guttermud

really I write when I want to and I never make a deadline or continue with a fic if I get bored. very few times have I returned to a prompt I started but never finished.

love any and all comments but I don’t often respond.

I post fics on here that I either haven’t finished, think are too short for my ao3 page, or alternate ideas I toyed with. sometimes it’s just my blatant opinions too ig. I’m completely happy with answering asks so feel free to hit send.

I have a couple fandoms I’m a part of: the empyrean, atla, alok, rotg, tmnt (2012, bay movies, rot), mcu, and spn. I am most often interacting with spn. I’m not a multi-shipper but I don’t believe in hating others for their own. I will say that the only real ship I consistently follow and interact with is samdean so feel free to block my account if that irks you. also, I wouldn’t consider myself a shipper of j2 considering their families (and how I feel about rpf in general).

please note I am a very strict writer and do not condone any sort of harassment or bullying; opinions on ships/characters/fandoms/actors are welcome but only if provided constructively.

snide remarks, backwards comments, or passive aggression will be deleted as soon as I see them. Actual hate, bullying, or harassment will be blocked.

do not use any of my posts to promote hate (fandom/character/ship/real life/otherwise), regardless of how those listed may or may not be discussed. I understand getting passionate or heated but hateful behavior will not be tolerated.

…

Sorrengail is irreplaceable in the war effort. The signet she possesses is eerily close to her mother’s and I know one day she’ll surpass the General. Not that I’d be alive to see it.

I know Varrish has some underlying vendetta here. It is uncertain whether I should involve myself but I wonder if this punishment already has. What with Breugan being snapped at alongside Solas by Tairn. The massive beast could take both our dragons with barely a shed scale and I know none of my fellow professors would feel much over the loss. I wouldn’t feel much if it were any of them up here either.

“Barbaric. Her skin steams.” Breugan snarls in my head. He doesn’t care much for humans, I know. I’m the first he’s ever bonded. “Solas is a fool.”

“I agree. His rider is too.” I eye Varrish from the corner of my eye. His own are sharp and wicked as they gaze upon Cadet Sorrengail.

If she wielded fire, I know she’d have gone up in flames by now. If she was a metallurgist, anything she twisted would have turned against her. If she wielded shadows like Riorson, she would’ve been eaten alive by the darkness. It’s a wonder she hasn’t burned out. I push her to make her limits stretch but the moment her skin started to steam, I knew I’d have gone too far.

And I know to stop before then. It’s why I was chosen to train signets. I see limits. Colonel Aetos chose wrong to make Varrish vice commandant. We cannot afford to lose a signet like Cadet Sorrengail’s.

Her breath is shallow and her eyes can’t even focus on me when what is so obviously torture ends. (A punishment would not nearly kill a cadet.) The way Tairn lunged for Breugan makes me question approaching but I don’t hesitate. I don’t dare look in his eyes or speak to him, however, when I direct Cadet Sorrengail on what needs to immediately happen in order for her to live another day.

Recognition lights her dull eyes but no clear understanding. Tairn does and his talons come inches from my person. They are the size of Sorrengail but are gentle grasping her limp body. The gusting wind from his wings nearly sends me to my ass, only the experience of being surrounded by newly paired dragons leaves me on my feet.

Something is going on. I train signets, I do not burn them out.

“Andarna will not show herself at the whims of a human.” Breugan’s head appears in my peripheral vision as we both watch Tairn blow past the courtyard. Ah, the river. Smart. He growls, “Solas’ rider is intrepid. Stepping on rule he has no power over.”

“I know. But I don’t believe Cadet Sorrengail can risk this type of punishment again. A dragon like Tairn has too powerful a signet.” And that still leaves a second signet undiscovered. Two dragons, two signets. And another weapon for Varrish to use against Sorrengail. Not that Tairn would let this happen again.

Breugan’s tension is obvious in his tone. “Tairn will gut Solas before this happens again.”

…

…

Read The Warning

Cadet Sorrengail has quickly risen ranks in the fighting department, that much is obvious. As close as she comes to dying at the hands of the first-year—one who out-weighs and out-muscles her—she does prevail. I may begin to look at Imogen as a future replacement for my position, if she survives long enough to. If I do.

The blood soaking her is almost beautiful but that could just be my jadedness showing itself. Blood has no right to be as beautiful as it is, even if it is what one would consider an enemy’s.

