#( ░ ❛ in the light of the moon the wolves will always call you back ❪ ch. study ❫

[moonmaiden1996]

The Monster Maomao Created Part 4

Part 5

You stared at the hairpin in the mirror. White jade, inlaid with gold, shaped like a crescent moon nestled within flowering branches. It sat pinned delicately into your twisted hair, gleaming faintly beneath the lantern light. You had made sure that you had worn it around the pavilion, never outright flaunted, but just enough to make tongues wag and people gossip. Rumors had legs in the court. And yours were beginning to run.

If Empress Gyokuyou had not told the Emperor about you wearing the pin, the palace gossip would have no problem doing it for her. And if that didn’t do the trick, the sheer volume of presents would.

Your table was overflowing. Silk-wrapped bundles of pressed tea leaves, fragrant and rare. Bottles of plum-blossom perfume sealed with wax stamped in the shape of a lotus. Embroidered handkerchiefs, strings of freshwater pearls, and a folded fan painted with a haiku in delicate, deliberate brushstrokes. His writing. Always a poem, always signed with a symbol, never a name. A Moon.

It was almost two weeks since your dinner with Jinshi. Presents found their way to your rooms daily—multiple times, sometimes. You made a very good attempt to send them back for the first three days. Now a servant would slip into your rooms and leave them. Every time, a poem was left alone with them.

You held the poem between two fingers. The brushwork was elegant, but rushed. The lines were still damp when they arrived. The words were beautiful. Sincere. Yearning. Disturbing. You dropped the parchment gently atop the growing pile and inhaled deeply.

And yet—he had made no move.

No call. No summons. No visits. No direct words, no formal request, no confession. Just gifts and poems. You hadn’t even been able to get a message to intercept the apothecary. Jinshi was everywhere and nowhere.

You could feel it—the shift in the wind. The way the servants now paused just a moment longer when they passed you in the halls. The way even low and mid-ranking concubines offered sudden smiles or shallow bows, their eyes never quite meeting yours. Even the official bowed a little lower than usual. Something had changed, and not all good.

It was men like General Shenyang, General Zhou or heaven forbid Lord Odda whose gaze lingered too long on your brothers during morning meetings, who had joked at court about the waste of good northern blood if your family produced no heirs to wed into the capital’s noble lines. Men who, like wolves, waited for the scent of weakness. Men who had no qualms about using you—or your brothers—to seize the lands your father had earned through loyalty.

They would take your brothers as hostages. Train them, twist them—or worse. Cut them down in a staged “accident” if it cleared a path to power in the vacuum your father’s absence had left. And they could do worse to you. A shudder ran through you. You knew the stories—what men did to unprotected women. How they were trapped by slights or false promises, even lured into beds with soft lies or cruel threats. If they were lucky, there was love even if only as a prize. Most were not. Once their fates were sealed, the men took control, leaving them to live under tyrants who ravaged their lands and used their names to rise. That was the fate of an unprotected woman. You had brothers, but they were still children. And for now, they needed you to protect them.

You could not wait.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Every plan you formed fell away into the darkness of your mind. It was a delicate situation. Precocious even. The succession, the future, the very fate of the empire hung in the balance. Who the next heir was—if the child lived beyond the first 100 days—there was no way of knowing if he would survive the next hundred, or the hundred after that. The court was a deadly place, layered with venomous smiles and gilded traps. Attaching yourself to it was dangerous, but the only viable path to ensure that you and your brothers were allowed to survive the storms ahead. But how to go about it? That was the question that churned in your mind without cease.

The book Maomao gave you had planted seeds—dangerous, thorned things—but interesting ones. Seduction was a woman’s weapon, but getting Jinshi alone in order to attempt any of those things? That was another puzzle entirely. That’s if you even thought he might be swayed by such an attempt. Aphrodisiacs were a calculated risk—but drugging the eunuch would not go unnoticed and would certainly cause problems. That’s if you could even stomach such an attempt in the first place. If it failed, all would be lost, and with it, your position, your brothers’ safety, and possibly your life.

It was too complicated and you were rapidly running out of time to figure it out. Soon the men would leave to go to war with the barbarians leaving you and your family vulnerable.

You glowered at your pacing father, his steps heavy with the weight of command. Half-completed plans faded into the background as your attention was drawn to him—his broad shoulders, his lined face, that unreadable expression always fixed between tenderness and steel.

“We are to go set camp in the valley. If all goes well, we will leave before the next moon.”

Your father, a towering figure silhouetted against the mid-day sun, looked every inch the warrior despite the age in his joints. He was still broad and imposing, the kind of man who commanded men with his mere presence.

“Hmmm.”

“It is my duty to the Emperor,” your father said, the old iron in his tone unbending.

“What about your duty to your children?” you snapped, rising abruptly from your recliner, blood burning in your chest.

“My dear…” your father stepped behind you, his large hands settling on your shoulders in a rare moment of affection.

“Don’t you my dear me… you know the position we are in.”

“And I know you will protect both your mother and the boys…”

“What about me? I have been racked with fear about what might happen to you, about what might happen to us—you know what the court is like. How they would prey…”

“You will be well protected. The Emperor has personally ensured he will take you under his wing.”

“And how will he do that? There are eyes everywhere in the court. People do truly terrible things here.”

“My dear—”

“No. You go off to your war and leave me to do what I do best. Protect my family.” You tore yourself free from his hands. His face—his dear, tired face—twitched with grief, but before he could utter another word, you were already out the door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tears welled up in your eyes, hot and sudden, as you stumbled into the garden and braced yourself against the wooden frame of the gazebo. The air was too warm. The jasmine is too sweet. Your heart thudded a painful rhythm in your chest. Anger warred with fear, fear with purpose.

You couldn’t afford to cry. Not now. Not when everything rested on your shoulders. You straightened your back, blinking away the tears, and you lifted your head high.

“Ah,” a voice said from nearby, calm and dry. “You remind me of my daughter.”

You turned, shoulders stiffening instinctively. “Lord Lakan,” you said, bowing just enough to be polite but no more. “My father is inside. Allow me to get him for you.”

“So you are the old viper’s daughter. An honor to meet you. He does not stop going on about you, just as much as I talk about my daughter.”

“I did not realize you had a daughter,” you replied, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You might know her. Maomao. Such a brilliant creature,” the tactician beamed, his expression softening with fatherly pride. The sunlight caught on the spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose, turning the glass to silver.

“She is your daughter…” The words came slowly, the implications crashing into you like cold water. Interesting.

“Yes. I must thank you,” he said, lowering himself onto one of the garden chairs like a man fully at ease. “Thanks to you, he seems to have let go of the little infatuation he had with her.”

“Who?” Your voice was calm, but a current ran beneath it.

“The Moon Prince, of course.” His eyes gleamed as he glanced at you sideways.

Your own eyes hardened, the name striking a place deep inside you. Of course he would know.

“Ah, of course you knew. It is refreshing to speak with a young woman who possesses some intelligence for once. Even if it will be wasted on such a simpering fool.” He clicked his tongue, then smiled slyly. “Pity, really. I have a nephew who could do it with a wife. Especially one so commanding. Would help put him in his place while he drowns in his numbers. Lahan. You should meet him. I think you might get on. He will be head of the La clan one day. It's a viable match, at least. You should consider it before ...other options.”

You bristled slightly, keeping your tone composed even as something in your chest twisted.

“Or do you prefer the Moon Prince, little one?” His monocle caught the light like a blade. “We both know the fate of women during war—even if your father and the Emperor seem oblivious to it. It is good to be practical about such things. So much had been lost when those in peril do not act. But I digress, you have done me a great kindness riding my precious daughter of such a wretch I intend to return one kindness with another.”

“Meaning?” you asked, voice low and tight.

He giggled, light and sharp as he rose to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. Then, without another word, he strolled down the garden path toward the pavilion, the conversation left hanging in the air behind him.

xxxxxxxxxxx

JINSHA POV

Everything was going well, as far as the empire was concerned. The heir had been born, squalling and healthy, and was now thriving under the round-the-clock watch of Luoman and the most fearsome of the court ladies. With the Empress’s health improving and the child passing each of his first milestones, stability seemed—at last—within reach.

And with it, a future. His future. With you.

One where he could shed this carefully constructed skin—Jinshi, the untouchable, the glittering false-eunuch—and live once again as Ka Zuigetsu, but not the second prince, but as a free member of the household and husband.

He had spent years balancing the scales. Secrecy. Survival. Service. But now, at last, he could see the edge of the deception. All he needed to do was wait for the announcement of the marriage. 

His step took on an extra bounce as he hurried to the gardens, where you would be at this hour. Even if it was only to speak to you for only a moment. The smile stretched across his face.

You had worn his hairpin. He hadn’t expected you to. It had been a gamble, a stupid, reckless thing to send. White jade, inlaid with gold, carved in the shape of a crescent moon nestled within flowering branches. He’d told the craftsman nothing—yet somehow, it had emerged from the workshop perfect. You, captured in ornament.

And you’d worn it. So deliberately. So defiantly.

You’d even let him share a meal with you and your brother. Such a small, domestic thing. Yet it felt like stepping into a dream. A dream of what his life could be like. He still remembered the curve of your fingers as you poured tea, the way you had scolded your brother for slouching, and him—him!—for spoiling your brother. Oh and the giggle of them as they laughed at the little scene. You’d glared at him, voice like sharp ice. And he had nearly laughed aloud with joy. You were breathtaking when you were angry.

You had never bowed or flattered him, even when he stood in silks surrounded by trembling adoring courtiers. You saw him. Not the eunuch. Not the prince. Him. You glared at him the same way you did everyone else, maybe even a little bit colder than the others. Oh, how he delighted it those looks‐- he shivered. The looks you would give him when he was your husband, he glowed.

The only worry was how you might take it,—when everything was finally revealed.

