decided to do something out of the ordinary and purchase a (legal) chocolate bar from the pot store and try it out!
So, I am currently high for the very first time in my life! (I’m in my late 20s)
I had an idea that I thought was brilliant at the time to write Wolfstar fan fiction about Remus getting high for the first time WHILE I was high and see what happened!
I also decided that I’m going to POST IT. Without editing it! (Pure, unadulterated chaos!!!) Now, for your viewing pleasure, the ramblings of a T on Pot. I have no idea if this is good or not. I haven’t read through it yet. I’ll probably wake up tomorrow, read this, regret it and delete it. But until then... enjoy!
((I’m sorry if it’s terrible!!!))
((I am also currently still high while typing this, so I apologize for any errors!!))
Remus had never consumed marjiuana before. Growing up, his parents had been very strict with what kinds of medication he was allowed to consume, particularly in regards to his lycanthropy. “You don’t know how it will affect the wolf, Remus.” “You don’t know what will happen…” “We can’t predict how the wolf will react…” 
Magic had always been the go-to remedies for colds or maladies; Muggle drugs were never to be trusted in the LUpin home.
So when Remus got drunk for the first time, he made sure that his friends were around to help him through the experience. 
Now, in his seventh year of school, Remus finally built up enough courage to ask his friends to, once-again, monitor Remus while he was testing the waters.
Remus sat with the three other Marauders, staring at the brownie in his hand.
“Are you sure this is safe?” he groaned, internally terrified of what may happen. The scent of the brownie wafted through the air, and Remus cursed his wolfish senses as his mind began convincing him that this might be worth it for the chocolate alone.
“”Yeah, I’m sure, Moons…” Sirius teased, licking his lips like a cartoon wolf sizing up a prized pig as he stared at his own brownie.
“Yeah, Pads and I have done this hundreds of times!” James chimed in, already  half way through his. “It’s fine!”
“You’re not werewolves,” Remus grumbled as he turned to Peter. “You’re the sensible one, Wormy. What do you think?”
Peter stared at Remus for a moment before breaking out into a smile. 
“I say fuck it!” he said, taking a bite out of his own brownie. “You only live once, Moons!”
Remus closed his eyes, took a bite from his brownie, chewed and swallowed. 
Nothing happened.
No big bang, no swirling in his brain, no sudden rush of feeling. 
“It’s… not working?” He said, turning to Sirius.
“Give it a bit, Moons! It takes time to work! It’s like alcohol!”
“Okay,” Remus said with a shrug, finishing the rest of his brownie. “So… what do I do until then?”
Sirius shrugged, but his smirk gave him away. He sat back onto the pillows and blankets that they had dragged to the ground, his head resting precariously close to Remus’ lap. He grinned up at Remus before reaching for his wand and giving a lazy flick into the air. 
Sirius’ record player began to spin, and All Along the Watchtower began playing, filling the entire room and seeping into Remus’ bones.
Remus laid back on the pillows, his head next to Sirius’. He closed his eyes and let Hendrix drift through his mind, trying not to let Sirius’ scent drive him crazy. 
Remus didn’t feel anything.
Not for a while.
He didn’t think it was even working.
The boys had spent the next hour talking, chatting, chilling, as they usually do on Saturday evenings. They talked about girls (James complaining about Lily), boys (Sirius’ trists with that Ravenclaw boy), and everything in between (Peter’s insistence that, yes, James, he is still Asexual. And no, James, he doesn’t need to double check.) 
Remus didn’t notice the time passing as he laid on the pillows next to his friends, for the first time in his life actually being able to participate fully. They normally spend evenings hanging out in the middle of the room. James and Sirius always got high. They had since they had discovered Muggle weed last year. Peter had partaken on occasion, but usually insisted that he preferred a couple of beers over weed. Remus, on the other hand, remained sober all night, watching his friends fall into various states of inebriation, testing their limits, seeing new sides of themselves. 
This was his first time.
Remus smiled to himself, thinking about how much fun it is to participate, even if he didn’t know what being high felt like yet. 
“What’re you smiling about?”
Sirius’ voice was practically a purr in Remus’ ear, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. 
“M’not… Not really. Just… happy to be here with you lads....”
“Mmm, same, Moons. Happy to be here… Today’s a good day to be alive…”
“That’s a weird thing to say…” Remus rolled over and looked at Sirius. 
Was Sirius always that handsome? Did his eyes always sparkle silver in their conjured lights? Did his hair always look that soft and touchable? What would happen if Remus touched it? Was his skin always so pale, so milky while, Remus had to resist leaning over and tasting it. Remus edged his arm over slightly, comparing his own freckle-dusted arm to Sirius’. One was slender and perfect and tattooed and lovely. One was broken and scarred and ugly. 
It was no wonder Sirius never noticed Remus.
“Whatya thinkin’ ‘bout?”
Sirius’ voice distracted Remus from his thoughts. 
“Mm? What’d’ya mean?” 
I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles…
The Who was playing in the background and Remus watched as Sirius’ head bobbed up and down to the music, a wide grin spread across his perfect cheeks. 
“I mean you’re thinkin’ of stuff. We all are… I am… That’s what makes things so cool when you’re high… You think of stuff…”
Remus blinked. What was Sirius even saying? What had he been doing? Was he thinking? He seemed to be thinking…
His brain felt like the needle was skipping across the record. Or that more than one record was playing at a time. Everything that was said out loud was one record in one player, and a vision of him talking to Sirius from a bird’s eye view was another record. And the way the music blended into his brain was another record. 
Was this what being high was?
“I’m thinking of the music… I guess. And… Mrs. Robinson…”
“Ha ha! That’s that one Hufflepuff chick, ya?”
“What? No… it’s… coo coo ca choo?” Remus closed his eyes. His mind was feeling a bit foggy. 
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes…
“Oh! Yeah! Jesus holds a place for those who pray…”
“Hey hey hey!” James’ voice came from miles away. Or across the room. To Remus, it felt like both at once.
“Yeah,” Remus said with a grin, rolling over onto his left side to face Sirius. “Coo coo choo, Mrs. Robinson….”
“BOYS!” Peter hollered from the other side of the room. “Hot Blooded! This is my jam!”
Remus grinned, listening as the sound of guitar filled the room. He tapped along to the song, watching Sirius watch the ceiling.
“What are you thinking about, Pads?”
Sirius tilted his head towards Remus and gave a wink. 
“That I’m hot blooded,” he said, his tongue resting on his fang. 
“Pfftt… You’re just a horny mutt…” Remus teased. He felt an immediate pang of regret as Remus realized that Sirius was likely horny for a certain Ravenclaw boy. 
“Mmm, bet you are too. Not that you’d ever date anyone… But I bet you’re real bad, Moons… “
Remus rolled his eyes, trying to keep his heart from exploding from his chest with terror. Why was Sirius talking about how horny Remus was? That wasn’t something Sirius ever talked about. 
“You know how it is… not allowed. The whole… furry little problem…”
Oooh, I’m picking up good vibrations, oooh she’s giving me excitations…
“I’ve told you, just date one of us…”
Remus chuckled, trying not to show how much he wished he could. 
“Oh yeah, James would totally ditch Lily for me,” Remus teased, listening to the Beach Boys suddenly start the quiet part of Good VIbrations. 
“I didn’t say date James…”
“Oh, Sorry… Peter then… Yup. That seems like a great idea…”
Good good good good vibrations!!
“Are those really your only choices?”
Sirius was on his side at this point, facing Remus head-on, giving a sly grin. 
Normally, Remus would laugh this off as a joke and change the subject. Perhaps talk about the fact that Sirius had American Woman on his magical mixed-record. 
Today was different though. Today, Remus was feeling a little bolder. A little dizzier. A little more capable of looking at the situation differently.
Most days, from the very beginning of his life, Remus had been taught to be small, demure, less than other people. He knew not to make waves or say what was on his mind, because he was not to draw attention to himself. Today, for the first time in his entire life, Remus was starting to understand what it felt like to be a normal person. Someone who wasn’t a werewolf. Someone who didn’t grow up being told that they had to hide themselves because of societal pressures. Today, he could suddenly just say whatever he thought and felt and there was absolutely nothing keeping him from saying it. 
“I can’t very well date you, Padfoot. What would that poor Ravenclaw boy do without you in his life?”
“Who, Spencer? Nah, we were never an item. Just fooling around…”
“Fine then,” Remus said with finality, trying to shrug while on his side. Whoooo are you? Who who, who who? “I suppose you’re the only person in all of Hogwarts who I can date.” 
Sirius grinned his wicked grin, inching closer to Remus, his eyes positively smouldering. 
“I suppose so. Guess we’re to call it, then. We’re dating now…”
Whooo are you? Who who? Who who?
Aaaawww, who the fuck are you?
“Hear that Prongs,” Remus said, playing along with the joke. “Sirius and I are dating now.”
“Well it’s about goddamn time,” James yelled back.
Remus chuckled to himself, but when he opened his eyes, Sirius was there. In front of him, their noses almost touching… There was a moment…
Whoooo are you? Who who? Who who?
Remus inched closer, rubbing his nose to Sirius’, just playing along, just being silly, just keeping up with the game.
Sirius closed the gap.
Remus sank into the kiss, feeling Sirius’ lips against his own, Sirius’ tongue tasting like chocolate and pot, Sirius’ hands suddenly around his waist. 
Then Remus pulled away.
Who are you? Who who? Who who?
“Who the fuck are you?”
Sirius laughed, pulling himself slightly away from Remus.
“I just wanted to see how far you’d be willing to play along! I didn’t realize you’d actually let me kiss you!”
“Fuck…” Remus swore, starting to feel angry at Sirius. “Shit... I thought maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Nothing…”
“Maybe what, Remus?”
“Nothing, Sirius.” Sirius’ lips were against Remus’ again, but the werewolf knew better this time. He pulled away, his eyes narrowing. “Stop dicking around.”
“I’m not dicking around…” Sirius whispered, his voice dropping low and rumbly. Remus felt a chill down his spine as House of the Rising Sun played in the background.  
“Don’t kiss me if you don’t mean it,” Remus grumbled, before he had a chance to think about his words and and regret saying him, Sirius was kissing him again. Remus tasted his tongue and lips and the thrill of kissing someone he had wanted to kiss for as long as he could remember. Sirius pulled away, his eyes gleaming and ravenous. 
“I mean it,” he cooed. “I—”
Before he could continue, Remus was pressed into Sirius, taking advantage of his inebriated state and lack of over-thinking. 
“Get a room, you prats!” James called across the room. Remus didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the feeling of Sirius’ body against his own, Sirius’ hands around his hips, Sirius’ tongue in his mouth, Sirius’ teeth nipping his lower lip. Everything was Sirius.
Remus closed his eyes and lost himself in his Padfoot. He silently prayed that things could stay this easy forever, but deep inside, he knew that would be a dangerous path to head down...
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tobyaudax · 5 years
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Do you know of any good horror movies?
Do I??
Yes. Yes I do. Second attempt to get this posted- don’t delete this one, tumblr, you chode. 
So these are my favorites, but they may not be your jam. And that’s okay, because tastes are subjective, etc. etc. Also, I’ve omitted most movies that were more “comedy” than “horror comedy”, with a few exceptions.
This list goes in order by release date and only includes movies that I’ve seen & enjoyed.
The Last House on the Left (1972)
The Exorcist (1973)
The Wicker Man (1973)
Captain Kronos - Vampire Hunter (1974)
Halloween (1978)
Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)
Patrick (1978)
Alien and Aliens (1979 & 1986)
Phantasm (1979)
An American Werewolf in London (1981)
The Evil Dead (1981)
The Howling (1981) the less you know about this movie going in, the better.