She’s quick to gather herself too. Impressive for how she started out. The worry in me is distant, an old relic of the boy who made his own way across the parapet and to Threshing. Yet it is still there.

Voice barbed and strained, she growls: “Don’t. Touch. Me.” To Aetos, who proceeds to take two of her closest friends to remove the bodies on the mat. I drop my clipboard to stride through the blood.

She is ridiculously tiny up close but I know what lays beneath her now. “May I touch you?” She nods tersely.

Skin soft beneath my war-roughened callouses, I search her eyes carefully. The pupils don’t contract completely even when I block the light from them. I keep my swears internal. That hit to the mat looked hard.

“You’re concussed. Want to skip the rest of the session?” I nearly killed her last year. Letting a second-year with a relic mark beat her to the ground is a mistake I’m sold on not repeating. She sways in my hands and the worry only heightens.

“No.”

“I’ve got her.” Said second-year (now third-) takes up her side.

I purse my lips, eyes narrowing. I know some things seemed to have changed in this short year, as they always seem to. Doesn’t mean I trust the camaraderie completely. Everything is temporary.

“I’m not going to try and kill her this year. Promise.” Cardulo attempts to sway my hand but I lack trust more than other professors. Especially with our new Vice Commandant.

“You were just strangled, Cadet Sorrengail.” Her neck is already purpling.

“Not the first time. I’ll heal. I’m staying.”

I sigh in defeat. Stubbornness is seemingly a trait all Sorrengails possess.

…



…

Sam’s skin felt itchy and tight on him. Like since the last thing that had taken it for a test drive had barely sewn it back together when they left. It’s always felt as if his skin shifted and moved to accommodate emptiness rather than processing the relief of finally being alone in his body.

Maybe it’s more difficult for Dean to deal with the lack of belonging because he’s always felt right in his own skin. Maybe Dean finds comfort in sitting alone and feeling the ground beneath him, knowing he’s the only one who can get up and not be made to. Sam knows talking is useless in this type of situation, so he never talks.

“I didn’t understand,” Dean’s voice is a hush, head leant back against the wall and knees pulled to his chest. He looks smaller than Sam has ever seen him.

“I know.” There’s no reassuring anything when there’s no question. Sam wouldn’t reassure him if there were either, he thinks. Sam’s done this alone too many times to register but he doesn’t have to let Dean do that too.

“No, I really didn’t understand,” Husky and thick, molasses in the undertone. Dean sounds so tired. Sam doesn’t know what he’s fishing for.

“I know.” Had Sam secretly hoped Dean would experience something like this to know how Sam feels even if it’s not close to the same circumstance? Yes and no. Yes, all Sam has ever desperately wanted was for someone to understand minutely. No, he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy.

“How many times?” Is he asking to make himself feel worse since he’s having such a hard time reconciling? Or is he asking because he really doesn’t remember Sam’s gone through this more than once?

“A handful.” No use waking sleeping dogs. Sam’s already done his reconciling. It never gets any easier, but he thinks that sentiment would make Dean feel worse.

“How d’you do it?” Sounds like pleading for an answer when there isn’t any. How do you make this body feel like it’s yours again? How do you get back something taken?

“Live with it,” Sam shrugs, shoulder rubbing against Dean’s. Talking is useless. No matter how much Sam had wanted someone to talk to, he realizes now that nothing could’ve been said to make it any type of better.

“You still feel…” like it’s not yours? Hell yeah. But…

“Different,” Sam hums. What he says next is so deeply engrained into his very being because he’s always felt: “This body has never been mine.”

Dean’s nearly scratching out his eyes, chest shuddering, “That’s…”

“Worse, I know. Different experience, Dean, you know.” Sam leans his head back on the wall, sighing heavily. “It doesn’t get easier.”

“Sam-“

Sam turns to give Dean a small, resigned smile, “I know, man. I know.”

Dean’s throat bobs on a swallow and he shakes his head silently, movements screaming out what he can’t express verbally. Sam knows. He’s always known.

by guttermud

Dean had figured Sam had turned in for the night by the time he settled in his bed with a chapter from his current novel. (Damn Sam for making him develop nerd habits.) He flinched at the sound of his phone’s shrill ringing, debating only for a second whether he should answer as he had been looking forward to this next chapter of late night leisure reading.