He thought of that more often now, as the days grew warmer and the court began to buzz with whispers. Jinshi had always played the long game. But now the pieces were falling into place. The moment he had guarded and worked toward—fought for—was drawing near. The emperor would announce the decree. He would be demoted, his old title dissolved. And for the first time, he could choose not as a prince, nor a eunuch, but as himself.

And he would choose you. He just hoped you would choose him to, even disinherted their would be danger.

He found you in the gardens, just as he knew he would, the sunlight drawing threads of gold through your hair. Your brother raced in circles ahead of you, laughing with the other children. You stood slightly apart, watching them with a softness in your gaze that made his breath catch.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you. The way your hands folded at your waist, how your expression shifted softer with each childish shriek. You hadn’t noticed him yet.

Not until the children did.

A sudden shout went up—his name, or rather, the name they knew him by. A high chorus of delight. They spotted him and rushed toward him like a small army, half-tripping over their own feet in excitement. He crouched, arms open, and let them barrel into him, laughing as they swarmed around his robes.

“Jinshi-sama!” one of them cried, tugging on his sleeve. “You said next time you’d bring sweet mochi!”

“Yes!” chimed in your brother, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “The honey kind! You promised!”

He pressed a hand to his chest with mock offense. “Did I? Are you sure it wasn’t one of your dreams?”

The protest that followed was instant and loud. He raised his hands in surrender and laughed.

“I’ll bring some next time, then. Enough for all of you. Even the loud ones.” He flicked your brother’s forehead lightly. The boy only grinned wider.

“All right,” you said at last, voice gentle but firm. “That’s enough. Jinshi-sama doesn’t belong to you. Go back to the pond before you wear holes in his robes.”

The children groaned, but they obeyed—most of them. A few gave him a parting hug before dashing off. Jinshi turned to you fully now, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “It seems I’ve been claimed.”

“You encourage them,” you replied, arms crossed, watching him with narrowed eyes.

He stepped closer, letting his voice dip just a little. “Do you think I act like this for just anyone?”

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “You act like that for anyone who flatters you.”

His smile widened, teeth flashing, delighted.“No,” he said, voice soft. “Only for you.”

That earned him a sharp glance as you rolled your eyes and turned away, but not before he caught the faintest curve at the corner of your lips. A real smile, quickly buried. He melted right there—quietly, completely. Because even your scolding made him want to stay. Because the way you held your ground, the way you challenged him without fear or flattery, made him ache. This—was everything he had dreamed of. And he would give anything to make it real. To make it last.

Would you let him?

Sooo.....

The latest episode is amazing. I honestly can't wait for more! Hope you liked this chapter. Its not as good as my other part but the reader will be back to her calculating self soon! Hopefully, the next chapter, Jinshi and the reader, will get getting closer. *wink wink* also hoping to do more from Jinshi point view about why he is taking his sweet time. Plus Lakan as I just have to write about that creepy old coot I am determined to chanel his weirdness.

Let me know what you think!

@btsgangleader @thecrazyone2007 @solatiiium @ylovei @mybones537

[hedwig221b]

You are amazing ✨✨✨

Do you have any feral Derek fic recs?? Especially if he’s stuck as a wolf?? Bonus points if Stiles thinks he’s just a big friendly dog 🥹

Hi, love! Thank uuu! I absolutely love feral wolf Derek, it always delivers. Here's a very long rec list, enjoy!

Waiting by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Not wanting to think on it too much, Stiles took a step forward and passed his hand between the bars, moving the bleeding side closer to Derek’s mouth. “Not too close, he bites.” Stiles snatched his hand away just as Derek had been about to lick at it. The snarl he got in response was not comforting. “He what?” Stiles asked nervously, turning to Deaton. The man looked a little amused. “Don’t worry, only if he doesn’t like you.” “Well, he probably hates me, now!” Stiles insisted, turning back to Derek. He looked extremely displeased.

You're My Sanctuary by lilmissdaydreamer

The Argent Wolf Sanctuary. It’s been Stiles’ dream since he was five years old to work with the wolves, ever since his mother took him up there to see the magnificent creatures on one of their ‘full moon runs’ that the Sanctuary does once a month. The wolves are beautiful and much larger than Stiles would’ve thought, or at least, the newest wolf is. The owner had said he’s a special breed. Stiles just didn’t realize quite how special he is.

Stuck in This in Between by calrissian18

“You’re not getting better, Derek.” And it was the first time he’d called him that since he’d realized he wasn’t really.

The Feral Alpha by halcyon1993

Derek has lived in a half-feral state in the wilderness ever since hunters killed his family. When the hunters return years later, he gets his revenge and finds his true mate in one of the boys they were holding captive. He claims him immediately.

Safe Mind by LadyDrace

Derek goes missing for a while and comes back full wolf. Only problem is that his mind has gone wolf too, and for some reason the only one he'll allow near him… is Stiles.

Of Blood and Feral Wolves by Flicker_Ash

After Stiles is hurt in a surprise attack, Derek's wolf takes over and won't let anyone near him. Doesn't matter if it's Scott or a paramedic, when there's blood and no sarcasm, no-one's touching Stiles.

Light at the end of the tunnel by Lesatha

“Careful, Stilinski. Don’t think you can go around telling me what to do, or coddling the werewolf.” “What does it matter to you?” “If the feral alpha kills you, it will be my fault, as your supervisor.” Stiles’ head whipped towards the werewolf. He couldn’t see much of him apart from his red eyes, always following Stiles. Crazy as it might sound, it comforted him. The werewolf wasn’t the rabid animal Elis seemed to picture. He was just… hurt.

Feral by melofttroll

Scott’s yelling now as the Jeep comes to a halt, and Stiles ignores him as he clambers from the seat. The skid turned the Jeep completely around, and his headlights are pointed at something that is decidedly not dog-ish, or bear-ish, but very, very human. And by the shuddering breaths coming from the man’s chest, very much alive. Feral!Derek, Sterek AU

Lessons in Humanity by exclamation

Fleeing from werewolves, Stiles comes face to face with Derek, a werewolf human in shape but animal in his mind. Stiles is terrified of being killed, but it seems Derek has decided Stiles would make a suitable mate. Unfortunately, his idea of a romantic gift is a dead animal on the doorstep. Stiles must help Derek remember what it is to be human… and figure out how to explain his new werewolf stalker to his dad.

Throw Away the Key by mommymuffin

Stiles knew it was stupid to go to the hunters’ headquarters all by himself, so when he finds himself caught, he can really only blame himself. It shouldn't surprise Stiles when the situation quickly goes from bad to worse as the hunters throw him to a feral werewolf waiting to tear him apart. Sucks that it's Derek, though.

Thanks for Thumper, But I Prefer Cheeseburgers by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

The wolf’s head whipped around so fast, Stiles felt like he was watching The Exorcist. Stiles wondered if he could just stand still enough to make the wolf think he was a tree. A very bright red and jean-clad tree. He doubted it, but one could hope. He knew it was a lost cause when the wolf turned fully, lips pulled back from its sharp teeth—so very sharp, good fucking Lord!—and began walking towards Stiles. “I didn’t see anything!” Stiles shouted, both hands out in front of himself and sweat instantly breaking out across his skin. “I swear to you! I didn’t see anything! I didn’t see anything! I won’t tell anyone! I won’t! I’ll keep this to myself, until the day I die! I promise! I promise!”

What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm

There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life. There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

Hallowed Grounds by damnfancyscotch

Everything in Beacon Hills is the same when Stiles comes home from college. Well, except for the fact that he's a published author now, Scott is halfway across the world with a travelling circus, Erica's epilepsy has been cured, her boss offers him a job too, and there's this weird black dog that seems to be following him around just to judge him. Oh, and the murders, of course. But other than that stuff… totally the same old BH.

There Are No Wolves in California (Werewolves on the Other Hand…) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella), KioFox

“I’m not calming down until you call animal control! I fucking saw it! There were fucking wolves!” “There are no wolves in California, Mr. Daehler,” the principal said, sounding exasperated, like this was the third time she’d said it to him. “Well clearly there are!” he shouted back, showing such a lack of respect for the woman, Stiles had to applaud her for her fortitude not to smack him in the face. “Perhaps you were mistaken,” she said calmly. “No I wasn’t fucking mistaken,” Matt insisted, sounding incensed. “No way these were dogs, they were massive!” For a second, Stiles felt like the world had slowed considerably as those words wormed their way into his brain. Because—he knew a dog that was massive. Honestly, he’d also brushed away the idea of the dog being a wolf because there were no wolves in California. But… what if there were? Holy shit, had Stiles literally spent his lunch break with a fucking wolf cuddled into his side while he pet it?! Good God, he was lucky to still have all his limbs!

Where the Real Beasts Are by kaistrex (weishen)

Crown Prince Stiles is gifted a direwolf on his eighteenth birthday by King Gerard I of Venatia. The only instruction? Never remove the collar. Stiles never has been one to do as he’s told.

The Soul Knows What the Heart Wants by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“Holy—shit,” Stiles breathed, Bacon stopping in what he was doing, still staring at him intently, as if begging him to understand, for someone to finally understand. Stiles felt like he’d been electrocuted and he leapt out of his chair, kneeling in front of Bacon and grabbing at his furry face. “Holy shit! Oh my God, are you—wait, holy—you’re not fucking with me, right?!” Bacon let out two quick barks, which Stiles chose to interpret as ‘no.’ "Oh my God, are you a real person in there?!” Stiles shouted in the wolf’s face, staring him right in the eye. He was still holding the wolf’s head with both hands, but Bacon dipped his muzzle in confirmation and Stiles officially lost his mind. “Oh my God!” he shouted again, releasing Bacon to clutch at his own hair. “Oh my God! Dude, for real?! You’re—holy shit! Holy shit!” He didn’t know how to react to this news. He had no fucking idea how to react. This was a person?! But how?! How was this a person?! People didn’t just turn into wolves!