Scanners (1981)
The Thing (1982)
Videodrome (1983)
Night of the Comet (1984)
A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)
Day of the Dead (1985)
Fright Night (1985) if i could marry a movie...
Ghoulies (1985)
Re-Animator (1985) fuck Lovecraft, I’m here for Jeffrey Combs
Return of the Living Dead (1985)
Vampire Hunter D (1985) anime!
April Fool’s Day (1986) listen. I fell asleep and was only watching for Tom Wilson (also the only reason I watched s4 of Legends of Tomorrow), but I remember it being pretty good.
Chopping Mall (1986)
The Fly (1986) can’t go wrong with Cronenberg! Also Jeff Goldblum & Geena Davis.
From Beyond (1986)
Manhunter (1986)
Poltergeist II: The Other Side (1986) i actually think this has scarier moments than the first one.
Dolls (1987)
Hellraiser and Hellbound: Hellraiser II (1987 & 1988)
The Lost Boys (1987)
Child’s Play (1988)
Fright Night Part 2 (1988) good luck tracking this one down. 
Killer Klowns from Outer Space (1988)
The Lair of the White Worm (1988)
Monkey Shines (1988)
Pumpkinhead (1988)
976-EVIL (1989) started watching for Stephen Geoffreys and enjoyed the ‘80s-caliber camp and (maybe just imagined by me?) homo-eroticism towards the end.
Jacob’s Ladder (1990) again, the less you know going in, the better this is. Trippy fun!
Night of the Living Dead (1990) i prefer the remake to the original- sue me.
Nightbreed (1990) do yourself a favour- watch this movie, then read Clive Barker’s Cabal.
The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992) i like this first because Whedon doesn’t and second because it’s a legit fun movie that scared the crap out of me when I was 10. Slept with a stake under my bed for months.
The Crow (1994)
Wolf (1994) mmm, James Spader.
Vampire in Brooklyn (1995)
The Craft (1996)
From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)
Blade (1998)
John Carpenter’s Vampires (1998)
Haunted House on Hill (or, actually, House on Haunted Hill. 1999)
The Mummy (1999) Brendan Fraser! Rachel Weisz! Guy Who Plays Benny!
American Psycho (2000) brb- just gotta return these video tapes...
Ginger Snaps (2000)
Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust (2000) more anime.
Earth vs. the Spider (2001) small role for Danny Aykroyd and some anatomical correctness for the spider/man-spider/creature.
Session 9 (2001) more of a psychological thriller, I think, but it’s got moments.
28 Days Later (2002)
Dog Soldiers (2002)
Dracula II: Ascension (2003) i love it for how Dracula looks in the beginning-middle of the movie. I’m weird like that.
Underworld (2003) ...same reason for this one: Bill Nighy wears that corpse-y look so well.
Blade: Trinity (2004) shh, it’s not that bad.
Cursed (2005) on here for this gif and not much else:
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The Descent (2005)
The Host (2006) the South Korean one. I still haven’t caught the end of this, but I liked what I saw!
REC (2007)
Splinter (2008)
Thirst (2009) another South Korean gem!
You’re Next (2011)
Byzantium (2012)
Blood Glacier (2013) my buddy hated the ending, but I love it.
Evil Dead (2013) i might like this remake better than the original. (EDIT: I do like it better)
As Above, So Below (2014)
Krampus (2015)
Train to Busan (2016) more great stuff from South Korea.
The Void (2016)
The Ritual (2017)
XX (2017) four short films and i only liked the second one, The Birthday Party.
Wow, I’ve seen a lot of horror movies! Thank you so much for asking about this- it was a lot of fun to compile (even after tumblr shat on the first post).
Edit: how did I forget Troll Hunter (2010)??
Edit, Oct. 2020: forgot From The Dark (2014), too!
Edit, June 2022: Friday the 13th Parts 2, 6, 7 and Jason X
Edit, December 2022: Psyco Goreman (watched it last year? and forgot to add here)
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ablackwing · 4 years
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((Mun what are two AUs, if any, that you want to write your Sephiroth in?)) ~Fate-Is-Woven-And-Cut
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let’s see. two aus for sephiroth? hmmm... 
one of them would definitely have to be a dragon age au. the SOLDIERs as gray wardens, sephiroth gets corrupted vis a vis the events of dragon age 4, something goes wrong and sideways, and now you have an OP warden roaming the lands who may or may not be a living blight. it’s hard to say whether or not that’d work but it’s definitely one that i’ve toyed with before. i know i have one for ardyn where he’s one of the magisters that broke into the golden city but seph’s more of “here’s a group of the ELITE amongst the wardens; now look at him losing himself into this.”
i suppose another au that i really want to write is a goddamn MER AU. i am WEAK for mythical creature aus and mer aus are my jam because of how rarely i get to write them. mer au, wing au, werewolf au, things of that nature. sephiroth is arguably a ghost if you go strictly by canon but the point here is that he’d be absolutely gorgeous as some kind of deadly mer living in the tropics with that long hair flowing around him and confusing poor sailors who think he’s a mermaid at first until he lifts up enough out of the water and shows that, nope, no tits on him.
i can also picture him having these black scales with this iridescent green shine to them... mmm, yes. good aus indeed. i have a lot of aus for him. so many. so very many...
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Bad Blood - Chapter 24
You can find it on AO3 or read the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 
_____________
John arrives just after midnight, in civilian clothes and a rattling old baby blue Jeep.
“Were you followed?” Peter asks him when he meets him in the backstreet.
“No.” John jams his hands in the pockets of his jeans as they head for the loft building. Peter can taste his anxiety, sharp and acrid, in the air. “How is he?”
“Asleep when I came out to meet you,” Peter says. “Derek’s with him. He seems to be able to keep him calm. He had a small breakdown a few hours ago, but it might be too early to call it a breakthrough.”
“Yeah,” John says as they reach the steps. “I’m not expecting things to go smoothly here.”
They climb the steps slowly.
When they reach the loft, Allison is asleep on the couch with the throw rug tucked around her. Her shoes are neatly lined up on the floor beside the couch. Laura is sitting in the armchair across from her, reading a magazine in the faint moonlight.
The steel door to the secure room is ajar, and Peter can hear two heartbeats from inside. One is Derek’s. It’s as familiar and necessary to Peter as his own heartbeat. The other one, Stiles’s, is slow and steady with sleep.
Peter draws John over into the kitchen, and flicks on the light there. It shouldn’t wake the sleeping humans.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“I’ve had enough coffee today,” John says, and then squints at his watch. “Well, it’s tomorrow already, isn’t it?”
“Tea then,” Peter says, and begins to make it.
John drifts over toward the steel door, and leans there in the darkness. Peter isn’t sure if he can even see inside with his dull human eyesight, but perhaps he just wants to be close to his son.
On the couch, Allison snuffles as she wakes up.
John turns to face her.
Allison sits up quickly. “Who are you?”
“John Stilinski,” he says. “And you must be Allison.”
She blinks at him in the gloom. “You’re Stiles’s dad. My mom’s… cousin?”
“That’s right.” He gestures toward the couch, and awaits her nod before he goes and sits. “I’ve been up at the hospital today. Your father’s out of surgery, and the doctors say he’s looking at a few months recovery time, but he’s going to be fine.”
Allison exhales. “Thank you. And my mom?”
“She knows you’re with Stiles,” John says. “And she knows you’re with the Hales. She’s sure as hell not happy about it, but I guess she’s decided they’re the safest option for you right now.”
Allison nods again. “This is all so crazy. Werewolves!” She looks across to Laura. “Sorry.”
“It’s pretty crazy,” Laura says with a smile, and her eyes flash red.
Allison snorts.
Something in Peter warms at that, at Allison’s reaction. Allison doesn’t know what red eyes mean. She hasn’t been poisoned against werewolves like Stiles has, like every other child in a hunter family has. She takes Laura’s gesture exactly for what it is—showing off. Allison isn’t afraid of Laura’s eyes. She’s not afraid of any of the pack. She’s judging them by who they are, not by what they are. How unexpected, from someone with her surname.
Of course, these past few weeks have been nothing but unexpected. When all this is over, Peter resolves to never be surprised by anything or anyone again in his life.
He carries John’s tea over to him, and perches on the arm of the couch beside him.
“It’s just been insane,” Allison continues. “Not just you guys, but my dad, and Stiles, and Scott…” Her brows creases and her eyes fill with tears. “Stiles said he was there. He said…”
John darts a glance at Peter, and says, “He was lied to. We all were. Some of the old European families are particularly…” He shakes his head as he hunts for the word. “Zealous. The only good werewolf is a dead werewolf to them.”
Laura’s eyes flash again, and it’s not teasing this time.
“It took me half my life to learn it was a lie,” John continues. “It’s not a defence, Allison, it’s an explanation. When I was a hunter, if I’d seen a werewolf lurking around my family’s house, I would have chased him down and killed him too.” He passes a hand over his brow. “Scott McCall was a good kid. I’m sorry that happened to him.”
Allison swallows and nods.
It is what it is, Peter thinks.
If they survive this, perhaps in time they can plaster over the thousands of fractures between them—some tiny and some not so tiny—and learn to how to heal.
If they survive.
***
Allison goes upstairs to sleep in the end, in Derek’s room since he’s not using it. Laura goes with her to find some fresh sheets. John sits on the couch, his feet on the coffee table and his head thrown back, and Peter watches him doze from the window.
It takes an hour or so, but eventually Peter hears Stiles’s heartbeat change, and then the low murmur of voices.
He’s awake.
Peter treads silently over to John and touches him on the arm.
John jolts.
“Stiles is awake,” Peter murmurs.
John tenses, as though he’s going to stand, but Peter shakes his head and keeps touching his arm. Then he sits down beside him.
With wild animals, Peter thinks, you have to wait until they approach you.
It takes a while—the long seconds draw out into even longer minutes—but then the door to the secure room opens a little more. Peter can see the two figures standing there, but he’s not sure if John can make them out.
“Derek,” he says softly, “turn a lamp on, would you?”
Derek detaches himself from Stiles’s side, and moves to switch on the lamp on the end table.
John blinks in the sudden light.
So does his son.
“Hello, Stiles,” John says at last, and Peter can hear the tension in his tone, the barely-disguised urge to leap up and run towards his boy. And then he’s quiet for a moment, as though wrestling with what to say. His voice rasps when he says, at least, “I’ve missed you.”
Derek crosses the floor to stand with Stiles again.
Stiles jerks his head in a nod. “I…”
And then nothing.
“If there’s anything you want to know,” John says, “about all of this, about you, about your mom and me, about my past, you only have to ask. I’ll tell you.”
Stiles swipes his tongue long his bottom lip. “We… our family. You turned your back on all of that.”
John nods, his eyes shining. “For your mother, and for you.”
Stiles blinks.
“Claudia was a Gajos, Stiles.”
And Stiles flinches back, so Peter guesses he knows the names of werewolf packs just as much as does the hunter families. His expression cracks into something caught between horror and disgust. “Mom was a werewolf?”
“She was human,” John says softly. “But she was a human born into a pack. There was a chance, when we expecting you, that… well, we thought you had a chance of being born a werewolf.”
“You didn’t tell me anything about this! I didn’t know anything!” Stiles clenches his fingers into fists.
“I’d always planned to tell you,” John says. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
Stiles opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it again. He shakes his head. “I—I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to say to you.”
And he turns and walks back into the room.
Derek follows him.
The door closes.
***
“No such thing as a fast resolution,” John says as he makes himself a sandwich in Peter’s kitchen. He’s wearing a brittle smile. “I’ve learned that before in the job.”
“That’s true,” Peter agrees, but he knows John is more hurt than he’s letting on, and a hell of a lot more fragile. “Baby steps.”