Still, Dean sighed and picked it up, eyebrow raising at the Sam written across the screen. Uh, okay. That’s new. Dean wonders what brilliant piece of information his brother must have found for him to be calling Dean this late. He also wonders how he missed seeing Sam in the library during his before-bed routine rounds of the bunker. Or maybe Sam fell asleep with his phone in his pocket? Unlikely.

Opening the line, “Hello?”

“De?” Reaches his ears, instantly sending off warning bells in his head at the grainy sound.

Dean’s sitting up already as he answers back, “Sam? You okay?”

Too long of a delay and Dean’s teetering on his feet, thrusting his feet into slippers as he fast-walks down the hall, heart pounding in his ears, “Sammy?”

Dean strains at the poor connection murmur on the line, breathing only when Sam speaks. Fear and worry is taking over, leaving Dean floundering as all he can do is pray to himself. Please let Sam be okay, please let Sam be okay.

“Drug- Bad drugsss…” The words muffle through the speaker and Dean’s stomach drops when he hears barely-there cursing from another party. “De? Help? Zz’someo-one- De…”

Dean doesn’t respond only because he is already tracing the phone signal and getting Baby screaming onto open road, not even sparing an apology for her tires and brand new polishing. Dean has to ignore his shaking hands and the cold sweat creeping on his brow. What if I don’t make it?

Dean presses on the gas, biting down hard on his tongue at Sammy’s next words, eyes pricking at the overwhelming anxiety.

“Go ‘way! Not De. Want- want De!” His little brother sounds so distraught, so vulnerable, and Dean wonders why the fuck these people won’t get out of his fucking way!

He’s shoving through the throngs of bodies blocking his path to the stairs leading up away from the downstairs bar, labeled with an Employees Only! sign. Fucking bartender. Dean spares a moment to think of why Sam would be in a dump like this in the first place, it’s much more Dean’s scene.

Dean’s kicking open the locked door at the top of the ascent before he’s even registering he’s there, gun out and locked as he points at the man who took Sammy, the man who drugged Sammy. The man who’s on fucking top of Sammy.

“Sam!”

Dean’s rage is blind, ripping the man off his brother and onto the floor, hand steady pointing the gun at the greasy assailant. His eyes are rabbit-like in terror, body shaking timidly as he raises his hands.

“De? De…”

Dean finds mercy for a moment, kicking the man back into a table that shatters with a bang, stalking closer to pistol whip the son of a bitch. Feeling a mild sense of accomplishment when he coincidentally falls on his face, Dean gives him two hard kicks in the liver for good measure. He’ll feel it whenever he wakes up. It’s mercy for Dean.

Sam’s voice then occupies him, the slurring lull of it sending him straight back into help Sammy, gotta help Sammy.

“De…” Sam’s eyes have flooded over when Dean gets to him, causing a pang of why wasn’t I faster?

He cups his brother’s face, tilting it to look into his eyes, evaluating Sam’s level of consciousness. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m here.”

“De.” Sam smiles lopsidedly, tears seeming to disappear in the face of his big brother. His mouth is failing him, slurring his stream of thought for all to hear. Dean can’t help a smile.

“So blurry, De. Too much drugsss? You know? Yeah, takin’ care o’me. Know everythin’. My face s’wet. Pour water on me?”

“You’re crying, Sammy, that’s why your face is wet.”

“Didn’ know you could read minds. Not allowed, De. Gotta tell yourself. Nah me, nuh-uh.”

“I can’t read minds, little brother.” Dean chuckles, shaking his head at Sam. His smile vanishes as Sam continues to be loose-lipped. Even as he lugs the full weight of his brother up and into his arms, proceeding to make the long journey from the bar to Baby to the bunker.

“Miss makin’ you laugh. Don’ laugh lot, De, want you to. Got- gotta great laugh, De, great voice. Make me feel safe, always safe with you, always. Always.”

Despite the best of his abilities, Dean chokes up, “Always, Sammy.”

“Don’ cry, De.” Sam’s drooling all over himself as he struggles to keep his own weight semi-vertical. Dean looks more at him than the road. “Could, could hug you. Don’ like my hugs though. Liked bein’ small ‘n’ why don’ you? Cause you’re mah big brother ‘n’ protect me? Feels good to cry.”

1. more than the world

2. Head Space

3. Best Wishes

4. Fear of Clowns

1. Law and Order

2. Gonna Watch You Shine

3. On Your Guard (slash fic)

4. Hate and Heartbreak

by guttermud

…

Last Scene:

Her eyes fill but no tears fall. Her hand trembles but she does not grip harshly to steady it. She instead moves it down to his chest slowly, feeling the sluggish beat of his heart. Her own heartbeat matches the pace and it’s more evident than ever that he’s on the cusp of death.