Rabbit Hearted by secondstar, Tsuminoaru

Storytellers were known for their talented tongues, their ability to weave tales and enthrall the listener. Their stories held weight, taken as truth as they were passed down from generation to generation. A tale of a cursed pack of wolves was one such story that Stiles had known since he was a child. Never did he think that he would become part of that tale, or that its weight would be up upon his shoulders. A tale of curses, sacrifices, and acceptance of one's inner self.

Being Close to You by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Realization dawned and Derek cursed himself viciously. How could he be stupid enough to forget Scott was a Werewolf? He could fucking smell him! Scott knew it was him! “Stiles?” Scott asked uncertainly while Stiles started opening and closing various cabinets, looking for who knew what. “That’s not a d—” Derek snarled and let out a loud bark, eyes glowing blue in Scott’s direction since Stiles couldn’t see him from where he was standing. Scott scowled at him, moving closer to him and inhaling pointedly. “What are you doing here, Derek?” Scott asked, voice low enough that Stiles wouldn’t hear. He wasn’t listening anyway, still panicking and randomly opening things.

(You) Bring Out the Beast (In Me) by Ember

“Should I make out the wedding invitations?” Stiles swallowed his mouthful of soda.”What?” Lydia smirked. “Well, you and Derek have seemed awfully cozy lately. Just wanted to be supportive.” “Oh, yeah, because that’s exactly why I went into wildlife preservation.” He rolled his eyes. “Beastiality jokes.” +++ Aka the one where Derek is a wolf and Stiles is his trainer, and then magic and transformations and feelings happen.

A Boy’s Best Friend by KnottheWolf

Stiles was just having some ‘me time’ when things escalated with his dog, Wolf. Or at least, he thinks it’s a dog.

"good boy" by quackquackcey

Stiles doesn’t think his senior year can get any worse with his best friend turning rabid every full moon, until he finds himself stuck with a massive black wolf overnight that doesn’t even like jerky. But on the bright side, the hot guy with the half-dying sister he met at the gas station seems to be in town for a bit, so there’s still a chance that his senior year, his supposed best year of high school, isn’t a complete lost cause…right? That is, if he can manage to juggle the sassy wolf that he takes care of at night and the hot guy that asked him out on a date for some reason.~ 🐺🍕

[masterlist link]

[scarsnfevers]

The Road Away

Prologue of Wolfgang

summary: You needed a clean break. A reset. If the past was going to haunt you, it could do so from a distance. The city had always felt too small and too loud all at once. The steel and glass, the relentless buzz of traffic, the stink of too many lives packed into too tight a space—it pressed against your senses in ways others couldn't understand. But it wasn’t just the humans. The city teemed with others of your kind. Wolves.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader

chapter word count: 1,5k

chapter warnings: loneliness

You had never liked packing. The act itself was tedious, a chore buried somewhere between indecision and sentimentality. But this time, it was something else entirely. This time, it felt like peeling away layers of your own skin, each cardboard box a confession, a piece of yourself that no longer belonged to the person you were trying to become. You stood in the middle of the apartment—your apartment—where echoes now rang louder than your thoughts. The bookshelves were bare, the kitchen stripped to essentials, the bedframe dismantled. What remained were the ghosts of late nights, quiet breakdowns, and days blurred by exhaustion.

Outside, the early morning sky wore a veil of grey, mist curling between buildings like it was alive. Inside, you crouched by an open suitcase, carefully tucking in a worn photo album. The cover was scratched, the pages slightly curled, but the memories inside were too precious to leave behind. Alongside it went your laptop—your lifeline, your history, your work. A few clothes, a flashlight, a pair of sturdy boots, a half-used journal, and your favorite mug. That was it. You had given away most of your furniture. The couch that had supported your weary frame after long shifts, the armchair with the wine-stained cushion, even the coffee table with the splintered leg—all gone. You needed a clean break. A reset. If the past was going to haunt you, it could do so from a distance.

The city had always felt too small and too loud all at once. The steel and glass, the relentless buzz of traffic, the stink of too many lives packed into too tight a space—it pressed against your senses in ways others couldn't understand. But it wasn’t just the humans. Seattle teemed with others of your kind.

Wolves.

Too many packs, too many alphas posturing, too many silent battles fought in crowded elevators and boardrooms. You had spent the last few years trying to dull your edges, hide your instincts behind power suits and conference calls. But the scent of dominance hung thick in the air. There were always meetings where someone tried to assert control with nothing more than a glance. Always those late nights when the moon called too loud and you had to fight the tremble in your limbs. Always that feeling of being watched, challenged, provoked—even by those who smiled politely. And as an alpha, even one who never sought power or pack, it was a constant weight.

You had tried to hold it all together. Tried to be normal. But the tension never truly left your shoulders. Your skin itched under fluorescent lights. Your hearing stretched too far, your nose catching whiffs of anger, fear, desire—all so sharp, all so constant. Over time, the city drained you. Slowly. Quietly. Like water eroding stone.

So, when the final project wrapped and the lease came due, you didn’t renew. Instead, you searched. For something quieter. Simpler. Farther. Fox River. You hadn’t heard of it before you stumbled across a listing for a cabin in the woods. Five hours from Seattle, population barely three digits, tucked between forests and forgotten lakes. The pictures showed pine trees and a misty hill behind the cabin. The seller’s name was John Whittaker. The price was reasonable. And something about it tugged at you. You made the call.

The trunk of your car was a patchwork of duffels, sealed boxes, and a folded wool blanket. Everything you owned now fit in the back of a vehicle. You stood there for a moment after slamming the hatch shut, keys cold in your palm, breath fogging in the morning chill. The street was empty. A light drizzle began to fall, speckling the windshield, trailing tiny rivers down the glass. No one came to wave you off. There were no lingering goodbyes. Just the soft hum of the engine as you turned the key, the city skyline disappearing behind you with each mile.

Traffic faded as you moved northward, buildings giving way to trees, streetlights to open sky. You took the highway out past Everett, then veered eastward, climbing steadily toward the highlands. The terrain shifted beneath your tires—concrete to gravel, flatland to forested ridges. Each mile tasted of distance. Of release.

You kept the windows cracked. The air grew colder, crisper. Cleaner. It carried the scent of rain and pine and something else. Freedom, maybe. The road curved like a ribbon through the mountains. You passed a gas station that looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies. A lone hiker walking alongside the road. A family of deer that froze as you approached, then leapt gracefully into the trees. Time slipped differently here. You could feel it.

Eventually, your GPS went quiet, the screen blinking blankly at you as you reached the edge of mapped civilization. You followed the directions John had given you by phone, scribbled on the back of an old receipt. Left at the old quarry. Right past the dead oak. Two miles down a gravel lane until the forest opened up like a breath. The trees parted, revealing a small clearing bathed in afternoon light. Moss carpeted the forest floor, and the cabin stood in its center like something out of a dream—wood dark with age, the roof steep and shingled in rough slate. Smoke trickled from the chimney in a slow spiral. A dark red truck was already there.

John Whittaker was exactly as he sounded: tall, silver-haired, wrapped in flannel and denim, with eyes like weathered stone. He watched you climb out of your car, then walked over, a hand extended in welcome.

"You made good time," he said with a warm smile. You returned the handshake, firm and grounding. "Barely got lost." He chuckled. "That’s saying something. Most folks don’t make it on the first try."

Together, you walked toward the cabin. The porch creaked under your steps, and the front door opened with a soft groan. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and old firewood. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden light. The interior was small but sturdy—a stone fireplace, a modest kitchenette, a cozy reading nook by a bay window, and stairs leading to a lofted sleeping area above. You walked slowly, fingers trailing along wooden beams and windowsills. Everything was handmade. Honest.

"I fixed it up over the years," John said. "Was going to keep it for the grandkids, but they’re more screen than forest these days. You look like you’ll treat it right." You turned to him, feeling something unfamiliar and warm rise in your chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief.

"I will. Thank you."

He nodded, then handed you a heavy brass key. "She likes to be warm in winter. Keep the hearth going, and she won’t give you trouble. Pipes are good. Roof too, unless it’s a real blizzard." He paused then, glancing toward the woods. "Me and my wife live a few kilometers that way, down the trail behind the house. If you ever need anything—tools, food, help with the generator—just holler. Don’t be a stranger." You stepped onto the porch with him, watching the sky shift into a palette of lavender and gold. The trees whispered in the distance. The world here felt wider, older.

"I won’t," you said. "Thanks again. For everything."

He tipped his hat, smiled once more, and drove off slowly, tires crunching over gravel until the forest swallowed the sound.

And then you were alone.

You stood there for a long time, breathing. Listening. The woods pressed close around you, but not in the way the city had. This was different. This was peace, not pressure. The weight in your chest began to lift, like something inside of you had been held underwater for too long and was finally surfacing. As dusk fell, you unpacked only what was necessary—a blanket, your journal, a single lamp. You lit a fire in the hearth, watching as the flames caught and grew. The light danced across the wooden walls, casting long shadows.

And then, just as the last blush of sun dipped behind the ridge, you heard it.

A howl.

Far off. Low. Mournful.

It echoed through the valley, resonating in your chest like a memory you hadn’t known you carried. You froze, heart stuttering. Every hair on your arms stood up. You knew that sound. Not just what it was, but what it meant. You stepped onto the porch again, eyes scanning the darkness. The trees swayed gently, their branches rustling like breath. And something inside you stirred. Something old and aching.

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you let your instincts rise, let the wild inside you shift just beneath the surface. You closed your eyes, tilted your head toward the moonlit canopy, and listened.

And somewhere deep in the forest, something listened back.