“Baby steps,” John says. His hand freezes over the tub of butter. “I should have brought him some photo albums. And I’ve got a video of him somewhere, riding his tricycle up and down the driveway. Claudia took it.”
“You can try that another time.” Peter takes the knife off him and spreads the butter. “You can’t push him too hard. It’s been less than a day.”
“Yeah.” John taps his fingers on the counter and nods. “Yeah, you’re right.”
But there’s a difference, Peter knows, between a thing being right and a thing feeling right. And sometimes it’s as wide as a chasm.
After the fire, after he’d found out exactly what happened, Peter had wanted to grab Derek and shake him by the shoulders. He’d wanted to scream at him to stop wallowing in his guilt, that it wasn’t his fault. He’d wanted Derek to get better, now.
But there’s a process, as the therapists of the world would say.
It’s not a straight road. It’s full of bumps and dips and potholes and detours. It gets there in the end, mostly, but the journey isn’t an easy one. And it’s sure as hell not a quick one.
“What do you want, John?” he asks curiously. “When you imagine this all somehow working out, what do you see yourself doing with Stiles?”
John exhales slowly. “Is this the part where I say I see myself on a boat in a lake, sitting with my son, and dangling a fishing line in the water?”
“If you like.”
“I would like,” John says, and shakes his head and smiles, “but that’s not the son I remember. He hated fishing. He hated anything where he had to sit still for extended periods of time. Jesus, when he was a toddler someone had to sit with him when he went on the potty or otherwise he’d just get up and wander away, and we’d find out later he’d pooped the length of the hallway.”
Peter laughs at that.
“I want a teenager,” John says. “I want a sixteen-year-old kid. I want him to play videogames, and lie about having done his homework, and bug the hell out of me for money for shit he doesn’t need.” He shrugs. “What about you? Where do you see yourself?”
“Maybe I’ll go fishing with you,” Peter says. “I know how to sit still.”
John hip checks him softly.
“I want to rebuild the house,” Peter says, his chest aching. “I want us to live in the Preserve again. I want a backyard. I want to help Matty paint his room and put those glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. I want to get him a dog and sit on the porch and read a book while he runs around the yard with it.”
“That sounds like a good plan, Peter,” John says.
“Mmm.” Peter puts the lid back on the tub of butter. “I wish it felt like a plan, and not a crazy fucking fantasy that will never happen. Such simple things shouldn’t feel so out of reach, should they?”
And John only smiles sadly and shakes his head.
“No, they shouldn’t,” he says, and offers Peter half his sandwich.
Peter takes it.
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Somewhere in Faerûn, there’s a tabaxi, a bugbear, a werewolf, and a tiefling all sitting in a boat. There’s a triton in the water but she’s not alone. In a split second, one of the others will have to do something about it. An excerpt from my last homegame session. Combat-heavy one-shot.
Blue and Will are and have been giving each other the silent treatment for the better part of six hours now.
Rime is professionally friendly, but he can only make so much neutral single party conversation before getting annoyed and settling in to watch the river. Their three-boat caravan of small outrigger canoes continues steadily up river – powered by the tireless efforts of the hunkered bugbear jammed uncomfortably into the lead boat. With him is Bian – their smallish tabaxi navigator who’s perched somewhat absurdly on the back tip of the canoe like a lightly armored counter balance.
The second boat, lashed between Rime and Bian’s respectively, is empty save a single occupant. He lies very still, shivering occasionally beneath the worn travel blanket that Rime very carefully tucked around him some hours ago. Tivas hasn’t regained consciousness since the closing of the water purification ritual that went non-stop these last thirty-six hours. Rime was careful to pack the ritual instrument – the Blossom of Beauties – into the druid’s pack and tuck it protectively under his arm.
Tivas, even thralled by delirium, pulled the sacred thing close (pulled close the vehicle of his death) and Rime had to get back into the third boat. Blue commented, eventually, that the flowers ringing Rime’s headband were a weird silver and he told her, simply, “Yeah they do that,” with no further explanation.
So Rime is still in the back boat when they reach the salt marsh.
Bian has her back to Rime so he can see the twitching white length of her tail going this way and that as she scans the foggy western shore. Occasionally, she shoots Rime meaningful looks and Rime grimaces significantly back. Vorgut, the big black-furred bugbear, rows furiously while likewise sending glances toward the reed-choked river bank. His giant, tattered, bat-like ears swivel nervously.
Somewhere to Rime’s right, Blue rows as well, but less out of geographical anxiety than pure, domestic rage and need to put that rage somewhere. Preferably in the water and not directly into the back of her husband’s half-elf skull. She’s a small, blue and white blur of flexing arm muscle, muttering softly to herself in furious Aquan. So she doesn’t notice Rime taking a more attentive crouch in the boat.
Will looks up from his book and scans the waters.
“Hey, Rime.”
“Mmm,” says Rime, rather than use thaumaturgy to speak just yet.
“What’s going on? I’ve got the heebie-jeeebies.”
Rime snaps his fingers and the spell murmurs almost directly into Will’s ear: “Shh. Lizard folk live out there.” He jerks his head toward the salt marsh. “We need to be careful.”
“They wanna eat us,” Bian says without looking away from what she’s doing up front.
Blue, hearing this, growls something like, “Good,” under her breath.
And, naturally, that’s when the first javelin slams with a loud thunk into the side of Tivas’ canoe. The entire party stares, horrified, for moment. Except of course for Blue, who lunges eagerly to her feet with her wand in hand and anticipating a target. That does not happen because a second javelin already airborne immediately slams into Blue’s stomach with such force it knocks her with a scream into the bottom of the boat and blood splatters across Rime’s startled face.
Will howls, “Blue!”
But the javelins have already begun to rain down.
“Bian!” Rime hooks his arm through his battle shield and lunges back toward Blue. “Get us out of here!”
Blue – teeth bared, screaming like a banshee – is snapping the javelin between her webbed fists. She hurls the long part of the shaft into the water, keeping the head of the spear embedded in her gut. She doesn’t waver or try to rise. She raises her hands and instantly, an unnatural slither of white mist condenses from the river waters. A nearly opaque cloud-wall forms between the shore and their boat, veiling them in a literal smokescreen. Rime feels a wind driving like a kick into the back of the third canoe and Blue just lies there, bright-eyed and snarling, her off-hand gripping the javelin.
Magic floods Rime’s hands.
It courses hot from his heart down the track of his arms to his palms. He wills the magic like lightning courses to ground – Blue, Will, and Bian. The blessing diffuses through each of them. Unfortunately, it happens precisely as Will is attempting to jump from their boat into the middle boat and he nearly biffs it, boot slipping so he topples head first into Tivas’ canoe. Bian is already yelling to Vorgut to row faster and easterly. The boats begin to swing toward the opposite shore, far away from the marsh.
Javelins soar from the fog – hitting the walls of the boats, the water around them. One nearly wings the ropes that lash the third boat to the second. Seeing this, Blue waves a hand and a ripple-like mirage passes over the ropes… then a knotted tangle of a dozen ropes appears there, obscuring the target. Will, meanwhile, wrenches a javelin from the side of the boat and without warning, he swells. His spine bows up. Dark fur erupts from the back of his neck and spreads instantly across his body and as Rime watches, stunned, the newly shifted werewolf winds one massive arm back and whips the javelin right back across the shore.
Then he does it again. Over and over. Across the shore, there’s a scream as a spear going ninety miles per hour surely smashes through several lizard men.
Rime maneuvers to the back of the boat and kneels directly between Blue and the foggy enemy-infested shore. They crouch together behind his shield, peering into the mist but no more javelins come. There’s just… motion somewhere in the long grasses and reeds. As Rime’s vision adjusts to the fog… he realizes the shore is literally swarming with lizard folk. The reeds bristle with spears and glinting eyes.
Rime braces the shield more securely. “You see them?”
“Oh, yessss I do,” Blue hisses.
Rime hears her flick the wand of magic missile somewhere directly over his head. There’s a flash and eighteen screaming beads of neon light rip across the river like tiny, hyper-speed fireflies before arching up, then divebombing into the crowd. There’s a sound of wet screaming and bursting. Gore and skull fragments pop as if from red balloons along the shore. Behind him, Rime hears Blue muttering in Aquan and he’d bet it means, “Fuck you fuck you fuck you, I win!”
Will, seeing his wife at work, lays down his sword a moment and grabs the oars to join Vorgut in furious rowing.
Rime – seeing this and hearing the continued guttural shrieks of torment still issuing from Blue’s blast zone – closes his eyes. He presses one hand to his chest, over the three-star sigil of Lliira and for a moment simply mouths, “Show me,” and looks skyward.
It’s instantaneous. The knowing rushes through his head and through his body, takes possession of him in a jolt of sudden muscle memory. Rime shudders, then grabs the oars from where Blue left them and with a sailor’s stolen confidence, begins to pull them asymmetrically through the waters, swinging the tail boat into Will’s rowing, and then into Vorgut’s.
And the boats are suddenly traveling snug to the western shore, so far beyond the range of the javelins that again, no weapons are thrown. For a full ten minutes, Rime expertly navigates the outrigger along the edge of the shore until the light of Lliira fades like a touch from his mind and he loses that sailor’s expertise easy as amnesia. At the front of the boat, Bian is alertly watching the river with one eye and Vorgut’s navigation with the other.
Will, in his boat, says, “Fuck. They’re coming.”
There are splashes from the far shore. Bodies getting quickly through the waters toward them as about forty lizard folk abandon long-range in favor of swimming directly at their small canoes. Blue, behind Rime, staggers up still impaled by the javelin. She hisses, “Let me at ‘em!” and before Rime can tell her to stop fucking moving with a spear in her gut, she raises her arcane focus and throws a fistful of sand into the water.
Magic flashes. Suddenly about half the charging lizard folk go limp mid-swim. Rime sees their eyes slide peacefully, magically shut as they are sucked down by the river’s current and disappear beneath the dark waters.
A force of over twenty furious, screaming lizard-folk are still powering like scaly, ravenous missiles through the water. Rime again takes position between Blue and the enemy, pulling her close behind him and bringing the shield up in one hand. With the other, he raises it palm out toward the waters… and he hesitates.
He can hear Will yelling and hacking furiously as the first wave of lizard men attempt to swarm his canoe. Bian is hissing and snarling, just beheading and hacking into the water. Rime can smell Blue’s blood on the wood and slick on her dress.
Lizard folk hit the third boat.
Wounded, the water frothing with blood, they claw and grab. Gored by Bian, mutilated by Will, the survivors bump down the line of the outriggers to claw madly at the last boat. The grapple the rigs, pulling themselves up, trying to get at both Rime and the wounded sorceress behind him only to be bashed in the face by a shield, but they’re starting to pile on. Rime can’t… he can’t just drive them off. They dragg the boat like an anchor, water sloshing into the…
“Fuck,” Rime whispers.
And summons his spiritual weapon.
It manifests instantly, a bright spinning ball of carnival ribbons hovering like a giant dandelion tuft just above the water… then it swings down, gliding to skim the water, the ribbons foaming the surface as it hooks down to pass along the right side of the head boat where, in a spray of pureed bone, blood, and meat, the razor-sharp ribbons shear one lizard man’s arm off at the elbow, then beheads the fellow behind him. Then on down the line like a meteorite of frothing water and blood, dismembering and bludgeoning any clinging enemies until it reaches that last boat.
The weapon stops directly in front of Rime and grinds a bloody, screaming, person-free space into the waters next to Rime’s shield. This does not last. There are… far too many and even the horror and losses don’t seem to sway them. The lizard folk bash against Rime’s still raised shield, hooked over the side of the boat and he shoves them again, bashes one of them in the face, watches that face shred off the skull when he falls into the weapon.
