#snippet.

[hungrydogs-if]

treat. snek peque. plans. concept drabbles.

watch out, there be guns. and vile words. negative relationship rich mother. and a teaser for resolution.

You stand frozen, eyes wide and unblinking as you stare at your mother.

She looks... Sober, for one, older too,but then again you haven't stumbled into her in almost ten years. Those ten years have been kind on her, but what would you expect when she could throw money at the signs of age and be done with it.

Dane's much more relaxed than you, standing by your side, an arm curled over your shoulder, the other one in his pocket. He never liked her, and she always said he ruined you, so when her eyes narrow in recognition, you know it's coming.

"Of course it's you, you useless mongrel. Does your shame know no bounds, I -" she begins, socialite mask slipping back on her face with a practiced displeasure and the straightening of her back. Still, you see her clutch her - well, clutch - with a vice like grip. The dents left by sharp nails will scar the Italian leather for years to come.

"Hail to the bitch, missus ma'am," a lazy salute, "Dad poach any more of your servants as of late? A pool boy, perhaps?" He smiles back easily, but you do catch that twitch in his eye, and the way his fingers press into your arm. She notices, because of course she does, and her disgust turns to you. She draws her painted lips into a sneer, eyes you up and down, judging.

"And you. I'm disappointed. Should've known you'd end up nothing but a cheap whore -" again, she doesn't get all the words out before you hear the rustle of fabric, creak of leather, and the click of a safety being turned off. The Glock glints in broad daylight, aimed right at her forehead. People start reacting slowly, words of disbelief, then screams of terror. All too shallow to help. Your mother turns ashen where she stands, almost corpselike in her stillness. No longer sneering, but genuine fear widening her eyes. She looks almost human.

Dane leans forward, just a bit, and pulls you closer to him. "I dare you finish that sentence, ma'am." He still smiles, jaw tight. The weight of your own gun sits heavy against your waistband, and your fingers itch to... What, exactly? Somewhere, a police siren blares to life.

He's waiting on your response.

*choice

#You know what. Enough. Put an end to the damn hag yourself.

#Place a placating hand on his arm and make him lower the gun.

#Meet her venom with your own, let her taste her own vile medicine.

#... "Go ahead." And he does, without hesitation. He always liked following your orders.

#"Wouldn't have it any other way, mother." You grin, hand smoothing over his chest. 🖤

#"At least I have someone who loves me. Unlike you." You smile and run your hand through his hair. 🤍

[fortuneforsaken-if]

since i'm once again sick (immune system of a baby, gg, dunno how i'm still alive) i have yet again awoken in the dead of night to write. here's the result, a little maluset snippet from when he's returned to you, whenever that may be.

On the lonesome bench, Maluset sits pensive, hand absentmindedly tracing old forgotten patterns in the light dusting of sand that has settled around him. The silhouette looks out of place against the backdrop of tall reflective buildings, but you decide to seek your place next to him, like countless times before.

His hand stills with a twitch and he pulls it into his lap, stray grains of sand softly flowing back in place, the patterns smoothing over.

A companionable silence stretches, and you tilt your head to look at him. Your eyes don't meet, but you can see the cluster of stars in those endless abyssal depths focused upwards, at the sun.

A sun that's a stranger, not the one that warmed you in the past.

The rumble starts from the sand, small ripples, like the earth itself sighs along with him. Still, he refuses to share the pain with you as his eyes blink the stupor away and fall to gaze at the ground.

"It is an empty tomb, the sun of this age. Zekhet's absence is... Heavy."

The sense of anguish comes through his words, and you chance a light tap of your index finger, just the knuckle, against his bare knee. Starlight flickers your way, a moment too short to be called a look, barely a glance, but there's appreciation beneath the sorrow.

"My sorrow cannot be as vast as yours, my little firefly, so you need not worry for me. The skies are lonely without him, but I am glad to be back by your side."

A hint of a smile quirks his lip upwards, but it settles. Silence follows as you sit, overlooking the city that holds the next key to your salvation. You will find a way to be free, and you know he would give his immortal soul to see you liberated, a thought that both eases and deepens the worry in your heart.

[unveiled-if]

M. + G. | First Meeting

Moira always knew the cold touch of decay and sorrow had woven itself into the reality she was born to see. Curled around the woman placing down a rosary at the central park fountain. The cloud of shadows hanging over the homeless man with a torn sign and scars eating away at a missing leg.

Her eyes could see it all, every instance of loss swirling around the habitants she met. Between their wide, toothy smiles, a smog seeps out and slithers around them like a vice.

And then she met them. The unfathomable void hovering by the treelines, the Grove swallowed by a darkness so profound she had to stop, and stare.

Like thousands of eels swarming around prey, larger than any she'd ever seen. If she reached out, it would be viscous, and freezing cold, enough to immobilize and rot by touch alone.

She had never seen remnants of death so immense, coagulated like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. The mass moved in an inhuman fashion, writhing as if too large for it's confines and begging to be unleashed. Death wailed from within, hundreds, thousands of lingering souls screaming out their abandonment and sorrow, and her throat itches in desire to call back. It's too loud to hear anything else, the Veil around her shifting in anxious bursts to keep the feral need to wail at bay.