[bambieyedoll]

⋆·˚ ༘ * EMBRY CALL HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ

𐙚 his imprint is a fox shape shifter

you weren’t supposed to be there.

you’d been living off the grid in the forest surrounding forks, your fox form a blur in the trees—avoiding towns, people, and definitely wolves. you’d always known about the quileute pack. you just made sure they didn’t know about you.

until embry caught your scent.

you were both in your shifted forms when it happened.

one moment you were chasing a rabbit, the next—you were crashing straight into a massive wolf mid-patrol. fur tangled, paws skidded, and before you could bolt, the world just… stopped.

his golden-brown wolf eyes locked with yours, and it hit embry like lightning. heat rushed down his spine. his heartbeat synced with yours. time dropped away.

the imprint.

and all you could do was stare—frozen, confused, your sharp instincts screaming to run.

you darted away, terrified.

not of him, exactly—but of the pull. the intense, magnetic force tugging at something deep inside your chest. it didn’t make sense. nothing ever felt like that before, and the unknown had always been dangerous.

embry didn’t chase you.

he shifted back, waited by the tree line, and whispered softly into the air:

“i felt it. i know you did too.”

it wasn’t desperate. it wasn’t demanding. just… patient. gentle. like he understood you were scared. like he could wait forever.

you stayed in fox form for a few days after, watching from a distance.

embry would patrol alone, walking instead of running, never calling out—but always looking. leaving food in a safe clearing. sitting by the same log and humming softly. giving you time.

and against all your instincts, you felt yourself inching closer every time.

when you finally shifted back and approached him—still tense, arms crossed, looking wary—he didn’t move.

he just smiled. soft and slow.

“you’re real,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it.

“what did you do to me?” you asked, heart pounding, unsure whether to scream or bolt again.

“i didn’t do anything,” he said. “it’s… an imprint. i don’t expect anything from you. i just… want you to be okay.”

that’s what made you stay. that single moment. because for the first time, someone didn’t try to trap or tame you. he just wanted you safe.

the pack was shocked.

especially jacob and quil, who both stared at embry like he’d grown wings. paul snorted and muttered, “figures the quiet one gets the shifter girl.”

but sam? sam stepped forward, looked you right in the eye, and said gently,

“you’re part of the pack now. you’re not alone anymore.”

and something inside your chest finally, finally exhaled.

leah was a little standoffish at first (understandable), but you kind of admired her energy and threw some of it right back at her. eventually, you earned a nod of respect.

emily made you a welcome basket. quil tried (and failed) to impress you with bad fox jokes. seth? he just smiled at you like you were already family.

embry didn’t rush a thing. not your feelings, not your trust, not your decision to stay.

but every time you walked beside him in the woods, or shifted and brushed your tail against his paw, or leaned just a little closer during patrols—he looked at you like you hung the moon.

and you felt it too now.

not the fear, not the pull—but the peace.

you were exactly where you were meant to be.

the first time embry touched you, it was barely anything.

just the back of his hand brushing your arm when you handed him a thermos emily packed. you both froze. the contact sizzled. it wasn’t overwhelming—it was warm, grounding. like a match lighting in your chest.

you looked up, heart stuttering, and he whispered, “sorry.”

you shook your head, voice quiet. “no. it’s okay.”

he was so careful with you.

even after you started spending more time together—on long walks, curled in animal form near the fire with your tails tucked around your bodies—he never assumed anything. never touched you unless you initiated.

that made you want to reach for him.

the first real cuddle came after a long, cold patrol.

you’d stayed out too long in your fox form and were shivering badly when you shifted back. embry immediately tugged off his hoodie and wrapped it around you.

you muttered a protest through chattering teeth, but he didn’t care. he pulled you into his lap, wrapped his arms around you like a living furnace, and whispered against your hair, “just for a minute. let me keep you warm.”

that was the first time you rested your head on his chest.

the steady thud of his heart felt like home.

after that? cuddling became a thing.

you curled up on his chest during movie nights. you napped in fox form across his lap. you fell asleep in the passenger seat of his car, and he didn’t dare move—just drove with one hand while the other gently rested on your knee.

he always called you “little fox” when you cuddled.

“what, like i’m some kind of pet?” you’d grumble, nuzzling into his neck anyway.

“no,” he’d whisper, lips brushing your temple. “like you’re mine.”

the kiss didn’t happen in a big dramatic moment. no fireworks or stormy confessions.

it was quiet. soft. safe.

you were sitting by the fire in the woods—just the two of you, wrapped in his hoodie again, watching the sparks crackle against the night.

you looked at him and whispered, “i’m not scared anymore.”

he smiled, heart thudding, brushing your hair behind your ear. “i’d never let anything hurt you.”

and you just… leaned in.

gentle, slow, almost hesitant at first—until his hand came up to cup your cheek and the kiss deepened. tender and reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, like he’d been waiting forever and still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

afterward, you stayed curled in his arms, his chin resting on your head, your fingers intertwined.

“so,” you murmured, “this is what imprinting really feels like?”

he smiled, voice low and a little shaky from how badly he’d fallen.

“no. this is what loving you feels like.”

running through the woods together is your love language.

the way you zip through the underbrush, weaving around tree trunks like a breeze, and he keeps pace with you, protective and always just behind you—it’s a kind of dance you do for hours.

you’re small, fast, and way more nimble in your fox form than he is in wolf form. you dart between trees like a streak of fire, and embry always lets you win because the little yipping sound you make when you “beat” him? his heart can’t take it.

“you’re getting slower,” you tease after shifting back, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“nah,” he smirks. “i just like watching your fluffy butt bounce ahead of me.”

you tease embry constantly in the woods—darting ahead, flipping around to bump your shoulder against his wolf form, then sprinting away again. he pretends to growl but everyone knows he’s smiling like an idiot in his wolf head.

you’re small. like small small—especially next to a 6’7 werewolf built like he bench-presses trees for fun.

he doesn’t even try to hide how obsessed he is with how tiny you are.

he’ll shift back after patrol and immediately search for you. the second he finds you, you’re scooped up, pressed to his chest, and swaddled in blankets like he’s trying to absorb your warmth.

you’re so tiny compared to him—he’ll pull you onto his lap, wrap his arms around you, and tuck his chin over your head like it’s his full-time job. “you fit so good here, baby.”

you sometimes shift into your fox form just to curl up on his lap like a smug little heat pack. he pretends to grumble about your tail tickling his nose, but secretly? he melts every time.

the pack adores you. especially because you’re sassy and fearless despite being half their size.

paul once tried to jokingly growl at you while in wolf form. you didn’t flinch—just transformed and bit his tail. embry didn’t stop laughing for three days.

embry loves your fox form. loves the way you nuzzle his neck when he’s had a rough day. loves how you curl up next to his massive wolf form and fall asleep like you’ve never felt safer.

“you trust me that much?” he once asked you softly, scratching behind your ears.

you nipped his fingers playfully and licked his hand. translation: always.

he calls you “little fox,” “tiny trouble,” and “my little furball.” you respond by biting his bicep. (he lets you. every time.)

the imprint doesn’t make him possessive. It makes him protective—but in a soft, reverent way.

he never cages you. he just wants to run with you, laugh with you, build a life with you.

he walks on the outside of the sidewalk. always. always pulls her into his side when someone passes too close.

if someone flirts with you at a bonfire, embry is polite… at first. but when the guy lingers too long, his arm slides possessively around your waist and he kisses the top of your head like a warning label: mine.

the entire pack knows: if anyone makes you cry, embry’s claws come out. even quil once said something a little too teasing, and embry launched a shoe at his head and said, “apologize. now.”

if someone touches you—even slightly—it’s game over. he phases mid-motion, jaws snapping, forcing the rest of the pack to hold him back. he doesn’t even hear them yelling—he only sees you flinching.

he’s never forgiven himself for the way your eyes watered, even though you swore you were okay. “i didn’t expect you to get so angry,” you say later, curled into his chest. he holds you tighter, almost desperately. “you’re mine. i’m not sorry for protecting you.”

sometimes, you feel like you don’t belong. you’re not a wolf. you’re not huge or dangerous. you don’t even growl. you start pulling away, trying to prove you can be independent. “i don’t want to be the fragile one you have to save.”

embry doesn’t understand at first. he just sees you leaving during patrols, staying shifted for hours, not answering his calls. when you finally talk, it turns into a messy, heart-hurt argument.

“you’re not a burden,” he snaps. “you’re my imprint. my mate. that means you’re half of me. you think i protect you because i think you’re weak? no. i do it because losing you would rip me apart.”

you then asked, “do you ever wish your imprint was… normal?”

and it’s like you shot him in the chest. he just stares at you, stunned and wounded and he just collapses in front of you, forehead pressed to your stomach.

“i don’t care how small you are. i don’t care if you’re a fox, a bird, a flame—i’ll always find you. i’ll always choose you.”

when he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders, he leaned in, kissed your nose, and whispered, “no one else could ever keep up with me like you do.”

[hawkeyetrained]

Hurry

Derek Hale x reader (established relationship)

Other Characters: Scott, Chris Argent, Isaac (mentioned)

Warnings: Mention of blood and wounds

Summary: It's not Ms. Blake that gets trapped in the supply closet when Boyd and Cora are rescued.

Word Count: 1678

We had to hurry. After breaking into the old bank in an attempt to save the trapped werewolves, Derek and Scott had struggled to restrain them, causing Allison to break the protective barrier and allow the two rouges to run off into the night. We had a plan. We always had a plan. I was in the car with Chris Argent racing our way towards the high school. Our plan was to trap the two out of control werewolves in the boiler room below the main halls and keep them there until the moon went down and their strength faded.

Chris slammed on the breaks in the large SUV he drove, stopping just outside the doors on the opposite side of the school that the wolves were headed. “Do a quick search. No one needs to be here when we send them down.” He commented as I jumped out the door, slamming it shut and listening to him as he sped off towards the woods to help lure the wolves to our location.

I did a quick scan of the parking lot as I ran up to the main doors, noticing one car still parked over by the English halls. The new teacher, Ms. Blake, was still here, her room lit up with the bright overhead lights. With a roll of my eyes, I headed down the hall as quickly as I could, making sure to slow down as I got to her door.