Blue grabs Rime’s shoulder.
She hisses a little frantically in his ear, “How do you feel about taking a hit?”
To which Rime grits, cheerfully, using his real, demonic voice in all its hissing horror, “Pretty good!”
“Okay!”
Then Blue dives off the back of the boat like a suicidal swimmer toward the lizard-folk infested waters. She arcs up, twisting midair, arms out. A wind catches her Triton frame like a slender kite on an updraft. It carries her upwards, spinning her so for a strange, impossible moment she is almost vertical, upside-down, white hair blown out around her face with her hand out… and she casts thunder wave.
She casts directly at the last boat, Rime, and all the lizard folk upon it.
Rime slams his shield down, grabs a bench and braces as the electricity hits him in a white-hot, screaming wave of pain. Every muscle seizes with a hideous rigor as the lightning courses through him. It hits him like a blow to blast him back, but he holds the fuck onto the boat. He hears the wood splinter, water flood over his boots. For a horrible moment he sees white, then stars, and then the sky reeling above him. Lizard folk are still screaming. He can hear them scrabbling at the out rigging, banging into the canoe walls as they still, still keep on coming.
Then Blue drops with a little shriek into the boat again, almost knocking Rime over, and Will is bellowing, “Jump! Jump! You gotta get in here!”
Rime moves on a dizzy, static-buzzed instinct. He rolls, pivoting to face the middle boat and Will who stands at the back with one hand frantically out stretched and the other holding a blazing scimitar. Rime staggers, still seeing stars and feeling the buzz in his bones. He reaches the front of the boat, drives one foot down on the bow and jumps, landing directly in the second boat and immediately losing his shield from his static-numb arm.
Blue. Is Blue –?
He turns… just in time to see Blue try to follow him. He’s in time to watch it happen, as if in slow motion, as the sorceress’ blood-slick boot squeaks out from beneath the driving lunge off her right leg… and she loses half of her momentum instantly. Rime watches her fall, one arm outstretched toward them – Will and Rime both staring in horror – as she falls into the writhing, blood-red waters.
Split second: Will is screaming.
Split second: The lizard folk start to swarm.
Split second: Bian yells.
And Rime feels his focus like a razor’s edge along the arcane line from his mind to the spiritual weapon. The cyclone ball of ribbon rockets up the side of the boat and every ribbon in its composition loses any bluntness they formerly possessed. What hits the bodies of the lizard folk hits with molecular-sharp indifference and with no clear difference in texture between bone, meat, and water, the weapon plows down into the river and the waves blacken, then redden, then thicken with blood and body parts. The ribbons are no longer any other color but blood red.
Blue tucks into a ball as the weapon screams a horrifying orbit around her, over and over, clearing a ring of mutilation. It’s so precise, it never touches her. Only the ones it intends to harm.
Eventually, the river is clear around her. The remaining lizard folk still alive, screaming, and mauled, swim away back toward the marsh. Blue unfolds herself beneath the water, kicks up, and her head breaks the water by the back of the second canoe now cut free of the third. The water is red around her pale blue face. She blinks up at Rime, bright eyes a little shell-shocked and glassy. Her white hair is pink as Rime catches her arm with a shaking hand and pulls her from the river.
Rime does it carefully, turning her onto her back as he drags her into the bed of the boat.
Will is already pulling Tivas (still unconscious) to the other side of the boat to make room as Rime arranges the tiny Triton woman on the floor and immediately checks the fucking head of the javelin still stuck between her hip bone and her belly. Rime promptly rips her dress open a little to get a better look and presses his fingers into the flesh around the puncture, trying to gauge the depth. Blood pulses around the head of the spear, turning the water puddled beneath her a dark red.
“Blue.” Rime smacks her cheek a little until she looks at him, his real voice grating and seething with whispers. “Are you okay?”
“Eh-heh?” Blue kind of whines.
Rime takes that to mean she’s in shock and therefore not fully aware. So with one hand he yanks the javelin from her gut and with the over dumps a minty-hot rush of healing magic down the tunnel of shredded muscle and perforated gut. Lightly perforated though. Just barely. Rime feels the magic knit her back together until the spell runs dry beneath his fingers. He peels his blood-tacky palm from her stomach… and there’s nothing but a shallow, scabbing cut where a four-inch gouge once gaped.
“You’ll gonna be fine,” Rime says, water dripping from the circlet of flowers around his head. He knows without seeing them, they will be an eye-aching orange. “Dummy. Why the hell did you stand up? You just wanted to give them a target? Give me something to do?”
Blue kinda grins dimly up at him.
“I got ‘em,” she slurs.
Rime looks over the side of the boat, to the receding red waters as the river current eddies and pulls the blood out to sea. He thinks, vaguely, I’ve just lost count. I don’t know how many I’ve killed now. Then he looks back the Blue and Will and Bian perched anxiously at the back of the first boat. Bian’s eyes are big, her tail fluffed anxiously out. He puts on a smile.
“We’re fine,” he says. “Let’s get to Daggerford.”
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qqueenofhades · 6 years
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Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 20: In Which The Best Laid Plans, Etc., Etc.
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Rating: M Summary:  Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which A Daring Rescue Mission Is Launched  NOTES: Warning for some slightly gory medical scenes in this chapter. Nothing too bad, but our Garbage King has definitely done a number on himself.
As the transformation completes, as the creature that was formerly Wyatt Logan hits the ground on all fours and its jacket and trousers tear away, it lifts its head and lays its long ears flat back, its teeth bared in a frothing snarl. Its eyes burn with a hungry yellow glow, and it sniffs the cold air in hoarse gulps. It may be the first time that Wyatt has ever actually fully transformed, if he’s been on stiff anti-lycanthropy medicine to this point, trying to keep the furry little problem under control in hopes of a more permanent solution. In that, he’s almost surely deluding himself, since while medicine can control the condition, it can’t cure it. Only strong old magic has a chance, and certainly not Matija Korvin’s. Matija’s magic was made to destroy these creatures, scions of his mortal enemy Dracul, and if this is Wyatt’s first complete transformation, this is somehow – impressively – even worse. Older werewolves can regain some sense of themselves over time, but young ones, blind and terrified, given over fully to the monster, have no chance.
It’s Flynn’s first, long-conditioned instinct to shoot, even though he doesn’t have his special heavy revolver with silver bullets and thus might as well be throwing twigs. He also, of course, doesn’t have any wolfsbane, because it’s otherwise known as aconite and is one of the deadliest poisons going, to human or were-creature alike. Flynn’s bad leg is not going to hold up much longer, and there are too many people that he needs to get out of the way. The only one he can really see, however, is Lucy. He still doesn’t know if she set him up to be captured, though the vehemence of their reunion (he does not intend to think about that right now or possibly ever) would suggest not. But there is a werewolf on the loose, he can’t protect her, and it turns his battered, weary, bleary brain almost blank with terror.
There is no time for calculations of risk or sophisticated stratagems. As the werewolf decides on the nearest humans – Lucy’s adventuresome friend Rufus and an unknown lady companion, from the looks of things – as its most convenient targets, Flynn gathers his haunches clumsily beneath him and throws himself into an almighty leap. He hits the werewolf from behind, locking both arms around its neck, and it utters a horrible, strangled squeal as he wrestles it down. They roll madly in the snow, claws slashing at his legs, jaws snapping and slavering as he desperately tries to hold them away. If he gets bitten, he’s fucked too.
Flynn fumbles blindly for a soft target, somewhere on the underside, though he’s fairly sure the beast won’t feel it. He hammers his best attempt at a punch in anyway, which seems to make it mad more than anything. Flynn is a highly trained monster hunter and it’s not the first time he has had to fight one of these things mano-a-mano, but he has also spent the last twenty-four hours locked in a small box, lost a significant amount of blood, and hasn’t exactly been fed or tended to in that time. He has a lurid memory of tangling with the revenant, which he also took on himself rather than let it go after Lucy, as he grabs the werewolf by the ears and drags its head back, trying to expose its throat long enough for someone to get off a shot. It won’t kill it, but it might stun it, and then they can work out something else. “HEY!” he roars. “NOW!”
It is quite hard to see anything in his present predicament (so, similar to his last one in that respect, though the lack of a blood-maddened werewolf is making the box sound not that bad in comparison). He can hear yells and running footsteps, and a blast of blue energy sizzles overhead as someone, possibly Lucy, decides to see if tocker droppers work on werewolves. The answer is that they don’t, but they make their fur very frizzy, send an electrical charge jolting through Flynn that briefly stuns him, and he jerks his head aside in the nick of time as jaws close ferociously where it just was. Sparks sting between his fingers, and he sees double. If the ravens are here to help him, they really should bloody think about doing that right now.
Flynn doesn’t say that aloud, mostly because he can’t for obvious reasons. But the next moment, he hears a rush of wings, and the ravens descend on them in a swarm. They pluck and peck and tear at the werewolf’s muzzle and eyes, as it thrashes madly trying to dislodge them, and Flynn almost loses sight of his opponent in the whirl of black wings. It’s just enough for him to crawl out from beneath the beast, bleeding and breathless, and grab a dismembered iron arm off one of the broken tockers sprawled nearby. As the werewolf turns blindly toward him, Flynn winds up and swings it with all of his strength.
It might not be silver or any other special sort of weapon, but even a werewolf notices when it gets bashed very hard in the skull with a solid piece of metal. Its eyes roll back and it collapses in the snow with a crash, paws splayed and black blood trickling from the gash in its fur. It’s unconscious, at least for a few minutes, and Flynn can’t waste any of that time.
He lunges for the tocker, economically guts it of its piano-wire innards, and strips away the copper insulation to find as much of the exposed silver as he can. It’s sharp enough to cut his already-lacerated hands, but he doesn’t feel it. He used this trick once on an assignment in Montenegro, which held it long enough for him to get to his gun and finish it, but that is a fairly major missing piece in this case. He tangles the wire around the werewolf’s front and back paws, and yanks a winding mechanism out of the chest of another tocker, feeling like a mad scientist cannibalizing corpses for parts. He is, in a way, though these corpses are mechanical, not mortal. But some of the more upscale tockers have fancy silver clockwork, rather than common pewter or bronze, and he feels a brief and absurd relief that Rittenhouse sprang for the nice ones to serve as prison guards on the train, rather than send their own people up into this desolate frozen asshole. Flynn jams the silver clockwork against the werewolf’s throat, holds it in place with more piano wire, and yells again at Karl and the nearest members of his gang that he can see (Karl came to get him? Karl? He may have to give him a pay raise), “HEY!”
To their credit, the men run over, though they are justifiably extremely leery about getting too close to a werewolf, even a semi-conscious one. Following Flynn’s terse instructions, they drag it toward the ruined train, throw it in the most solid half of the crushed coal tender, and heap the heavy parts of the ruined tockers over it. It will serve as a makeshift prison, but not for very long, and does not address the question of either turning Wyatt back into a human or getting them the hell out of here. It is only as a thundering silence falls that Flynn realizes he is in fact bleeding a lot, and sits down heavily in the snow, losing his balance. He doesn’t think any of it is a werewolf bite, but that is not exactly helpful right now.
“Flynn?” Lucy runs over to him, kneeling down with a very worried look on her face. He appreciates her concern, even if he is still mildly stunned by its existence. “Flynn, are you – ”
“Just… give me a minute.” It hurts ferociously when he breathes, like a hot knife jamming under his ribs, and even in his eventful career, that one was too close for comfort. “Where is – are the Sokolovs here? How did you – ”
“The Sokolovs –  ” Lucy jumps back to her feet. “Wait. Wait here.”