She steps closer, but the mass doesn't move. Not at first. The closer she gets, the clearer the souls vomit their wretched pleas for peace at her, nails on chalkboard, fingertips on balloons, forks on plates. But they wail in a language she doesn't know. Words that blend into something familiar before fading into some ancient tongue her Veil cannot translate.

While her eyes follow the smothering mass overtaking the tallest trees and widest streets, it shifts, momentarily, to reveal a face. A world-weary face set in stone, expressionless arctic hues drowning her very soul. Cold enough to make her recoil, and she sees death making home in the swirls of blue. The tendrils curl in around their neck, their hair, mimicking the braid hanging over their shoulder, tracing the faded runes decorating their face. The inky black weaves itself into furred armor, and disappears underneath intricate bracers before forming a mock hand to hold that which is empty.

She blinks, and she feels tears escape the corner of her eye, the heat burning against her skin while the air around her grows colder, louder, suffocating.

And then they're gone. An open trail through the Grove spreads before her, shrouded in shadows not tainted with death. Her lungs burn with a gasped breath and a quick hand comes to wipe off the tears still falling freely.

Death had a strange way of finding her now, but she can hear whispers in the trees, far more familiar than the terror she witnessed before. She reassures the entity, silent, heartrate slowly returning to it's origins. Her throat doesn't itch anymore, but exhaustion begins to blur the horizon into a sickening amalgamation of too many shapes and colors. To carry such weight of loss and mourning, she would wish she never had to witness it again.

The turns to leave, shaky hands finding the phone in her pocket as she tries to find someone to reach out to. Death whispers a sorrowful fate, and she resigns, leaving the call unmade.

An echo of a raven's cry follows her departure, but she pays it no heed.

[viking-raider]

A Witcher's Legacy Snippet - Part Two: The Open Secret

Nenneke chuckled softly, resting her hand on your back as you both rounded a pillar. “Geralt has slept like shit all his life.” She told you, honestly.

[halloweendolan-blog]

‘friends’ snippet.

A/N: this upcoming imagine is dedicated to @dolandolll and all of my other ethan ladies.

“You really ain’t goin’ away without a fight..”

“You really have no idea what you do to me, don’t you?”

“Ethan, how many times do I have to tell you; we’re just friends.”

“Haven’t I made it obvious?

Haven’t I made it clear?”

“That’s not the vibes you keep sending, Y/N.”

“Let me make this clear, the only vibes I’m sending is friendly. You’re delusional. Now, stop looking at my ass and leave.”

[hungrydogs-if]

hey wanna see something sad?

i call it the 'what if everything actually went to shit and the dogs disbanded after x amount of years even after the vp tried very hard to hold on?' or 'au: it didn't work'

mona is in it. and vp. it gets sad because dad gum it, i cannot resist the pull of angst.

anyway, enjoy ~

"Say--" You hear Mona speak out from under the car she's worked on for the past two hours. You look up from your phone and realize you've sunken so far into the shop's couch that you're almost laying on the floor.

"How come you don't have a real job yet?" Ouch, a jab and a stab right into the heart. The leather of the tattered couch creaks when you sit up straighter.

"Where's this coming from?" You ask, brow raised in question. A few clanks and curses come from her and you see a wrench set on the floor before she rolls out from under the vehicle. An oil stain smears over her cheek as she wipes at it, cleaning her hands on her thighs as she speaks.

"I dunno, I just wonder why you haven't settled down yet," she shrugs, "not that I mind you loafing at the shop all the time but, you know, I'm about to start charging rent." The grin punctuates the joke, and you chuckle along. She plops down on the couch next to you and places a cigarette between her lips, still waiting for an answer with a pointed look.

You mull the question over and slump into the backrest.

"Never really felt like it," you hum, holding out your hand to bum one of her cigarettes. She places the pack in your hands right as she lights her smoke with the other, a cloud of smoke lingering in the still indoor air as she exhales.

"Not even here?" She tilts her chin towards the expanse of the mechanics shop. Small, cozy enough, a real mom and pop shop with how independent it is. It's no secret it's only open because Mona brings in those remnants of the Dogs that still linger.

"No, this is your space. Wouldn't want to intrude." You chuckle, and light up your smoke as well. The smoke makes way for her laughter and she knocks a shoulder against yours.

"Yeah, I'd probably get pissed at you for being in the way," she chuckles with a shake of her head.

You enjoy your nicotine in a companionable peace, until you catch her looking at you from the corner of her eye.

"What?"

"I wouldn't mind, really." The words are soft, not tinged with sarcasm as they usually are. It takes you by surprise and the cigarette halts halfway to your lips.

"After everything we've been through these last seven years, what you've been through..." She exhales deeply, eyes set on the far wall. "Don't you think you deserve some stability, some normalcy? Just, boring, everyday things like watering the grass or getting the mail without watching your back all the time?"