“Ms. Blake?” I knocked softly on the door to make sure I wouldn’t scare her. “What are you doing here?”

Her head snapped up from the pile of paperwork she was grading, bright red pen in her hand. “Oh, my. Honey what are you doing here so early?” She ignored my question. “It’s barely morning.” She looked out her window into the darkness surrounding the school.

“Umm.” I had to think quickly. “Study group was supposed to start early for a big test in chem today. I was just headed out after grabbing some stuff from my locker, wanted to grab some breakfast.”

“Well, I’d be happy to walk out with you. I just have to reload the copier down the hall. I used most of it printing assignments for later. The other teacher are very particular about the copier being full in the morning.” She started to gather her things. Paper was stored downstairs, next to the boiler room in the supply closet.

“Oh, you know what, I’ve gotta grab some stuff from my locker on the other side of the school. I know where the supply closet is, I’ll just grab the paper for you. I don’t have a first period, so I don’t mind the extra few minutes here.” My hand pulled my phone from my back pocket, glancing down to see the HURRY test from Derek lighting up my screen.

Ms. Blake slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’d hate to leave you here alone. I’ll just wait.”

I shook my head as another text came through. They’re almost there. Get out. “No, it’s ok. My ride is running a few minutes late, so I’ll grab the paper and then head out. See you in a few hours for class.” My phone slipped easily back into my pocket as I gave her a rushed smile that I hoped didn’t give off how worried I was.

“Only if you’re sure.” She smiled softly, pulling her keys from her pocket.

“Yeah, I got it.” I waved her off as I turned down the hall towards the basement stairs. “See you later!” I called and disappeared down the stairs. It would take all of ten seconds to grab the paper and then get out of the school, something I knew would be cutting timing close but the door in the basement had to be unlocked to let the wolves in. I rushed in, heading to the locker space that held the supplies. I dragged the gate open and stepped in, heading for the back to grab a pack pf printer paper.

Just as my fingers brushed over the smooth paper wrapping, footsteps stomped down the stairs and a few people came rushing through the boiler room. My hands shook as I moved slowly towards the supply closet gate and dragged it shut as silently as I could. The main door slammed shut and all I could hear was the huffing and growls of two wolves as they paces around the room. My heart raced in my chest as I slid away from the gate I had just closed, willing myself to stay quiet and hidden until the sun came up.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I rushed to pull it from my jeans before the two wolves would hear it. WHERE ARE YOU? Lit up my screen from Derek. With shaking fingers, I turned the brightness down as low as it could go and made sure the ringer was off and that any buzzing would be silenced by the sweatshirt I was wearing as I typed a response.

YOU’RE GOING TO BE MAD. I sent back, sliding back into the corner of the supply room and behind a filing cabinet.

The door I had come through just a few minutes ago was quickly opened and slammed shut again, a new set of footsteps being added to the mix of the two prowling wolves. My heart pounded and I was sure the two wolves would turn and find me any second. They would rip the door off the gate and come in to tear me into pieces. I could only pray that Derek had locked the wolves in and was outside looking for me with Chris Argent.

“Hey.” The voice I did not want to hear in the moment echoed through the large room, making the two wolves silence their growls. “I want you to stay there.” I knew Derek wasn’t talking to the two other wolves in the room. “Hands over your hears, eyes closed. You don’t open till I come get you.”

My shaking hands pressed against the sides of my head, muffling everything around me, as I squeezed my eyes shut and tucked myself further into the corner I had picked. Chaos erupted around me, loud snarling and deep growls echoed around the vast room, mixing with the steam sounds and the mechanical whirrs that made the school run. I could hear tearing of fabric, grunts of pain, and shrieks of anger through my hands.

Derek’s grunts of pain and the strained growls slipping from his mouth brought tears to my eyes. I had begged to let me help them tonight. I had told him that I wouldn’t take any chances and that I would stay safe, but now I’m the cause of the pain he was enduring. I was the reason he was probably covered in blood and barely hanging on as the two wolves tore into him.

Sunlight filtered in through the small half windows after what felt like forever. The growling stopped, two loud thuds hit the concrete floor, but I kept my hands over my ears and my eyes slammed closed. Soft hands rested gently against my arms and I shrieked loudly, kicking my legs out and trying to get away. “No! Leave me alone!”

“Hey!” Derek’s soft voice called out to me. “Open your eyes, honey. It’s ok, I got you.” My eyes flashed open and instantly connected with his, my heart still pounding in my chest with tears running down my cheeks.

“Derek?” He was covered in blood. His shirt torn in multiple places with wounds slowly closing on his sides and his shoulder. His face had a few lines of blood trickling down, the cuts that caused it already closed and healed over. “Oh my god.” I launched myself into his arms, mine wrapped tightly around his neck as he pulled me from my corner and up to my feet. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I cried into his shoulder, trying not to hit where he may be hurt.

“I know.” He mumbled, his face pressed into my shoulder as well and his hands holding tightly to his chest. “I know, but you’re ok. I’m ok and were both safe now.” One of his hands had come up to brush my hair gently.

“It’s all my fault.” I pulled back from him. My hands were still shaking as they brushed against his side to try and see the cut that had soaked his shirt in blood. “You could’a been killed!”

“Hey. I’m here. I wasn’t just gonna let them tear you to pieces.” His voice shook like the panic was finally wearing off and the pain was setting in. “Are you hurt?” His hands rested on my face as he looked me over.

I shook my head, wiping away my tear stains. “No, I’m ok. You healing?”

“Yeah honey, I’m healing. I’ll be fine.”

The large door slammed open then, the two of us jumping from the sound and Derek’s arm instantly pulling me behind him, always ready for the next threat. “Hi.” Scott waved. He, Isaac, and Chris Argent stepped into the room and headed to the two now tame wolves who were passed out on the floor. Boyd was lifted up by Chris and Isaac while Scott went over to the pretty brunette girl and heaved her up into his arms. “We’ll meet you guys back at the loft.”

I nodded. “Erica?” I looked up to Derek.

He shook his head softly. “She didn’t make it.” His arms wrapped around me again, pulling me into his side as we started to make our way out of the school before people started showing up. He got me seated in the car before he headed to the driver’s side. “You’re ok?” He asked again.

I nodded, taking his hand in mine and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “I’m ok.”

He repeated my action and kissed the back of my hand as well. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

@thetallassgirl @hallecarey1

[deadghosy]

Mattheo, Theodore, Lorenzo x male reader (Group/poly)

Where they’re werewolves? — super protective & scenting their mate all the time

WEREWOLF! MATTHEO, THEODORE & LORENZO X MALE! READER

You didn’t know how this happened. All you did was be yourself around your housemates in Slytherin. Not knowing 3 of them were werewolves, and now. You’re their mate. Their scent all over you, always are around you. They look like bodyguards as mattheo and Theodore are by your side while as Lorenzo is behind you when walking to class or anywhere.

Some might say you are very protected, which is true. Your boys love you well to the point they get kinda aggressive when they deem someone as a threat to the relationship the four of you have. Mattheo almost got a boy into a coma, all because the student didn’t “back off”. Theodore goes with verbal abuse and confrontation. He knows how to scare people away. And then there’s Lorenzo who’s a devil in disguise. Doing small little curses at the person. Making them go crazy.

Sometimes you can’t even catch your own breath around those 3. When relaxing in the common room, mattheo is on your left, Theodore is on your right, and Lorenzo is just sitting in front of your legs and in between them. His head leaning back so you could scratch his scalp. The boys are always begging for you to scratch their scalp. The way you do it just makes them wanna claim you all over again.

When you scratch mattheo, his head is all in your neck. Pressing soft kisses, he’ll even do small nips at it as he rubs your hips. For when you scratch Theodore, his tall body is leaning down on you. Making you having to lay on something as Theodore is literally rubbing his face in your neck. Masking his scent again on you over, and over. Lorenzo is slightly tamed as he just smile while giving your wrist soft kisses. Your boys love you very well.

Sometimes you play little jokes on them. Mattheo would try to find you when you had sprayed your fragrance you use a lot on a hoodie so you can trick the riddle werewolf that you were in your room. When really you were outside in the yard. Mattheo found you an hour later and was absolutely touch starved. Immediately hugging you and kissing your face with those beautiful eyes of his tracking your whole body to make sure you were okay.

Lorenzo is practically the most softest of them all. He’s the one who follows you the most. Rubbing your stomach when lying down together, holding your hands.

And when the full moon hits. They can’t help but transform into their wolves and lick your hands and face. Their licks to your face is basically kisses as they try to speak only to growl in admiration at how you aren’t scared of them. Mattheo is a dark wolf, Theodore is a mixture of light brown and brown fur, and Lorenzo is just a bright brown color. So you’re lucky to know which one is which.

Right as of now, you are in what muggles call a dog pile. Lorenzo is on your stomach, mattheo is on your right, and Theodore is on your left. Cuddling you with their body heat as the slight broken heater in your room was heating it up against the cold night. Lorenzo was half asleep as he just cuddled deeper against your belly. Sometimes Lorenzo had “urges” deeper than the other boys surprisingly. Mattheo was playing with your fingers as Theodore was playing with your hair. “Darling..when is the next moon?” Lorenzo asks, his voice a little husky from drowsiness. You took a deep breath in and look over at the calendar.

“Oh my…it’s tonight…” you say, sitting up a little as your boys groaned annoyed. They hated turning into wolves. More or so reasons because they can’t hold you properly or ki ss you properly. They find it mostly annoying how you baby them when they pamper you so much in their regular form.

“I hate it..” Lorenzo said. Nuzzling his messy bed hair against your stomach before pouting up at you. “I know dear.” You said with a soft voice. You started to scratch his scalp, making him let out a sigh of relief. Your two boys only relaxed in your presence. Minutes passed and they could feel themselves wanting to transform.

“Can I kiss you before we transform?”

“Could I still lay on you??”