It’s on the tip of Flynn’s tongue to ask where she thinks he’s going, but given his last day or so, that’s a reasonable request. He duly waits as Lucy and the others return to the smashed-up locomotive of the train that they evidently used to pursue him here (that sounds like a fascinating story, but one for later) and pull an unconscious Anton and Gennady Sokolov from the wreckage. At least Flynn thinks they’re only unconscious, given the anxious way that everyone is treating them, which presumably would not be the case if they were already dead and past help. He feels rather numb and detached from the whole thing. Just a few hours ago, he was still locked in that metal cage, en route to Siberia for some horrible and unknown fate. Now he’s sitting in the middle of a snowstorm with two wrecked trains, a werewolf, two dozen broken tockers, the recent manifestation of the Raven King, and Lucy Preston, apparently of her own free will, just kissed him. It’s fair to say he’s a little stunned.
Once the Sokolovs have been carried into the train car out of the wind and Rufus and his lady friend are doing something to them there, Lucy returns to Flynn and crouches down, trying to pull his arm over her shoulders. “Can you stand up?”
“Mmm.” Flynn doesn’t stop her from doing it, but he also can’t get up the volition to help either. It strikes him that he might have more than a little hypothermia, the way the world turns milky and dreamy, groggy and slow, and if you don’t wake up from that pleasant reverie, you won’t wake up at all. “We need to get the trains off the tracks. This is the Moscow-Arkhangelsk line, there will be another service running through here tomorrow. If it hits those – ”
It’s plain that that would be an epic disaster (so, another one, then), but it’s also not clear how a ragtag group of less than ten people, none of whom are freaks of nature and several of whom are badly wounded, are going to get two wrecked trains off the line. For that matter, it’s not clear how they’re going to get out of here. The locomotive from Flynn’s train might still be somewhat operational, since it was the farthest away from the site of the crash, but the Sokolovs appear to be the closest thing anyone had to engineers, and they’re both unconscious. Flynn, still chivvied by Lucy, finally tries to get to his feet, then grunts and goes down, almost pulling her with him, as his leg gives out. “You go on,” he manages, grimacing. “Go on, just go and – ”
“You think I’m leaving you here?” Lucy looks absolutely ferocious, in what Flynn can dimly make out of her face. “After I came this far? Come on. Come on, one – two – three – ”
She heaves with strength out of all proportion to her size, ignoring the fact that she too has a gimpy leg, and somehow, Flynn rises up like a snowy phoenix, leaning heavily on her as they stagger toward the train. Its broken-out windows are blank and black as blinded eyes, the wind scouring it with an eerie, spine-chilling keen, and the presence of a bound-up werewolf in the coal tender doesn’t exactly provide any impression of a warm or welcoming refuge. Flynn heaves her over the tilted step, she reaches back down for him, and their cold fingers almost slip free. He crawls up, pushes the door open into the compartment where Rufus, the Sokolovs, and the others have taken refuge, and nods at it. “You go in there, I want to try something.”
Lucy looks at him anxiously, but decides to do as he says. She goes into the car, and Flynn, groaning every time he puts weight on his leg and having to grope his way along the crazily tilted walls, makes his way along the track to the locomotive of his train. It may be roughly functional, but the boiler fire has gone completely out, and he sees no way to get it going again. So that’s it, then. They just all get to sit here in the darkness and slowly freeze, or wait for the werewolf to wake up and kill them all.
Flynn gives into a moment of sheer and desolate frustration, shouting curses in all the half-dozen or so languages he knows, banging his hands on the iron plates and achieving nothing except bruising them up some more, and sliding to the floor of the cab, sitting in a crumpled huddle and wishing that he would wink out of existence on the spot. This wish, to his vast annoyance, is not granted, and after another few moments, he crawls forward, fighting the now-agonizing pain in his leg, and lies flat on his face. “Matija,” he mutters. “Matija, you brought us this far. Don’t leave now. Matija Korvin, Gavran Kralj, king of the darkness and the wild, of the night and the stars, the snow and the wood. Matija, moj gospodaru, help us.”
The silence remains deafening. Flynn stares into the abyss that he first discovered the depths of after Lorena and Iris died, after he spent several nights contemplating whether to just take his own gun and finish it off, to go and be with them, at peace, rather than face the hell of trying to exist without them. He came close a few times, but his burning need for revenge on Rittenhouse would not allow him to do it without a fight, to lie down and let them win. A monster hunter who missed the biggest monster of all, who has to make it right, and now –
He doesn’t know what this is, or what he is, any more. He doesn’t know if he even wants to keep fighting, other than that he knows no other way to live. He remains facedown, breathing in pained, wheezing gulps. He knows the Raven King will not come on command, like a dog being called to perform tricks, and you might anger him if you importune too repeatedly or frivolously for his assistance. But Flynn has believed in the man and his legend since before conscious thought, from his most fundamental beginning, and he has seen that power in indisputable action tonight. He knows that Matija’s magic is incompatible with technology, that in all this iron and steel and steam, there might simply be the impossibility of its existence. And yet. And yet.
Nothing tangibly changes, and yet, something does. Flynn has the brief, shadowed sense of someone stepping over him, though when he looks up with pain-bleared eyes, there is still no one else in the cab. Nothing more than a whisper of an old robe, vanishing around a corner. The next moment, he hears a strange rattling from the boiler, like coal being shoveled in, but there is still no heat or light from it. The whir sounds like a drone, like wings, as if the ravens are flying madly inside it, circling, circling, and slowly at first, then faster, the locomotive starts to move.
There is a jerk and a jolt as the momentum is transferred badly down the line of crushed cars, like a tangled wooden train on a string. Flynn doesn’t have the strength to get up and see if it includes the one that Lucy and the others are in, but somehow he does it anyway. One of the rear cars tumbles sidelong off the track with a horrible screech and thunder, sending up sparks as it somersaults into the snow, and he crawls in agony, hand over hand, down the length of the train to the carriage they’re in. He can tell that the coupler is tenuous, that they need to get into the next one, and jerks the door open. “Move!”
Lucy looks up at him, startled and white-faced. “What?”
“We need to get out of this car, it’s going to break loose. There’s an intact one a little further up.” Flynn braces himself on the wall. “Come on, hurry up. Now!”
Rufus, Lucy, Karl, and the others hop to their feet. It is a hair-raising production to heave the unconscious Sokolovs through the narrow door, across the gap between cars with the ground now going by fast beneath, and for Flynn to pull them into the next carriage, but they manage. Rufus and his lady friend crawl across, Flynn grabs their wrists and heaves them as well, and then Karl takes a running start, leaping clear, as the coupler is starting to rattle in an alarming fashion. That leaves just Lucy on the other car, and they have maybe thirty seconds before it breaks off. “JUMP!” Flynn bellows, holding his arms out. “LUCY, JUMP!”
He can see abject terror on her face – it’s not the easiest thing to do, in the dead of night and snow, with a good five feet to clear and the fact that she’ll instantly be dragged under the train wheels and crushed gruesomely to death if she misses. But sparks are starting to fly as the ruined car is dragged free, and she has no time to think about it. She backs up, lowers her head, then breaks into a full sprint, throwing herself into thin air, as he sets his feet and prays.
The next instant, Lucy hits him like a ton of bricks, knocking him backward into the carriage, as he wraps his arms around her and she wraps hers around him and he can feel both of them shaking like leaves, as he buries his face in her freezing hair and can hear her sobbing into his shoulder. He staggers back, still holding her, as the other carriage breaks away and likewise flips off the track, spinning down the embankment and blowing up in a spectacular fireball fifty yards below. Flynn kicks the door shut, rams in the bar, and doesn’t let go of Lucy the entire time. He staggers back, then collapses with her on one of the broken seats, the hard, ancient green velvet upholstery feeling almost as comfortable as a featherbed.
Wyatt is trapped in the coal tender, presumably (and hopefully) still unconscious, so that makes all of them, albeit in very bad shape, as they gain speed, rolling into the whirling snow. Flynn’s hands are cut from the wire, his leg badly damaged, and he has a splendid collection of bruises, cuts, contusions, and other decorations from the beating he took while getting captured. Lucy has done something unpleasant to her leg as well, the Sokolovs are still out, Rufus has managed to escape relatively unscathed but was not in tip-top shape to start with, and the rest of the gang has likewise taken weather from the train crash and the fight in the snow against the automatons. Rufus’ lady friend turns out to be named Jiya. Flynn struggles to recall if Lucy mentioned her before or not. He feels like she might have, but cannot pin the precise instance to mind. Everything is turning rather hazy.
Flynn hopes that they don’t barrel through some crossing too fast and cause yet another accident, or anything else of the sort that could occur when a bunch of injured people are trapped in a train essentially careening out of control, but he decides to leave that to the ravens. Lucy is curled up very close against his chest, it’s cold and dark and they have just been through a terrifying experience, and Flynn can’t summon the necessary volition to push her away. He reminds himself to do it later, then – finally, blessedly – passes out.
He has no idea how long it has been when he stirs, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Everything aches from head to toe, with a nerve-shredding, eye-watering savagery, and he struggles to catch his breath. The inside of the train car is filled with wintry, watery grey-pink light, and they do not appear to have been gruesomely dismembered, whether by a werewolf or by another crash. Flynn struggles to get his thick, cottony tongue around a question – he is dying of thirst, will probably have to go melt some snow – and then through the frosted window, sees the train chugging slowly past a wooden sign, the Cyrillic characters half-obscured by icicles. Арха́нгельск. They’re here.
Flynn sits up, realizes that Lucy is missing, and has a sudden moment of panic, casting around to all sides and almost scrambling to his abused feet before hearing voices from ahead. The train rolls beneath the handsome iron portico of the Arkhangelsk railway terminal, venting blasts of steam, and hits the buffer with a thud that Flynn feels in his teeth. For once, after two days of chaos, the dull, ever-present clack of the train wheels and the hiss and blast of burning coal, there is silence. It rings in his still-ringing ears.
After a few moments, the compartment door unlatches, and Lucy limps in. Someone has fashioned a makeshift splint for her leg out of broken wood and handkerchiefs, which does not look comfortable, but at least it is allowing her to keep going. “We’re in Arkhangelsk,” she informs him, unnecessarily, breath gusting silver in the pearlescent half-light. “Can you walk?”
Flynn thinks about that, isn’t sure he wants to hazard it, and finally Shitmouth and Robert Taylor are called in to assist, hauling him upright and helping him hop the length of the car to the door. There are two platforms in the station, of which they are occupying one, and the other train must be awaiting its departure to Moscow shortly. Lucy goes to find the station master, and since he is the only Russian speaker who is either compos mentis or mobile, Karl has to go with her, which Flynn hates with his entire heart. This time, however, Karl refrains from anything ill-advised, and the station master appears with a look of alarm at multiple injured, scruffy, dirty men (and two women) suddenly descending upon his otherwise peaceful hamlet. “Who are you people? Where on earth did you come from? The service from Moscow does not arrive until much later.”
“We were… unscheduled,” Flynn answers, suddenly wondering what the werewolf situation is, if removal from the affected area of Matija’s magic has reverted Wyatt to human form. He needs to have a good shout at Logan for keeping that secret later, given as it very nearly killed the lot of them, though he grudgingly supposes that Wyatt could have had no way of knowing that that was going to happen. Poor bastard. It’s not a pleasant fate, and anti-lycanthropy medicine may be in short supply around here. They’d better bloody hope he doesn’t wolf out again.