It doesn’t feel satisfying anymore.

She’s too weak to do anything and all she could have done is hurt him worse. She thinks Thor is tired of hurting. There’s nothing in her to do more damage than she already has and Hela is sure she’ll be blamed for her little brother’s death all the same.

Hela is not weak. She has proven that to her father, to the Aesir, to her brothers. But she feels weak when she lies down next to Thor. When her claws dig into the skin over his slowing heart. When those tears finally fall.

Thor is in the cold, comforting embrace of Death when he goes. And Hela pretends she’s not weak.

…

There’s a vile stillness to the air when Loki enters their shared room. One that has sucked all air from inside, one that pulses with Hela’s weak but ever-present power. One that is empty of Thor’s.

Loki doesn’t need to look to know, he’s already suffocating, but he does look.

On the bed, Hela lays with her face buried next to Thor’s shoulder. One of her hands is harsh yet tentative in how it grips his chest, like she is unsure she has any right to be there next to him. Her breathing is stagnant, nearly matching Thor’s unmoving ribcage. Thor, whose pallor matches Hela’s own, is grey around the eye and lips. His skin is sunken but it’s not much different from how he looked last Loki’d seen him.

The King is dead. Loki sucks in a stuttered breath as tears prick his eyes. Thor’s dead. His brother is dead.

The grace with which he prided himself in is all but gone as Loki stumbles like a newborn colt to the other side of the mattress where Hela is not. He collapses to his knees just as his face floods and grips his own claws around the hand closest to him. He stares up at his brother’s face, and the only thing on his mind is wondering if this is what Thor felt every time Loki faked his death. And then he wonders how his brother ever forgave him.

Loki presses his forehead to Thor’s arm. It’s cold and he almost rips away in disgust. But then he starts to cry, hard, and Loki will take all the comfort he can get.

by guttermud

…

In the back of his mind, Dean wants to strangle his older self. At twenty-six, Dean knows how to treat a woman, or a man, though he only swings that way for one man. He knows Sammy inside and out. He knows this.

So he wonders—bitterly, caustically, full of hatred—where along the years he forgot.

Sam… when Dean makes a move on this thirty-six year old behemoth. Who is soft and pliant where twenty-two year old Sammy isn’t. Who is rough and beaten down in a way Dean can’t imagine his little brother ever being. Who has scars layered on deeper scars and eyes of an animal wounded one too many times. He folds easy. So easy.

And when Dean has this Sam underneath him (it’s hard to even see him as Sammy, as that angry, innocent young adult), when he kisses soft at all the exposed skin he can reach, when he runs gentle hands through thick hair and traces lines unknown to him, when he makes love to him… he cries.

The whimpers and whines he lets out of pleasure are intertwined with sheer overwhelm at Dean’s ministrations. Tears fall like a shattered dam and he keeps his eyes closed, his only tell of emotion the crinkle between his brows. If they hadn’t been in missionary, Dean wouldn’t have known he was crying at all.

Every time Dean whispers a word of endearment, praises the man before him for being so good for him, a broken sob slips past this Sam’s defenses.

And Dean wants to strangle himself now too. To not become whatever… whatever monster he has become to not treat this Sam like he deserves to be. For that monster neglecting this need of being open and tender while Sam is baring himself vulnerably, being just as open and tender as Dean knows he’s always been.

What changed?

Sam has the same tells as Sammy. He’s close. Dean wipes away tears and kisses the corner of his mouth, murmuring in his ear, “That’s it, Sammy. Come on, come for me.”

Sam comes with Dean’s name choked out of him, ripped to shreds and sobbing. Dean follows but the satisfaction is overblown by his pure self-deprecation. He’s always hated himself but it’s different now. He will never unsee the look of shocked bewilderment Sam made when Dean first praised him. The shiver and shaken stare when Dean first caressed his face.

He makes sure to tell Sam how good he was, how much Dean appreciates him, as he cleans them up. Sam is not all there after the intense orgasm and emotions but, in his red eyes, Dean knows he doesn’t believe a word he says.