“Can I hug you right now?”

Questions were just thrown out in the air. You weren’t overwhelmed of course, just thrown off at how quick your boys wanted you before they transformed. You kissed mattheo gently, you let Theodore hug you. His dark wood scent clinging into you. And you nodded yes to Lorenzo who smiled still. Just happy to stay lay on you. Again, a few minutes pass and mattheo is the first one to transform. His dark black fur covering your eyes of Theodore and Lorenzo following suit. Now you felt a wolf’s nose on your stomach. Whimpering as Theodore and mattheo just snuggle into your arms.

“Awww Lorenzo..it’s just for tonight love.” You say that but the poor werewolf has his ears pushed back. It seems mattheo is laughing at the other werewolf. Because Theodore then smacks the dark wolf with his paw. Making mattheo growl a little. “Hey! No fighting on my bed you gits.” You give them a pointed look. Making your three boys nuzzle against you.

They licked your face, making you giggle. Your giggle made it even more known at how sweet and apiece you were and are to them.

They are your boys.

[maybe-im-dark]

Nocturnal

Wade burst through the door of their shared apartment, his usual swagger in full swing as he tossed his gear onto the floor. It had been a long day—bullets, blood, and chimichangas—but now, all he wanted was to kick back, harass Logan a bit, and maybe catch some terrible late-night TV with Blind Al. He flicked on the lights, ready to call out, but the words died in his throat the moment his gaze landed on Logan.

Logan was sitting on the couch, completely still, and for a brief second, Wade saw it—Logan's eyes flashed bright yellow, like the eyes of a predator caught in the light. Wade stumbled back, genuinely startled for once, heart pounding against his ribs.

"Holy chimichangas! What the fuck was that?!" Wade blurted out, one had instinctively reach for the katanas on his back.

Logan growled low in his throat, the sound almost vibrating in the dim room, and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “My eyes.”

Wade blinked, taking in the sight of Logan sprawled out on the couch, looking more annoyed than usual. “Have you been sitting here in the dark the whole time? How do you see anything? That’s like, serial killer behavior, dude.”

Logan leaned back against the cushions, unbothered by Wade’s theatrics. “I see just fine. Don’t know why you felt the need to brighten the whole goddamn room.”

Wade paused, narrowing his eyes, studying Logan in the harsh light. “Wait… You’ve got, like, the whole tapetum lucidum thing going on, don’t you?”

Logan’s brow furrowed, the irritation clear in his voice. “The hell are you talking about now?”

Wade waved his hands excitedly, pacing back and forth, the pieces falling into place with every step. “You know, the tapetum lucidum! It’s that reflective layer in the eyes that gives animals night vision! Like cats and wolves and shit. It makes their eyes glow when light hits them. That’s why yours lit up just now. That’s why you’re always lurking around in the dark like Batman on a bad day!”

Logan sighed, rubbing his temples as if Wade’s voice physically pained him. “Yeah, well. Maybe I see better at night. What’s it to you?”

Wade’s face lit up, his excitement bubbling over as he dropped down onto the couch beside Logan, way too close, practically vibrating with energy. “Dude, this is amazing! You’re like… an actual nocturnal predator! That explains so much. No wonder you’re always pacing around at night, growling and glaring at the moon or whatever it is you do when I’m not around. You’re a damn apex predator who can’t sit still when it’s dark out!”

Logan rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smirk tugging at his lips. “You just figuring this out now?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wade demanded, leaning in closer, eyes wide with fascination. “I mean, this is important roommate information! Like, what if you decided to go full feral one night and chew on my leg or something? Shouldn’t I be warned about these things?”

Logan’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had someone chewing on you.”

Wade blinked, and then burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained. “You know what? Fair point, fair point. But seriously, does this mean you, like, prefer to hunt in the moonlight? Are you secretly prowling around rooftops while I’m snoring my ass off?”

Shaking his head, Logan settled back into the couch with a sigh. “I don’t hunt. Not anymore. But yeah, I can see just fine in the dark. And if I’m up late, it’s ’cause my body doesn’t care much for sleep. Comes with the territory.”

Wade’s usual banter fell silent for a moment, his expression softening as he watched Logan. For once, his voice dropped, more genuine than Logan had ever heard him. “You know, Logan, there’s nothing wrong with being what you are.”

Logan glanced over, caught off guard by the sincerity in Wade’s tone. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to anyone looking at him like he wasn’t just a weapon, wasn’t just some feral beast waiting to be unleashed. “Maybe,” Logan muttered, looking away, a flicker of vulnerability showing through.

But Wade, being Wade, wasn’t about to let the moment stay heavy for long. His grin returned, wide and unapologetic. “Well, if you ever feel the urge to go hunting, just give me a heads-up. I’ll make sure to stay out of your way. Or… maybe I’ll join you. I’m pretty good at prowling around at night too, you know.”

Logan snorted, shaking his head. “You’d scare off everything within a mile radius, Wade.”

“And yet, here you are,” Wade pointed out with a smirk. “Still haven’t managed to get rid of me.”

Logan chuckled, the sound low and genuine, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

They sat there in a comfortable silence, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. Wade, ever the troublemaker, leaned in, whispering with a conspiratorial tone. “Just so you know, if you ever want to glow at me again, I’m totally into it.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but the faint smile stayed, lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Idiot.”

And for once, Logan felt like maybe, just maybe, there was someone who understood—someone who saw the animal in him and wasn’t afraid.

[multific]

Dark and Light

Count Orlok x Reader

Warning: smut, blood

Summary: A creature of light is what you are. And yet you belong to the dark.

An angel is what the villagers always call you.

A creature of light.

Pure. Kind. Warm.

When you arrived at the village, you were a tired traveller in need of shelter and food. You were running away from your parents who arranged for you to marry a boy from your hometown.

You couldn't marry, you knew you were destined for someone else. And so, you ran away.

But the villagers of Transilvania took you in.

You understood some of their words.

They feared a vampire.

On your second night, you dreamt of a castle. A castle hiding in the dark.

It intrigued you so much, that you decided to continue your adventure the next day.

The villagers tried to hold you back but you didn't listen.

You felt urges, you needed to explore them.

You walked in the snow, walking down the road, and you soon reached the mountains.

The view of the castle came with the setting sun. Illuminated in golden glow.

It was dangerous yet beautiful. 

You walked closer.

By the time you reached the gates, it was dark.

Only the moon lighting your way.

The front gates opened by themselves.

A dark tall figure stood a few feet from you.

His face was hidden in the dark.

He wore a big cloack and you noticed his dogs by his feet. Or were they wolves? It was hard to tell in the dark.

But you followed him inside, up the steps and to a room where the fireplace was casting a warmth in the room.

"Are you lost?" his accent was thick, almost hard to understand.

"I-I wouldn't say I'm lost, Sir."

"Lord." his voice sounded angry. "It is my title, Lord."

"Yes, My Lord. I apologise. I wouldn't say I'm lost. I was staying in the village close by. And I had these dreams, I dreamt of this castle."

"You dreamt of my castle?"

"I'm not sure why."

"Sit," he said and you did. He was next to you in a second, pouring you a drink. "Drink," he growled.

His breathing was strange it made you fear he might collapse at any moment.

But he didn't.

You watched as his long fingers placed the cup in front of you.

"Thank you, My Lord." you took the cup and tasted the wine.

It was delicious, you had to admit.

It was rich, with a rather strange but delicate aftertaste.

He guided you to a room.

"Sleep here," he said.

"Thank you, My Lord."

That night, much like before, you had a dream. But this one was with him.

You woke with a start and noticed him standing in your room.

You stood up and watched him as his eyes followed you.

You failed to realise that you were awake.

"Do you willingly give yourself to me?" he asked as he walked over to you.

"I do," you said with full confidence as he towered above you. You took a couple of steps back, you back met the wall and you let out a yelp of surprise.

He caged you in with his towering frame.

One hand on your neck, gentle, the other next to your head against the wall.

You tried to breathe. But as you opened your mouth, his came crashing down.

It met with yours in such a feverish kiss it took your breath away and filled you with it at the same time.

He was something else.

A creature beyond anything you could imagine.

This creature of pure darkness brought you the most pleasure you have ever felt as he made you, his.

He turned you against the window, your hand gripped the windowsill for some stability. You could see the moon outside.

You were now bare, standing in the moonlight giving yourself to him as he entered you from behind.

You moaned as he kissed your shoulder blade.

"Focus," he said as he began to move, your hand gripped the wood. You let out moan after moan as he moved.

He was slow at first, allowing you to get used to him.

It's not like you needed much time.

It was as if your body was made for his. A perfect fit.

His hand collected your hair to one side as he pushed in even deeper. He leaned forward and bit your shoulder, drawing blood as he began to drink.

The feeling of him inside you and his lips drinking your blood was the first time you felt such euphoria. 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your legs were shaking. His hands grabbed you and with precise movements, he allowed your body to ride its high.

When you came down from it, he pulled out of you and moved you to your bed.

He pushed you down with your face down and ass up. He pushed in once more. His full length made delicious sounds as you coated him with your wetness. 

"Moan for me," he said but it wasn't like you needed to be told. You heard your voice echo down the halls as his movements got more and more rough. 

His movements soon changed. Became more animalistic as he moved his body over yours but kept your most needy part up. 

You moved your head and looked at him.

"Feels so good," you told him with a breath. 

"You are mine," he replied. His eyes filled with pure determination and the need for the same high you reached before. "Say it," he demanded yet his voice also begged.

"I'm yours. Only yours. Forever." His hips stilled just as you said that. You reached your high with the feeling of him spilling inside you. 

It all felt so good. It almost made you pass out.

You felt one of his palms run up the back of your thigh from the back of your knee up.

You closed your eyes for only a moment but the time you opened it, he was already gone. 

Leaving you a mess you quickly washed up.

You shivered a little as the wind blew your thin gown.