It takes a while, and the requisitioning of several porters to help with all the walking wounded, but they finally get everyone off the train. The answer to the werewolf question is that Wyatt in fact human again, but has a nasty goose egg where Flynn clobbered him with the tocker arm, is naked and half-frozen, shivering and disoriented and confused, and the porters considerately fetch a quilt to wrap him up in and throw censorious looks at everyone else, evidently thinking that they kidnapped him. Flynn wants to explain that he is tied up in piano wire for everyone’s best good, including his own, but that takes too much effort. There’s a British diplomatic office, bank, and guildhouse in Arkhangelsk, due to the long-established Anglo-Russian trade through this port, but given their status as British fugitives-in-chief, that does not seem like a place from which they should expect succor or assistance. Maybe they can assist in getting Lucy (and Rufus and Jiya) back to England. Other than that, who knows. Flynn has given up guessing.
In fits and starts, lurching and staggering, they make their way out of the station. Arkhangelsk is bathed in that eerie pink-grey light like the inside of an oyster; they are too far north for the sun to get more than a few degrees over the horizon. They’re not quite at a high enough latitude to have total polar night, but the days are only a few hours long, and still have another month to go in getting shorter. Flynn devoutly hopes that they will not be here for another month, or even much time at all, but they are too battered to immediately race off again, and if Rittenhouse was bringing him here, there had to be a reason for it, something they need to find out. Despite the lack of sun, the day seems brighter than it is, thanks to the vast streaks of gold that dance and swoop in the sky. Aether in its purest, strongest form. The deposits around here must be unbelievable. That alone would get Rittenhouse’s attention, if they’re mining it.
Anton and Gennady are dispatched to the sailors’ hospital on the waterfront, since they’re more hurt than can be easily cared for, and Lucy wants Flynn to go as well, but he resists. Those places are usually of the rough-and-ready school of medicine that involves swift treatment (or amputation) of grisly wounds, and he doesn’t want them to get any damn ideas about hacking off his leg. Finally, he, Lucy, Rufus, Jiya, and Wyatt (since Flynn can’t think what else to do with him, doesn’t want him close, but also not out of his sight) find a boarding house that caters to the British merchant clientele, with a proprietor who speaks some English and proudly shows them the portrait of Queen Victoria in the hall. As his last memory of this woman is jumping out her drawing room window while her Munshi stabbed him in the arm, Flynn can’t help but choke.
Nonetheless, everyone is at the end of their rope and needs to collapse, and fortunately, news of the Buckingham Palace break-in does not seem to have gotten this far north. Wyatt is untangled from the piano wire and sent to the bedsit in the cellar, Rufus and Jiya take one room at the end of the hall, and Flynn and Lucy find themselves in the other. It is more comfortable than their bare-bones overnight setup in St. Petersburg, with handsomely papered walls, thick velvet curtains and a whitewashed fireplace, and a four-poster bed with a counterpane that looks as soft as a cloud. Flynn wants to fall into it and sleep for a hundred years, but he is absolutely filthy, and wonders if he should limp outside and empty several buckets of freezing water over himself first. If he could even make it that far. Just now, it seems unlikely.
After Lucy has shut the door and turned the key with a click, she removes it, puts it on the night table, and they finally turn to look at each other properly, which they both immediately appear to wish they had not done. A slow, dull flush steals up Lucy’s cheeks, she coughs, and then finally says, “So. We, ah. We’re here.”
Since this is obvious and does not require response, Flynn merely grunts. He supposes he should thank her for saving him, but he also wants to know what happened back in St. Petersburg. Either way, he’s not going to be able to do it standing up, so he sinks into the poufy chintz armchair, wondering if the owner’s grandmother decorated this place. They eye each other for another horrendously awkward moment. Then Lucy says, “I’m sorry about what happened at Sibley’s office. About John Taylor. I didn’t – I never meant for that to – ”
“Never meant for that to happen to him, but did mean it to happen to me?” Flynn isn’t really in the mood to beat around the bush. “Is that what you wanted?”
“No.” Lucy’s cheeks deepen a few notches in color, but she doesn’t take her gaze off him, cool and even. She’s apologized once, but she isn’t going to grovel or waste time on regretting something that is done and over, and Flynn is forced to respect that. He did just see this woman take on a Siberian snowstorm, a train full of tockers, a werewolf, a fell enchantment, and Christ knows whatever else, and it astonishes him all over again what a sheer force of nature she manages to contain in that slight frame. “I didn’t set you up on purpose. I didn’t know that Rittenhouse was going to be there. I should have, perhaps, but I didn’t.”
“Mmmf.” Flynn’s leg is hurting too much to think of a witty reply. Lucy’s eyes flicker to it, the crusted bullet hole and dried blood, the redness and swelling from – to judge from the thousand veins of fire in it – several hairline fractures, and the purplish-black bruising on his ankle and up the back of his calf. She visibly flinches, and Flynn feels a stupid masculine impulse to tell her that it isn’t that bad, he’s fine. Fortunately, he manages not to.
“You really should have gone to the hospital,” Lucy says. “Your leg’s a mess. I have a few field-medic skills, but I don’t think I can fix that. And after what happened with Wyatt – ” She hesitates. “Did you – know? Before?”
“No, I didn’t know before.” However much he may deserve it, Flynn is still rankled at the implication that he would let her run around in close proximity to a dangerous monster, and never utter a word of warning. “I did tell you that Dracul’s children can pass as human, even to someone like me, who used to hunt them for a living. I wondered once or twice if he was under some sort of spell, but I didn’t know for sure until he started changing. Matija Korvin’s magic must have forced him to do so, a sort of allergic reaction.”
“So that’s why he wants a cure,” Lucy says softly. “He came to this reality to retrieve you for Connor Mason, stumbled into a place under Dracul’s curse and was turned into a werewolf, and now he can’t go home unless he finds some way to get rid of it forever. He can’t go back to Earth – ours, our non-magical Earth – as a werewolf, or feel like he can properly find his wife and reunite with her while he’s – he’s this. Is there anything you know that could help him?”
“As I said, there’s medicine to control it, but nothing to cure it permanently.” Flynn, obviously, does not like Wyatt Logan  much at all, but even he can admit that this is nothing to be envied. “You were the one researching how to disenchant a revenant. Maybe you saw something useful.”
“All the magic for that was Matija’s,” Lucy counters. “Since as you said, he was the one who made revenants in the first place, in order to fight Dracul’s children. Anything we could find from the Raven King would probably be meant to destroy Wyatt, not save him.”
Despite the pain and grime and other deeply undesirable aspects of this situation, Flynn finds it extremely arousing for Lucy to be standing there calmly talking about the Raven King and his magic and whether or not it is of any use to the monster they have become unexpectedly saddled with. She has learned a lot, he thinks, remembering her in Oxford, scoffing at the idea of anything actually being otherworldly or powerful enough to take seriously. Then he thinks again of her mouth on his, hungry and raw and wet and open, and swallows hard, reminding himself that that was just a euphoric, spur-of-the-moment reaction, helped along by the dark and the snow and the thick strands of enchantment that hung around them both. He tries to avoid looking at her lips, or entertaining any notion of a repeat. Why is she still so beautiful, hair down and face dirty and dressed in battered old men’s clothes, after the literal night from hell? It dries his throat and skips his heart like a rock pattering along the surface of a lake, over and over, over and over, until it falls. Her face is set and carved and bold and burning in the reflected aether glow through the window. Arkhangelsk. He’s suddenly not so sure it’s Michael.
“Maybe,” Flynn says, after a too-long moment, struggling to remember what they were talking about. Right, Matija, and whether his magic would be any good for Wyatt. “The full moon was recently, we shouldn’t be in immediate danger as long as there isn’t another incident, but we need to get our hands on some of his medicine. I’m not risking another train trip with the possibility of a total transformation. Especially since he has no idea how to control it.”
Lucy looks as if she’s not that eager to risk it herself, all things considered. There is another brief pause. Then she says, “If you won’t go to the hospital, I’m going to find you a doctor. I’ll take Karl. You stay where you are.”
“Karl?” Flynn still doesn’t like that. “There has to be a servant in the house you can send, or you could ask the proprietor. You don’t need to go off alone with that – ”
“Karl’s welcome to try something.” Lucy gives him a slightly feral smile. “We’ll happily see how that works out for him.”
With that, leaving Flynn frankly more shaken than ever, she whirls on her heel and exits the room, as he leans back and blows out a long breath. The proprietor comes up with some tea, which Flynn sips slowly, and he drifts in an uncomfortable haze until Lucy returns. She has indeed brought a doctor, a young, sandy-haired gentleman who sucks in his breath in horror at the sight of Flynn’s leg, enquires of Lucy in broken English if perhaps she would like to leave while he sees to her husband, and is oblivious to the blushes that result on both of them. The doctor sets down his bag, unpacks his things, and gingerly cuts away the ruin of Flynn’s trousers, as if not even sure where to start first. “How did you do this?” he asks in Russian. “Were you run over by a train?”
“Not that far off, actually.” Flynn grimaces. Lucy has taken up a position next to his chair, apparently intending to remain in the name of moral support, and he is about to tell her to go, like the doctor suggested. But he can’t quite do it, and this is going to be awful enough. If she wants to get some grim satisfaction out of seeing that he has in fact suffered for all his bad decisions, she might as well.
Suffering is, Flynn has decided ten minutes later, a gentle way to put it. He’s not altogether sure that he is not in fact dead, in hell, and the doctor is a cunningly disguised junior demon getting started on his eternities of torment. He has to first scrub down the leg with warm water and soap, trying to remove some of the calcified layers of grime, before he can get to work. Then he has to fish the bullet out, cauterize, clean, irrigate, and stitch the entry wound, and pack it thoroughly with gauze and bandages, as Lucy is drafted in as an extra pair of hands to cut thread or hold the raw edges of Flynn’s skin closed while the bastard stabs him repeatedly with a needle. Once that is done, the doctor is leery about the multiple fractures in Flynn’s tibia, which he has really managed to mess up, and warns him that unless he stays off his feet for at least a fortnight, he runs the risk of doing permanent damage and being lame for the rest of his life. Flynn is not enthused to hear that, but needs must. It feels like the Raven King could magically swoop in and fix that too, but he’s probably used up his miraculous intervention for several decades.
Flynn is even less enthused about the fact that the doctor decides that they’ll have to fully break the fractures, then re-align and set them cleanly, rather than having them jam together and knit badly. At that, he decides that his tolerance for letting Lucy get vicarious satisfaction out of his misery is at an end, and turns to her. “Go. I don’t want you to see this.”
“No,” she says. She helps the doctor lay his leg out straight, fix it in place with an iron collar, then returns to him and takes hold of both of his hands. “No, I’m staying.”
Flynn debates about that, and yet doesn’t have the will to force it. This is going to be more hell as it is, and she does seem worried. “Fine. But it’ll be ugly.”
Lucy has a pale, set look on her face as if she’s seen ugly and it doesn’t faze her, as if she has gotten well used to it, and doesn’t answer. The doctor removes his mallet and wedge, finds the displacement of each fracture, and places the wedge against it. He gives Flynn a knotted handkerchief to bite down on, promises that this will be quick but is really going to hurt, and then hits the wedge with the mallet.
Flynn lets out a strangled, roaring gargle, as it feels exactly as you would expect someone deliberately breaking your fucked-up leg with a chisel to feel, and hot red-blackness fizzes at the edges of his vision. Lucy has one hand in his hair, cradling his head against her stomach, her other hand still tangled in his, as he gulps and heaves and tastes bile in the back of his throat, trying not to throw up all over her. The doctor cuts strips of his skin back in order to properly align the broken fragments, drills in a few small steel screws that he assures Flynn will grow into the healing bone, and then sews the skin back into place. If nothing else, Flynn has become almost desensitized to the pain at this point, since his nerves have just up and quit, and he’s practically able to fall asleep from exhaustion as the doctor finishes his work and washes the wound thoroughly with a perhydroxic acid solution. Then he splints the leg, bandages it up until it looks like a mummified white club, and finally gets to his feet. “Well,” he says, taking off his glasses and wiping his face with his arm. “I advise a stiff drink and a long rest.”