Never would he have pictured himself stood in North’s workshop, full to the brim with various spirits and their ideals. The intensity was stark but understandable considering the amount of egos in one room. Jack has slowly learned that each of the Guardians were the powerhouses of the spirit and fae world. While there were an abundance of others with seemingly endless or incalculable abilities, they were the ones that represented the aspects of childhood.

Still, while Jack now knew the importance of Guardianship, he hadn’t quite grasped what else that would come with. Until it was metaphorically slapped in his face.

Jack’s been to a couple of North’s New Year’s parties now. They didn’t always happen day of, most often a couple days past Christmas after the yetis tidied the workshop and decorated with silver and gold rather than red and green. They were interesting but mostly boring, just a bunch of talking and not a lot of fun.

He could play a trick or two but he respected his friend too much for anything drastic so he kept it to setting people up with ridiculous lies. Like, how the Groundhog had called Bunny a no-good, carrot-munching kangaroo who didn’t show face. (Which, while not as bad as Jack, Bunny really didn’t come to the parties often.) Bunny then came to the following five North had had.

The eggs that had been thrown at him after realization were so worth the put-upon and steaming glares Bunny would send the oblivious rodent. How Bunny found out, Jack will never know.

So excuse Jack Frost for not noticing that most of the spirits that spoke to him were hitting on him. He was much more occupied scheming fun times than focused on a romp (which he has little experience of anyway). And a bit unsettled, now that he did know. They didn’t want him because he’s Jack, they wanted him because he’s a Guardian.

Jack only knows this now because of a faun. He was quite… forward with his pursuit of Jack and surprisingly polite with rejection and majorly shocked when Jack asked why.

Albus, as the faun had introduced himself, started to smile slowly, pitying. “You really don’t know?”

“Uh… no? What is there to know?” Jack bristled. He didn’t care that it was a fellow trickster nor a friendly one at that, he didn’t take kindly to pity.

Albus sensed the tension but waved a hand over Jack as if it explained anything. “You’re a Guardian.”

“Okay, and?”

The white-furred quadruped sighed. “Look at your fellow Guardians.”

Jack did, though they were dispersed throughout the room. Besides Sandy and Tooth, who seemed caught up in a heated conversation with Cupid and Krishna, there was North, laughing boisterously with the Leprechaun, a Cluricaun, and Acan. And finally Bunny, surrounded by an eerie amount of fae and spring spirits.

“They are coveted, as are you now.” Jack’s confused bewilderment must have been evident as the faun explicated further. “You all have many a suitor for your status.”

Albus nodded towards Bunny. “The Easter Bunny is sought like a dog with a bone. He is the Guardian of Hope, Life, and Fertility. That is much to desire. Yourself as the Guardian of Fun, many wonder if that includes other forms of fun.”

The way Albus drawled the word “fun” gave Jack a disgusted shiver but it was ignored in favor of the sudden revelations he had.

“So everybody here wants to sleep with one of us?” He asks bluntly, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. Albus laughed.

“Not so crassly but yes, I’d say so. How many have walked away upon your lack of interest in conversation?”

Now that Jack thinks about it, it’s almost like they’d all been taking turns approaching him, feeling him out. Secretly wanting to feel him up. Another uncomfortable shiver but this time he couldn’t stop it.

“And… Bunny? Really?”

Albus sighed wistfully, gaze dreamy on the Pooka. “Again, much to desire. He is the embodiment of Spring, of New Life. Not to mention one of the oldest, even Mother Nature has had to bow to his whims at times. All that power, that history… I believe everyone is a little in love with the Easter Bunny.”

Jack’s nose scrunched. It was power, really. Their capabilities, their believers, not themselves. Who they used to be and who they are now didn’t matter, it was merely their status that attracted all the suitors. Gross.

“Perhaps, lost traveller, you finding your place has attracted me as much as your Guardianship.” Albus shrugged nonchalantly. “Either or, I have not been the first and will not be the last.”

“Gross.” He voices the thought aloud. Not that he wasn’t flattered but… wrong reasons all around. They didn’t know Jackson Overland at all and the Guardian of Fun was only a surface title. “I will not be looking at these events the same ever again, thanks.”

Albus laughs jovially, “Of course. But it does give you more opportunities for tricks, yes?”

Jack began to smile slowly, ideas already taking shape. “I suppose you’re right, Albus.”

…

I don’t really know how I want the conclusion to go?? I mean, I never really know for any of my fics—if you’ve read any on ao3 you’d know—but I like to have a little bit of a layout…