You looked down the hall and noticed one of his dogs, wolves rather. Now you could make out the animal. 

You moved to kneel on the hard floor and put your hand out to the animal. It took small cautious steps towards you.  

It even growled when you tried to touch it.

"I won't hurt you," you said even if you knew it wouldn't understand you.

But it did let you pet its head. Which was nice. 

When you returned to your room, the wolf followed you, jumped up on your bed and laid down by your feet.

And there you slept while your Count was feeding in the village.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[luveline]

Not sure if I’m doing this right because I’ve never really taken part in one of these but please can I request something for zombie Steve and reader with the below prompt:

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝'𝐬 𝐨𝐤 —send me a hurt/comfort request for any reader and any character and I'll write a ficlet, 2k or less

Maybe like, some time shortly after they started to become romantically involved or after he first calls her his gf, and Steve has a bad day and is a little short with reader and she’s worrying he’s regretting crossing that line with her but then he reassures her he’s not regretting it.

Sorry if I’m doing this wrong and no worries if you don’t like it, I just seriously love zombie Steve, especially when he’s a lil grumpy grump but always wants to make up for it afterwards 🥰

luveline's 40k party ☆ thank you for your request, you did it perfect don't worry! steve zombie!au —steve gets stressed when food is in short supply, but he cares about you more than you think. fem!reader, 2.5k

cw starving / food insecurity

"I don't think we can make it another day if we don't find something tonight." 

Steve's shoulders go rigid at your statement, backpack reflecting glaring light.. It's dark as night, the room illuminated by two twin flashlight beams. New batteries have the lights constant and consistent. It's a shame you can't live off of batteries. 

You're hungry in a way you've never been hungry before. Never. You and Steve have been starving for days. You have a pounding headache leaking down into your teeth that's made you quiet and Steve is quieter, pointing his flashlight into the next kitchen cabinet. The only thing inside is dust, motes swimming in a sea of white. 

What's worse, you're terrified to hop houses at night, because from afar, deep in the forest surrounding the residential neighbourhood you're in, you've been hearing wolves. Deep howls chasing a filling moon. 

You're so hungry you've had to risk it. 

Your head is heavy on your neck as you look up into another cabinet. "We're gonna die," you say. You can't help it —maybe it's the genuine and inescapable despair of thinking you'll die, maybe it's his recent bout of loving affection, but lately all you do is complain. 

"We're not gonna die," Steve says. 

"You don't know that." 

"Yes, I do." 

"How could you? All these houses have been stripped clean, there's nothing left–" 

"I just know, alright?" 

He slams the cabinet door shut and stalks to the other side of the kitchen. These houses are huge, rich people places with endless bedrooms and their matching ensuites. He shoves his weight into the door leading to the garage. You don't have a choice, following him in. Steve wants space but he can't have it, splitting up makes you feel sick. 

Your hands under his t-shirt, his hands on your back. An admission. I've been calling you my girlfriend in my head for weeks. 

Your Steve's girlfriend. He's your boyfriend, and he's gonna get eaten by a zombie in a garage in the middle of nowhere suburbia and you'll be all alone without him. 

"Steve," you say, irritated. The garage is even darker than the kitchen, no windows for moonlight to crawl inside. He's turned his torch to the storage bins behind a black, sleek car. 

"What?" he asks, using the brunt of his palm to lift a lid.

"What do you mean, what? If I walked away from you like that you'd bite my head off."

"Jesus," he hisses, quickly turning his light away from the bin he's opened. "What the fuck?" 

You creep up behind him to direct your own flashlight. You don't want to talk about what you find inside. 

Defeated and distant and wishing things could be different, you and Steve clip your rucksacks at the waist and prepare to move in the dark from this shitty empty house to the next. You can't sleep; Steve won't say it, but you think he might be scared that you'll both be too weak to get up again if you lay down. This is the final push. 

You don't ask for his hand. He grabs one of your rucksack straps and you slink down the concrete steps of the house back onto the picture perfect streets. An entire apocalypse and the only evidence is smashed glass. The cold night bounces off of the sidewalk to chill your calves, your old jeans little defence against the cold. It's so, so cold lately. 

The next house is locked. You and Steve look at one another, and whether you can see him in the moonlight dregs or if your mind knows him well enough to fill in the gaps is anyone's guess. He looks reluctantly hopeful. 

You take a silent walk around the house checking for points of entry. When each door you come across is locked and each window tightly locked, you kneel at the garage door and force your icy fingers beneath the door. Steve helps, flat of his knife scratching the asphalt. You lose all the feeling in your fingertips as Steve struggles to get his hands under as well, but together you sigh, pained, and lift the garage door with the last of your strength. You army under first quickly, almost dropping the shutters as Steve follows. 

Fingertips aching with quick-blooming contusions, you attempt to help Steve stand. He ignores your offered hand. 

This house is the same as the other, so while it's dark, it's manoeuvrable. Same daunting marble staircases up on to a balconied landing. Across to the left is a lone bedroom with huge windows and a staircase to the attic, and across to the right a handful of equally spacious rooms. You hadn't bothered searching the bedrooms in the houses before, figuring that whoever combed the kitchens to the insane degree they have was as desperate as you are now, and would've already done so. 

But this house was locked. 

You're filled with aching hope. You need to eat. You don't want to die. You don't want Steve to die. If there's nothing here, you aren't sure you'll have the energy to search another granite kitchen. 

Steve wastes no time opening a cabinet. 

You both stand still in shock. 

Cereal. Boxes and boxes of cereal. 

"What do you think the sell by date is?" you ask. 

"I don't know." He pulls down a box. It's off by a year. Pulls down another. Off again. Something awful inside of you wants to tear into the cardboard and eat it anyways. Too bad food poisoning can kill you quicker than hunger. 

Steve leaves the cabinet door open and moves to the next, practically ripping it off of the hinges. Your torch beam shakes with excitement when you see the insides, golden cans stacked high. 

Steve picks one up. Tosses it aside. "It's cat food." 

Well, if all else fails. The thought makes you want to cry. 

The next cabinet is full of glassware, and the next china plates. Steve opens a fifth and sixth at the same time. It takes you a second to calibrate the sight in front of you. 

"It's not more cat food, is it?" you ask quietly. 

Steve breathes out hard, grabbing a handful of skinny cans, metal popping against the counter as he drops one. "It's fish. Tuna fish." 

And just like that, you get to live. 

The last cabinet has a short supply of soups and bare essentials, enough for a week between you both (rich people ate less processed foods, apparently). It's the fish that promises security, a hundred cans of bluefin, yellowfin tuna, a couple cans of caviar. 

You and Steve eat it in the kitchen with fancy spoons. The smell is undesirable but it doesn't make you feel sick until hours later, half asleep on the kitchen floor. 

You stand up, ushering him with you, and pull yourselves with heavy emphasis on the handrail up the stairs to the first bedroom you come across. You take your toothbrush from your bag despite the begging pull of sleep and brush your teeth, eager to escape the salty tang of fish. If Steve wants to kiss you tonight, you'd rather taste like Arctic Fresh than fish. 

"Can I have some?" Steve asks. 

You raise your brows, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. While he brushes, you construct a little lamp using the low-power torch and a half full water bottle. The room is far less intimidating after that, light reaching into the corners and exposing the raw wooden beams above. Steve spits his toothpaste into the wastebasket and leaves the room. He returns as you're taking off your shoes, disapproving as he drags a chair in. He hooks it under the door handle, jigging it to test. 

"I can't wear them anymore," you say. 

"Okay," he says. 

You'd hoped finding food would make him less snappy, but no luck. He's even quieter than before. 

You get changed in silence, like you've both decided now you're not hungry that actually you'd been kind of filthy. It's just… your reality. You want to be clean, and fed, and brushed, but you're grimy. You settle for another layer of deodorant and a fresh pair of underwear. 

Steve is looking at you, half-naked. He's allowed, it doesn't matter, but he averts his eyes when you catch him and doesn't speak to you again. Thankfully, your sated hunger removes despair to some extent. You climb into bed and Steve slides in next to you, and for a few hours, you sleep. 

Waking up is a new agony. 

You're bad at being separated from one another, and finding him gone fucks you up. Your heart immediately leaps into your mouth, a raw, beating thing. The daylight disarms you at first, blinking against it, but proves to be your friend when you find Steve's shoes at the end of the bed. It's a marker, a note from him to you: I'm still here.

He's leaning heavily on the countertop in the kitchen  with a notebook laid flat and a pen in hand, tallying up the cans.

"Hey, you scared me," you say, his shoes in one hand, yours in the other.  

"Sorry." 

You put the shoes on the counter. 

You hesitate to touch him first. You'd been thinking last night before you slept, his hand near your hip instead of on it, that Steve's finally realised he doesn't want to be with you. Like a near death experience, he'd had an epiphany. Why would he want to spend the bare strands of a life that he has playing house with you? 

He didn't have a choice. One sudden day and you were his burden.

Steve takes your hand without looking. Firm, he squeezes his fingers between yours and pulls you into his side. "It's a month's worth of food, easily. But it might make us kind of sick if we aren't careful. There's Mercury in it. Less than the cheap stuff, but we still shouldn't be eating so much." His arm presses to yours. He meets your eyes over his shoulder. "I hate fish." 

"You're talking to me today." 

He looks down at the notebook, his eyebrows pinching in like you've stepped on his foot. "I– sorry. I wasn't very nice, yesterday, I guess." 

You're relieved to hear his apology, not because you really even want one, but because it means he isn't as mad at you as you thought. "I was complaining." 

"It was all shit. You're allowed. I… was stressed." 

"It was all shit," you agree, explaining away his bad mood. But, last night, he didn't wanna hold you. It sounds pathetic but on a small scale, this is your life. Any change feels foreign. 

"I wasn't mad at you for complaining." 

You feel the back of his hand with your thumb. Fine hairs, skin rough from a few weeks of the elements. "Thanks for clarifying." 