“Thank you.” Flynn still feels like he’s about to die, and would not mind at all if he did, but he is able to recognize that the doctor did a very competent job under challenging circumstances, and might in fact have saved him from permanent crippling. “If you want to be paid, I have money. Not right now, but I can find a way to get it to you. However much you’d like.”
The doctor assures him that whenever he can find the money, that is suitable, and to send his wife by again if the wound worsens or develops any complications. Neither Flynn nor Lucy bother correcting him at this point, and he packs his things back into his bag, washes his hands, and removes a small, stoppered black vial from his pocket. “Laudanum,” he says. “You’ll want it. Good day, sir, ma’am.”
With that, as the door shuts behind him, Lucy steps in, slings Flynn’s arm over her shoulder, and helps him hop to the bed. She tugs the covers back and helps him underneath them, undoes his belt and unbuttons his dirty shirt, and he supposes there is some impertinent remark to be made about her tearing his clothes off, but he is weak as water and suspects it would backfire on him anyway. She eases him down onto the pillow, he wonders if it’s worth it to deny the laudanum when she offers it, and then decides that it isn’t. He takes a few foul-tasting droplets, chokes it down and dry-retches as his stomach revolts, but manages not to bring it back up. The world is already fading into a haze, and within moments, he is gone.
Flynn has tormented poppy hallucinations that flash in and out like carnival mirrors, until they finally subside long enough to let him properly pass out again. His waking from this seems destined to be even more unpleasant than his waking on the train, if that’s possible, but at least it doesn’t hurt right now, and he wanders in the opium mists without any sense of time or space or conscious form. Unlike his visions as a prisoner, where he saw the ghosts of Lorena and Iris flitting in and out, nobody is here at all. He is standing in the middle of a grey moor, the wind blowing hard in his face, the boggy ground giving way beneath his feet. He does not remember when he came here, or how he arrived. Doesn’t know if this is a dream, or if he has somehow been plucked out of bed in Arkhangelsk and carried on the wind.
After an indefinable passage of time, short or long or neither, Flynn becomes slowly aware that he is not, in fact, completely alone. There is someone standing on the far side of the fog, someone waiting for him to come to them. Black leaves twist and scatter, leaves that look like wings. He can hear a distant caw, and he knows who calls.
Slowly, step by step, Flynn crosses the moor. His leg does not pain him; it is of no concern at all. He is not in a place where the limitations of his physical body can touch him. He wades through the peat water, which slops murkily around his ankles, and climbs up on the far side. He can see the edge of a robe, the one that he glimpsed vanishing around the corner and into the train boiler, right before the locomotive began to move. This time, however, it is more solid, not merely an ephemeral scrap or half-seen shadow. It is embroidered in ancient runes that speak the language of stone and sky and field, of stars and moon and tree, and it rises up the body of a tall man, who stands there without a word and casts a shadow as vast as a forest.
Flynn looks up into the pale, carved, handsome face, the eyes as black as onyx beneath thick brows, the long hair somehow untouched by the wind, the mouth like a seam of granite and the iron crown that rises in sharp, elegant points. If he is honest with himself, he should have known this was coming, and he drops smartly to his knees, bowing his head and lifting the robe to kiss. “Matija Korvin,” he says. “Moj gospodaru, moj kralj. Pozdravljam te.”
Garcia Flynn. It is not quite a spoken voice that answers, but something like the sound of far-off thunder, somehow recognizable as words. It is an older dialect of Croatian, antique and formal, but understandable. You called me by the old ways and placed yourself at my service. I have come, I have delivered you from your enemies. Do you now pay the toll?
“Yes.” Flynn can feel the cold droplets on his face, the taste of salt on his lips. “Whatever you ask of me, you may have it. As I swore.”
You make hasty promises, boy. Matija Korvin sounds amused. Are you sure you would give anything I could ask of you, without a single thought or question? You are in my debt. The magic spent for you was grave and strong. I will need it back.
Flynn is aware of a chill that does not come from the wind, that seems to cut him to the bone. He is reminded of the reason why you only call upon the Raven King in the darkest hour, and of his earthly nickname, Matija the Just. He will give you what you need, but he will expect fair recompense, and he will not be swayed by pleading or petty mortal concerns in what he asks. He is old and fey and very strong, and Flynn has to fight a sudden and consuming terror. What if Korvin asks for not something, but someone? Is Flynn willing to defy his own gods, his ancestral master, the flesh and bone of his country’s existence and magic and pride, all the legends ever told and all the songs ever sung, and the debt that he clearly does owe, to be so insane as to withhold the King’s tribute from him? It is said that the Raven King must sometimes find a Raven Queen to rule Faerie with him, and Flynn has seen for himself what Lucy is. What if –
I will tell you when I have set my mind, Matija Korvin says. Then you will bring it to me, and the account will be settled. Call upon me again, and a second payment will be owed. I shall, however, strengthen your leg, as you will need it. You may thank me for this gift.
“Thank you, my lord.” Flynn takes the offered bone-white hand and kisses it, next to the black-stoned ring with a raven carved in its face. “I am your servant.”
Do not forget it. Matija Korvin’s rumble is becoming deeper, farther away, and his body is starting to become one with the mist, as the leaves twist and whirl and leap around his feet, spring from the moor and become birds taking flight. We will speak again.
With that, all at once, he is gone, and Flynn is aware of the grey field falling away, the world turning to darkness. When he slowly stirs back to consciousness, he is aware that he is lying in bed, his leg still hurts but not nearly as badly as before, and he is once more physically back in Arkhangelsk, if indeed he ever really left. He grimaces, pushes himself upright, and looks around. The room is quiet. Lucy isn’t there, but someone has left a tray of food, in case he feels up to eating. He considers, then decides that he does. According to the clock, it is four-thirty PM, and has probably been dark for at least an hour.
Flynn is polishing off the supper, and wondering if he feels up to hauling himself out of bed and to the WC, when the door opens and Lucy returns. She looks cold and windswept, as if she has been out for the day. “I’ve been to visit Anton and Gennady,” she says, by way of explanation. “They’re awake, they should be all right, but they were hurt fairly seriously, they’ll have to stay at least a few days. I managed to find a little medicine for Wyatt, I hope it’s enough. Rufus and Jiya are mostly all right, if banged up and confused. I sent a telegram to Ada in St. Petersburg to tell her that we’re alive and we rescued you, but I had to be very roundabout. Our last entanglement with telegraph operators in St. Petersburg going how it did.”
Flynn nods, thanking her for the explanation, and is yet again impressed at what she has managed to do within a few short and dark hours of being dropped into this place. “Sit down,” he says gruffly. “You’ve been running yourself ragged.”
Lucy looks about to protest, then for once, thinks better of it. She shucks her dirty cap, jacket, and shoes, sits in the chair, and lets out a long sigh, rubbing both hands over her face. Flynn manages to get out of bed and hop awkwardly to the loo, do his business without killing himself, and hop back, aware that the roles have been reversed in terms of who is in the bed and who seems self-conscious about sharing it. Maybe Lucy does not want to cuddle too close to his grimy invalid carcass, for which she cannot be blamed, or maybe she is already regretting the kiss. He should not have been so forward, the way he kissed her back with such starving, forceful insistence, the one thing he knew he would do if he let himself give in. She might feel sullied, assaulted, preyed-upon, though he does get the sense that things are different, socially speaking, for men and women in her world. But he isn’t sure he could bear the shame, the guilt, if so.
It continues to get darker, and Lucy gets up to light the lamps in the room. The window glows with green-gold light from the aurora and the aether streaking in great gouts of color across the night sky, more beautiful than the stars, and Flynn half-feels that he could stare at it forever. Lucy disappears into the bathroom, the water runs for a while as she evidently has a proper wash, and Flynn tries not to chase his head in circles. Should he ask her if she is all right? Apologize for his impropriety? Lucy is clearly a woman who is not affronted or shocked by the things that would cause other well-bred Victorian ladies to swoon, and Flynn doesn’t want to insult her by insinuating that she couldn’t handle it or must have been a fragile flower. But at the same time, he’s increasingly terrified that he did hurt her somehow, inside or out, and she’s been pushing it aside for the sake of taking care of him. He could offer for her to sleep down the hall, with Rufus and Jiya, or on the sofa. No, he should sleep on the sofa. Even if it means limping downstairs to freeze, he probably –
Flynn’s progressively more panicked rounds of self-recrimination are finally interrupted by Lucy opening the door and emerging from the bathroom, pink-cheeked and damp-haired, wearing one of the nightgowns from the wardrobe. She looks at him a little shyly. “There might be some hot water left in the boiler. I don’t think you could have a proper bath with your bandages, but I could find a sponge or a handkerchief.”
Some removal of his exoskeleton of filth sounds nice, even as Flynn is briefly unsure if she’s implying that she should wash him, and doesn’t respond for fear of choking on his tongue. He finally manages to answer that that would be good, thanks, and hops to the bathroom, waving off her offered assistance. There is a hand towel that he can use to scrub, and he hastily declines her suggestion that she fetch one of the gang from their lodgings a few doors down. He is not having them see him like this, or expected to act as a nursemaid for the boss.
Once the door is shut behind him, Flynn strips off the rest of his ragged clothes, climbs very carefully into the claw-footed tub, and picks up the towel and the bar of rosemary-scented soap. The water is lukewarm rather than hot, but he doesn’t begrudge it to Lucy, and with grunts and curses of pain, he manages to get the most egregious mess off. He has to prop his bandaged leg awkwardly on the rim of the tub to avoid getting it wet, and wonders what exactly Matija did to it, or if it’s a bad idea to go rummaging around trying to find out. He’ll take it not hurting like the son of a bitch for now. Everything else is gravy.
Having finished his makeshift ablutions, Flynn heaves himself painfully out, dries off, and discovers that a folded nightshirt has been left on the shelf. He shrugs into it; it’s slightly too small through the chest and shoulders, and clearly made for a shorter man, so that he feels afraid of inadvertently flashing passersby if he bends over too quickly. Not that anyone is likely to be passing by except Lucy, but flashing her would definitely be mortifying. Among other things.
Flynn opens the door and hobbles out, to discover that Lucy has curled up in the bed in his absence, but seems set to vacate it upon his return. “No,” he says quickly. “No, you can take it. I’ll – ”
“There is no way you’re going to walk downstairs and sleep on the sofa,” Lucy says. “None whatsoever. We’re just cutting that off right there.”
Flynn is miffed that he is apparently predictable, but relieved that he doesn’t have to make the trek down to a cold and empty parlor. Even he doesn’t think he could manage a night on the floor in his present state, so he gimps over and climbs in with a grunt of effort, assisted by Lucy. They end up very close to each other, his hand alongside her thigh and their noses almost brushing, and briefly get lost in the other’s eyes. Her hair has tumbled into her still-flushed face, and his fingers ache with the urge to brush it aside. To run his fingers along the fine bone of her cheek, to cup her chin with his thumb, to curl around her ear and draw her mouth to his. But that would take a determination, a conscious effort, a decision that he does not know if he can make, and he refuses to toy with her or jerk her around. Their gazes remain locked, and he can hear her breath hitch in her throat. It is a small, hungry sound, which seems to suggest that she would not necessarily be averse to what he has just imagined (or more), and it is murder on his self-control. How can she, how can she possibly, have done this for him? It is unfathomable. He has done nothing to deserve it. And yet, heart-shatteringly, unbearably, here she still is.