You frown at the thought and give her a glance. She still smiles, a soft smile you haven't come to see often.

Seven years of blood and fighting and violence, losing people to avoidable bloodshed. Losing the club, your purpose, watching your friends die... Your fingers come to curl around the Thor's hammer necklace still dangling from a leather cord around your neck. You've held it so often that the intricate details have faded, leaving only smooth metal behind.

Mona catches you and folds her hand over yours.

"I know you're carrying on a legacy, but you deserve to rest. Don't you think that's what he would have wanted? For you to be happy?" The look in her eyes is gentle, but imploring. You take a moment before pulling the necklace over your head, the metal glinting in the artificial light.

After a long while you stand and make your way to the wall where you know an ages-old photograph still hangs, framed and pristine as the day it was taken. You stare at it for a while, studying each of the three smiling faces, one of them your own. A younger you, with a few less scars and a few more friends.

You hang the pendant on the corner of the photograph with trembling fingers, but Mona is there to steady you with her own. She gives you an encouraging smile, and together you set down the last memento of a long dead friend on the last photo of all three of you together.

She hugs you close, and you let her. There's a hollowness in your chest and your neck feels exposed, but you feel... Lighter.

"He'd want you to be free, you know that, right? That's all he wanted for you, for any of us."

The fight that you've kept up for years goes out and you let out a sigh of relief. You return the hug, holding on to the last person standing by your side, steadfast and solid as she always has, and you can't help but speak a soft few words.

"Thank you."

[hungrydogs-if]

that draft physically hurt me. is it too much to ask for a bit of fluff? enough to forget about the angst :')

it hurt me writing it too so i know how you feel, so i shall make up for this pain. now, i don’t want to admit it, but there are very few fluffy moments in my writing. i'm much better at angst lmao. i'll still try my very best to give you happy feelings!

under cut for length. don’t want to clutter the dashboard.

Dane Fluff

Play pretend

“This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, it’s —“

“Moronic, idiotic, dangerous if we’re being real—“

The baseball cap on your head comes down with a flick and you tip it back up. Dane pushes your face away, but you’re quick to throw a glare his way. He gives you an insufferable grin while adjusting his own trucker hat to sit deeper over his features.

“You look ridiculous,” you begin and shove your hands into the pockets of the puffer jacket you would never had worn unless Dane had insisted.

“You don’t look any better. Yellow and white are not your colors, huh?” He picks at your sleeve before poking you in the bicep. You shrug him off, glancing at his ensemble.

“Yeah, says the guy with baby blue and khaki. Like I said, ridiculous.”

He takes a step in front of you, walking backwards as he spreads the baby blue puffer jacket to the sides, revealing the shirt beneath, a pale yellow with a crudely drawn sun with sunglasses. You pull a face and he laughs loud enough to get some looks your way.

“Gaudy, is that a crop top?“

“Yes, yes it is, and it’s cutting off the blood from my hands. It’s an amusement park, Sparky! Loosen up!” He spins looking over the imitation Coney Island San Maro somehow got up and running in the past month. The surrounding sounds are loud, game machine pinging with wins and whirring from effort. A pair of kids run past you, laughing, soon running up to what you assume are their parents to beg for more coins.

You follow them with your gaze, and Dane must’ve noticed your frown because soon the cold tip of his thumb smooths over the crease between your brows. There’s a soft look in his eyes when you turn back to him, and the smile he gives is genuine, not one of those sharp, sharklike smirks he’s known for.

“We’re allowed to have fun, you know.”

“Your idea of fun is getting high and throwing darts at the TV.”

He huffs and shakes his head, grabbing your hand to yank you further along the pier, past the ticket stand. His fingers are icy. He wasn’t kidding about losing circulation in his hands.

“Who says spending time with you wasn’t a better - hey, a photo booth!”

You have no time to react to the uncharacteristically sweet sentiment when you’re pulled along. You grab the cap of your hat and keep it low as the lug of a man drags you into the booth. He sits you down before squeezing next to you, the machine already getting ready to immortalize your worst fashion choice ever.

You’re about to protest, but Dane drapes his arm over your shoulders and pulls you close, the first image turning into one of him grinning like an idiot and you giving him a look.

Then it shifts. His smile falls, and he leans his head against yours, but he’s still looking into the camera. The grip on your arm softens, and he doesn’t feel as tense as he always does. The second picture is normal, with him smiling a light little smile, and you not looking as affronted.

“I’m glad you came along.” He whispers, and you wish you could turn to look at him. The tone of his voice is different, a mere whisper, as if he was falling asleep or sharing a deep secret. You can’t help but give a disbelieving huff at that, but there’s humor in the noise.

“Of course. You’re my best friend, aren’t you?” You mumble back, giving the hand on your shoulder a pat. It feels normal, and it would be easy to forget the world that awaits you outside.

The last photo ends up being the best. Your calm smile, the camera capturing your gaze on Dane. His eyes are closed, but not by accident. He looks peaceful, like the weight of the world no longer sits on his shoulders.

All he needed to feel at peace was someone to sit with him and play pretend as normal, everyday people.