There’s a lovely old English myth that if someone who truely loved and trusted the werewolf called it by name that it would turn back to human.
Others include throwing their human clothes at it and it’d turn back but that’s a bit less romantic
#ok i understand ppl would take the romancey route here#but imagine the werewolf’s mother#or grandmother#some wizened old woman or middle aged woman#with wrinkles or hands toughened from years of labor#just going out into the woods#where even the men with axes won’t go anymore#and facing down the ravening beast#and saying#it’s time to come home
Or the grandmother throwing the werewolf’s clothes at it and being all “God damn it Jerry, put your fucking clothes back on.”
I am right here for the grandma vs werewolf stories.
I made another thing, this one I’m aiming to make more professional..
http://genzalez.weebly.com/
When I finish this new version of Dusk I plan to pay for my own domain and get cards made and stuff.. but for now, here take a look, I made a website for my stupid self and ridiculous amount of stories.. :X
-I also made pseudo covers, credits to which you can find on my deviant art…
“Honestly Collin, if Artemis Theron came after you with her crossbow are you telling me you’d be perfectly fine?”
“No I’m telling you I’d shit myself and will probably die.”
-Rishas and Collin
“Good evening, gentlemen! Please pay attention. I am a reformed vampire, which is to say, I am a bundle of suppressed instincts held together with spit and coffee. It would be wrong to say that violence does not come easily to me. It’s not tearing your throats out that doesn’t come easily to me. Please don’t make it any harder.” -Terry Pratchett, Monstrous Regiment
"Rishas, I don't care if an army of vampire hating devils suddenly rose up to demand my carcass, I will never, ever, willingly go to Father, let alone ask for that bastards help with anything. I can be strung up by my entrails and have birds pecking out my eyes, I'm still not asking him to get me down. I could be starving, a terrifying little shriveled wrinkled Collin, and he could offer me a drink, and I will wriggle my happy little withered ass off of a cliff. Rishas, are we understanding each other? Bro, not even Cassandra showing up on my doorstep would make me call dad. Ew."
Okay hi I made a thing. If you’ve ever been interested in that thing that’s totally consumed my life and all that– you know, Dusk.
Then take a looky here.
http://dark-unimaginably-stupid-kids.tumblr.com/
I made an chara/ask blog for Dusk. :)
It’s also got the potential for roleplay stuff and art and writing archiving..
It’s new and there’s very little on there yet, but hopefully I can get it up and running soon.
Disclaimer : The universe belongs to blood-red-iris.tumblr.com , I just like to play with it.
Genre : General
Pairings : None
Warnings : Nope
English is not my mother tongue, so if there’s any problems, don’t hesitate to tell me ! =’)
They look at her eyes and they see pretty indigo irises, with a peculiar shine, and they assume that it's alright, that it's worth it, that she should be glad to have them rather than common muddy or blue-ish eyes like so many others.
They laugh it off sometimes, when she tries to tell them what she sees, but when she tells a truth too close, or too uncomfortable, they squirm and look away and tell her to forget it, to turn it off.
But she can't. She remembers trying to, failures and the feelings of tears prickling in her eyes when she wanted nothing else but to tear them off her face.
She remembers the children at the orphanage, the ones nobody looked at but her, with their silence and bitten-off nails, with nasty words and scared glares, the ones who would shout and fight rather than admit she could hear them cry at night.
She remembers going to a friend's house, and looking at her father, and his hungry smile, and his wandering eyes. She remembers crying when she tried to tell, and how her friend ran away, calling her a liar and a fake, despite her own red eyes and large clothes, despite her white and blue skin and her thin smiles.
She remembers the woman at the supermarket, with her nice smile and her empty eyes, with truth rolling from her lips as easily as her lies.
But she doesn't tell them this. She says sorry, shrugs or smiles when they laugh, and learns to stay silent when she sees a truth too ugly to be told.
She knows that in the mirror, there's a reflection with strange indigo eyes and a pretty false smile, quick to come (she also knows that sometimes, the reflection moves, or smiles differently, to her, at her – but she stays silent on that too).
Her eyes see the truth, her mouth weaves lies. Because everyone needs the former, but wants the latter, and she needs them. So she gives them what they want, and in turn they smile at her and call her friend.
Because her friends are all liars, and she learned that it is better to be one.
never imagine your favorite male character becoming a dad
don’t picture him seeing the baby for the first time
refrain from thinking about how he worries and frets over his significant other during labor
abstain from notions of him realizing that he helped make this tiny squishy potato-person and holy shit how cool is that
and above all, eschew ideas about him holding his new child and excitedly whispering “i have a son/daughter” over and over again between giggles as the dorkiest grin spreads across his face
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
ellievsbear
izzy806
kianamaiart