After an anguished moment more, Flynn pries his eyes off her, moves his hand back, and carefully, slowly lies down on his back. He settles his head on the pillow, letting out a jagged sigh, and after a brief hesitation, glancing at him through lowered lashes, Lucy lies down as well, curling herself into his side and nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder, the way they slept that night in St. Petersburg. She doesn’t ask permission, not that it would once occur to him to refuse her, and he wraps his arm instinctively around her. She lowers her head, and rests on his chest.
At that, Garcia Flynn’s fragile heart almost breaks altogether. He wants to take this moment and put it in glass, somewhere small and perfect and remote from the rest of the world, from all of time and eternity, and keep it safe. He knows it beyond all dispute, it slashes him like a knife, and only incidentally less painful. He loves, he loves, he loves, he loves her, and he can never let her go. Unless she asks, unless she tells him to, and if so, somehow, he will have to find the strength to watch her get into her machine, however she came to this reality in the first place, and leave it forever.
(He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. His heart and his head flee wildly from even the possibility of imagining it. And yet. He has always known she would not stay. Could not.)
Lucy closes her eyes, the exhaustion swiftly pulling her under. Flynn is just as tired, and yet he feels tempted to stay awake a little longer, to look at her like this, boneless and utterly trusting and fast asleep in his arms. He shifts a bit to be able to hold her with both, tugging her closer against him. When he is absolutely sure that she is soundly out and will not stir, he brushes the lightest, most gentle of kisses against her tangled hair, the soft skin of her temple and her cheek, and hopes they may stay there as an offering. God. His heart shakes.
Something drifts past the window, outside. Something neither snow, nor wind, nor passing traveler of the night. It fills Flynn with something closer to foreboding than relief, something more terror than gratitude. For he knows very well, as he has all along, that it was a raven.
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Happiness Was Foretold
@definefreakforme | AO3 | I was stumped until I found the prompt, “I remember kissing you. Why do I remember kissing you?” on the A03 Writer's facebook group. Hopefully this was - somewhat - what you were hoping for! Happy Holidays!
“I remember kissing you. Why do I remember kissing you?”
Derek looked up from the book in his lap, frowning.
Stiles was staring at him with the most perplexed expression, brows furrowed and mouth screwed up. He looked like he’d sucked on a lemon.
“What? Kissing me? I think I’d remember that.” He would. Derek had wanted to kiss the younger man for at least five years since he’d realised that under all the flailing limbs and word-vomit there was true kindness and bright intelligence. Stiles had become more than a liability; a human in a pack of wolves. He’d become their Emissary through pure determination; his skill with mountain ash only a parlour trick compared to some of the magic users they had come up against since the pack’s founding. But aside from a month of depression at not being as magical as he’d wished, Stiles had been upbeat about everything.
He took what he had and multiplied it, just like the ash.
“I dunno man, sometimes you’re here but not, you know? Maybe someone got your ass werewolf-drunk.” Stiles shrugged and ripped off another sticky note, scribbled on it, and stuck it into the book he had open. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
As teenagers and then as college students the pack had been overly enthused to realise that there were strains of aconite that could emulate a human high. Mixing small amounts into alcohol mimicked the effect of inebriation enough that, as long as they were careful not to share with whatever humans they were partying with, they could feel the buzz as much as any other student. Derek had been roped into aconite shots more than enough times to admit that Stiles was right.
“But that would mean you were either in the same boat or you’ve been holding out on me for however long it took you to tell me this.”
Stiles stuck up a finger, “point.” he ceded. “But I don’t think that was it… See, I remember kissing you, but it isn’t a hazy memory, like if I was drunk or something. It’s… it’s really vivid, like something I can’t ever forget.” He looked up from the next book and cocked his head to the side. The light from the window filtered through his eyes, making them glow honey-gold. “I can’t remember what led up to it or what happened after, but I just remember us laying together somewhere warm and comfortable. You weren’t wearing a shirt — “
“As usual,” they shared a smile.
“ — and you were hogging the… bed? The couch? I don’t even know; it was soft and comfortable and I didn’t want to ever move.”
“Pfft, like that’s new. If you were  a Were, you would be a were-sloth.”
“Har har har.” Stiles threw a pencil at Derek only for the ‘wolf to catch it and throw it back at him. The pencil sailed through Stiles’ grasping hands and across the floor. “Jerk.”
“Guilty. But you were saying?”
“Right, so, you and your muscles were hogging whatever soft thing we were laying on and it was super bright. Like, noon-in-the-face bright, but softer? I don’t even know. But we were laying side by side talking about… something… and you just kinda, you know,”
“Actually, I don’t — “ Derek paused, going preternaturally still. “Oh.”
“Oh? What do you mean, ‘oh’? That’s never a good sound coming out of you.” Stiles jammed a pencil between the pages of his book and hurried over to the couch. He threw himself down beside Derek and immediately began looking him over, hands hovering over but not touching. “Does something hurt? Did you get a wolf-boo-boo?”
Derek grimaced and shoved Stiles’ face away with his palm.
The Emissary laughed and latched on, grabbing the arm and tugging until Derek was forced to follow him down or pull away. He let the younger man pull until they slid off the couch and onto the pile of blankets folded beside the couch. Stiles had pulled an all-nighter the night before and Derek, upon finding him out cold and sprawled face-first on the ground with his ass in the air — like usual — had tucked him into the couch under a mound of blankets.
The pile was soft and warm from the sunlight pouring through the bay windows in the library of the Hale house. It was warm and comfortable, though maybe a little too warm. Derek sat up, ignoring Stiles’ grumbling, and tugged his shirt off. He tossed it onto the couch and toed his socks off before settling back onto the blankets with a sigh.
In the years since things had settled the pack had allowed themselves to get comfortable. Touching was commonplace, as were cuddle-piles. Even Stiles had become accustomed to sleeping in a pile of bodies and blankets. At one point in his life the idea of settling onto a mound of blankets beside a shirtless Derek Hale would have had him checking into the hospital for a psych eval. But now these kinds of interactions were the highlight of his week.
Stiles jammed one bare foot between Derek’s shins, wiggling until his toes made it through to the soft press of his calves. The man was a walking heater and his perma-frozen toes were happy to take advantage. Derek grumbled but squeezed his legs together in a pseudo hug that Stiles appreciate.
“So tell me more. What’s the epiphany that caused the ‘oh’?” Stiles prodded Derek’s cheek and the ‘wolf snapped at the digit playfully.
“I remember it too.”
“Oh!”
Derek snorted and the two of them dissolved into giggles.
“You’re a dick!” Stiles swatted at Derek, still grinning.
“But so are you, so it’s perfect.”
The wide grin on Stiles’ face made him light up. “ We’re perfect.”
“Mmm, exactly.” There was a pause where Derek sucked in a breath. “Do you remember when we met with the Vancouver pack? That was what, four years ago? Their Emissary went on about how unmated alphas were loose cannons and they needed a mate to anchor them. I was pissed, but I couldn’t just tell her to shut up.”
“Because there was no sense in ruining the peace treaty we’d literally just spend months getting them to sign.”
Derek nodded, humming. “But then she wanted me to drink this tea, right?”
Stiles’ eyes went wide and he straightened. “Oh! Yeah! I remember that stuff! It was like, minty and fruity and kinda burned the whole way down?” He made a face. “Not the worst thing I’ve ever had, but it was definitely something special.”
“Stiles, it was magic tea , of course it was special!”
Stiles grumbled and shoved at Derek’s shoulder. “Shut it. What about the tea?”
The wolf grabbed at Stiles’ hand and held it between his own, running the tips of his fingers up and down each one of Stiles’. “She said it was for balance, for knowledge; that the tea would show me the future I needed and what I needed most in the world.” He shrugged and laced the fingers of one hand together with Stiles’. “I thought she was full of shit but… But I drank the tea and… I saw us.”
“Us? Like, what kind of us?”
“LIke you said, we were laying down somewhere warm and comfortable. I wasn’t wearing a shirt and you looked like you’d just pulled another all-nighter. But we were laughing and happy. And…” Derek focused on the small dark splotch of a mole on Stiles’ chin.
“And you kissed me.”
Derek nodded and lay still. He listened intently to the beating of Stiles heart, listening to it ratchet up to a fast pace only to slow and even out. He heard the whoosh of an intake of breath and felt the warm heat of Stiles’ exhale.
“You kissed me and held me close. You said you loved me. You said…”
“I said I wouldn’t know where else in the world I would ever want to be because all I wanted was what I already had.” Derek looked up into Stiles' eyes, finding them wet with tears. He felt the telltale prickle behind his eyes and moved to wipe at them only to realise he was still holding Stiles’ hand.
“And did you mean it?”
Derek started and frowned, mouth open in a moue of surprise. “Of course I do. Did. Uh… both?”
Then he nuzzled close and pressed his lips to Stiles’ in a soft, caressing kiss. They parted after a moment with a wet sound, rubbing the tips of their noses together.
“I can’t imagine anywhere else I’d ever want to be.”
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ravenswood · 7 years
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📼, 👻
📼: fave type of horror? (thrillers, creature features, etc.)
my Horror Jam is definitely supernatural horror -- ghost, possessions, haunted houses like hell yeah that’s the shit i’m here for. i’ve had a fascination with ghosts ever since i was a kid and read all of the ghost books in the back of my library and that’s translated neatly over to being a proper horror fan. creature features are cool too tho and i can definitely get into a good slasher movie even if blood and gore isn’t typically my thing. 
honestly as long as i have some interesting characters/commentary/story to get into, i’m down. but ghosts are definitely my preference.
👻: if you made a horror movie, what would be the plot?
tbh the first thing that’s springing to mind is a rehash of the nun wherein we axe this whole convent thing entirely and make it a prequel to the conjuring franchise feat young lorraine (and maybe young ed too, but we could also make the crooked man about him and then a third prequel where they’re brought together) squaring off against valak BUT
if we’re going for something original..............hmmm. i’d love to make a good werewolf movie? we don’t have enough of those or at least not enough mainstream ones. i’d love to see something about...mmm not necessarily warring werewolf packs bc that’s been done to death but something where the protags are werewolves and we get a peek into their culture and such -- although if we could PLEASE do it right and not delve into the typical gross and inaccurate alpha male bs that’d be great
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churchyardgrim · 7 years
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1 and 7 for character ask meme?
🕸 1. Who’s the oldest character of yours that you still use?
mmmm probably Bryn, who started out as a werewolf but evolved over time into a wolf/war/winter god, stoic and stubborn and perpetually Not In The Mood. I haven’t done anything with her in aaaaaaages, but I still consider her usable and stable, so I won’t count her out yet
⭐️ 2. Who’s the oldest character of yours, defunct or not?
jeeze I dunno, most of my really really early characters were literally just me copypasted into different story verses with different powers, I wouldn’t consider those distinct characters. other than that it might be Lorca, who was some kind of scarecrow witch, and who I might revamp at some point
💡 3. Has creating a character ever made you realize something about yourself?
usually it just brings to light things I was aware of in the background but never thought much about, mostly in the area of Things I’m Into
🦋 4. Any minor characters that have either taken over or branched off into their own stories?
Harker started out as a side character to a story that’s since split off into another story. a lot about her has changed between then and now though
🐲 5. Do you prefer to make human, animal, monster, or _____ characters? Why?
fucking monsters all the way, have you met me? I would die for monsters. short of that, humans on the bare edge of humanity is my jam
🎨 6. When creating a character, do you come up with the visual concept or the written concept first?
honestly it varies, sometimes the image comes first, sometimes it’s the role they need to play. I like to work with concepts and build a character off that, but I think it’s leading to a lot of characters who fit their archetype very well but don’t have much beyond that
📌 7. Do you have characters that you know you’ll never use, but can’t bear to get rid of/recycle?
mmm Lorca’s probably in that category, she’s outdated and badly in need of a redo but I kinda like her as is, even though she’s stuck in the back cupboard 
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