"I'm serious."

"So am I." 

Steve looses go of your hand to put his arm on your shoulder. His fingertips skirt against your back, tickling gently. His eyes are serious but his mouth curves with a smile. "Why are you upset?" he asks. 

"I'm not." 

"I think I'd know." 

It seems silly now to tell him with his touch, his face this close to yours. You take in a shuddering breath and his expression pinches. 

Steve stands as close to you as he can without hugging you. "Hey, tell me," he says. 

You push your tongue against your teeth, thinking. Tears threaten to collect, a burning lump bobbing in your throat at his question. 

"Do you ever regret this?" you ask. "Sometimes I think you do." 

"This?" he asks.

"Me and you." 

Steve laughs, and that really is foreign what with the last few days of moroseness you've had. It's not a humoured laugh, just a shocked one, the sound inking his words as he says, "We're not something up for regretting." 

"What's that mean?" 

"It means," —Steve ducks his head a little, eye to eye with you as his arm curls behind your neck— "it's not even an option. Us, me and you, you alone, it's not an option. I don't regret what's happened or what's happening between us. I wish… I wish I'd been less of a dick to you. I wish I was nicer to you now, and that's a shitty thing to say, but this–" Hid eyes flare with annoyance directed inward. "I get fucking abysmally moody because I can't believe I'm this bad at taking care of you."

You lift your chin ever so slightly and Steve kisses you. Sweet but a little rough, like he'd been waiting for an offer. 

"I don't regret this," he mumbles, tapping the tip of his nose under yours. You lift your head, and he fits another kiss to the seam of your lips. 

"You didn't wanna hug me or anything last night–" 

He hugs you immediately. "I'm sorry," he says over your ear. "It was just a bad day." 

"But I'm here with you. I'm having the bad day with you, I want to be there for you," you say, semi-desperate. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, relaxing as your arms fold behind his back. 

Steve pets your back. You wish things were different, that he could be hugging you somewhere different. You can picture it, Steve dropping you off at some college class or putting his hand in your back pocket on the way to dinner. Things could be so much better and they never, ever will be. 

You don't ask, afraid to even suggest it if he hasn't thought of it, but you worry Steve is with you out of habit. Bad habits are hard to break, but anyone can stop smoking if they really want to. He could move on.

He must read your mind. 

"Sorry," Steve whispers, leaning back to kiss your cheek. "I'm a shitty boyfriend sometimes when I'm trying to be good at keeping us alive. You're the only good thing. I'm really sorry, honey." 

You nibble on the inside of your lip and hug him harder. "Stop saying sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, I just think too much." 

He breathes out in surprise at your ferocity, dropping his head into the curve of your neck. 

"I'm sorry," he says anyway.

Unbeknownst to you, it's in lieu of a different confession. 

You crack a smile. Steve pulls away to fret over your face uselessly, wiping away things you can't see and smiling back like a guy in the movies, all confident and flirtatious. It's a stark difference to the previous gloom. 

"Let's go find some water," he says, taking the side of your face into his palm. "I smell bad and you're shiny." 

"Nice, Steve."

[fluffywolfboyy]

In the light of the moon the wolves will always call you back 🐾

[darkintothedawn]

BREAK-UPS || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — When you break up with someone like Stiles: loud, excitable, hyperactive, it's not easy to let go. It's not exactly easy for someone like Stiles to let go either.

Memo— If someone can figure out why the prose is set out the way it is I'll cry in joy. This is inspired by something I just don't know what. I used a bunch of things I'd been collecting for Stiles' part, sorry. It's bad.

Warnings — This is angst. Pre-established break up.

Word Count — 1606

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

the room smells like him.

like old flannel and vanilla chapstick and the kind of shampoo he never told you the name of. you didn’t have to ask. you just memorized the scent, like how you memorized the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention — like you were the moon and he was a boy who had only ever known darkness.

the music playing in the background is some slow indie track with lyrics you don’t even hear anymore. it’s just noise now. a heartbeat you don’t have to keep up with. a reminder that the world is still turning even when yours isn’t.

you’re curled up in bed, wrapped in blankets that feel heavier than they should. like grief has weight. like memory has mass.

his hoodie is still on the chair by your desk. you can’t bring yourself to touch it. you’re not ready for the phantom warmth to disappear.

not yet.

stiles stilinski loved you like wildfire.

bright. reckless. all-consuming.

he kissed you like he was afraid you’d vanish. like every time could be the last. maybe it was. maybe he always knew this ending was inevitable, like gravity or heartbreak or the way seasons change without asking if you’re ready.

he told you it was for your own good.

that you deserved more.

he said it quietly, like it killed him to say it. like it wasn’t just a break-up, it was a funeral for the future you had built in your heads.

picnics in the preserve.

soft hands in the jeep under neon-lit nights.

promises whispered into collarbones like prayers.

he broke up with you with shaking hands and red eyes. he didn’t look at you until the end, and when he did — god. it was like watching the sun flicker out.

“i love you,” he said,

and it felt like a knife made of light.

you said nothing. just nodded. because what else was there to say when your entire universe just walked out the door?

now, the bed is too big. the air is too still.

memories play like old vhs tapes behind your eyes — static-filled and out of order.

the time he taught you how to throw a lacrosse ball.

the time he cried in your arms after scott died and came back and died again in his own way.

the way he looked at you like you were an anchor in a town full of monsters.

but even anchors rust eventually. even safety gets too heavy to hold.

you still check your phone more than you should.

you still wonder if he’s doing okay.

you still dream of him some nights,

and wake up with the shape of his name burning against your ribs like a brand.

it’s not fair.

how love can be so loud when it’s here and so quiet when it’s gone.

how he said it wasn’t your fault — like that made it hurt less.

you think about how he used to say “we” like it was a promise.

now there’s just “you” and “him” and a hollow space in between where “us” used to live.

the wolves howl somewhere outside.

or maybe that’s just the wind.

you used to know the difference.

you don’t anymore.

you press your face into the pillow and pretend it’s his shoulder.

you play that same sad song again.

and again.

and again.

the sun rises without asking.

you don’t rise with it.

maybe tomorrow.

maybe never.

maybe — if he called —

you’d answer.

but he won’t.

because he still loves you.

and that’s exactly why he left.

~~

i left my heart in your hands because i trusted you to know what to do with it. not in a cruel way. in the way a person entrusts something fragile to someone they believe will cradle it, unsure but gentle. i never expected you to fix me, god no — i just thought if anyone could hold the messy, bleeding, pulsating thing inside my chest without dropping it, it would be you. and maybe for a while you did. maybe for a while we both believed it was enough, the way we smiled through the cracks and patched each other up with whispered promises and held breath.

i never wanted to be the storm. i wanted to be safe. i wanted to be the quiet after the thunder, the calm you came back to. but i’ve always had thunder in my chest, always been too loud in the wrong moments and too silent in the ones that mattered. and i could feel it — the pressure building, the fracture forming, like tectonic plates beneath the surface of us just waiting to give way. like my love for you had an expiration date carved in code i could never decipher.

you looked at me like i was something holy. like i was a miracle wrapped in plaid and bad timing. but i was just a boy with a history of breaking things he loves. my mother, my sanity, myself. pieces of me always seem to be falling, slipping through the cracks of my own hands. you were the only thing untouched. pristine. golden in the way sunlight touches your skin when you’re half-asleep and dreaming of anything but the supernatural. and i knew, deep down, i couldn’t keep you that way if you stayed.

so i touched distance instead. i reached for space. i chose silence like a shield, like a knight laying down his sword because he knows he’s not winning this battle, not really. i chose goodbye with hands that shook so hard they might’ve still been reaching for you, fingers twitching with the memory of your skin, your warmth, your quiet.

i still dream of you in sepia. like an old film reel playing on a dusty projector in the corners of my mind. in the way light used to fall across your face at 3:47 a.m., when the rest of the world was suspended in sleep and we were suspended in something softer, something sacred. when you’d curl into me like you knew i’d never leave. and my fingers would trace constellations across your back, slow and reverent, like maybe if i found the right one — if i connected the stars just right — it would take us somewhere safe. somewhere without endings. without hunters or monsters or hospitals. just us. breathing.

but endings find me like shadows. they cling. they creep. they grow when you're not looking, and no matter how many light switches i flip, no matter how many jokes i tell or windows i leave open, they always find a way in. even when i beg them not to.

the jeep still smells like you. like spilled coffee and lavender, like nervous laughter and soft touches, like wednesday mornings and late-night drives with the windows down and the music too loud. your ghost sits shotgun some nights. legs folded the way you always did. head tilted toward me like you’re about to say something but never do. telling me i should’ve stayed. you don’t have to speak. i feel it. i hear it in the silence between songs. i feel it in the ache in my ribs that never fully healed.

but i couldn’t. not when your smile started sounding like a question. not when i stopped recognizing myself in your eyes. not when my love for you became a quiet ache in the pit of my stomach instead of something i could carry with pride, instead of something that kept me whole. i felt it dulling. not the love — never the love — but the way i could hold it. it started slipping, and i was too ashamed to admit it out loud. too scared you'd see it before i could explain.

i wanted to be your hero. i wanted to save you from every shadow. but i was always just a boy with a bat and too many ghosts. too many bad nights in the woods. too many times waking up in a cold sweat, clutching the idea of you like a lifeline. you needed more than that. more than midnight promises and trauma-laced lullabies. more than someone who’s always looking over their shoulder, expecting the next disaster to be breathing down his neck. you needed soft. peace. someone with roots instead of cracks.

i am made of sharp.

so i left. so you could find someone who won’t flinch when you say “forever.” someone who doesn’t panic when you ask where they see themselves in five years. someone who won’t disappear into his own head the second things get too good.

but god — if you ever call, i will answer on the first ring. even if it breaks me again. especially if it breaks me again. because i have always been good at choosing the pain that comes with you over the peace that comes without you. because part of me still thinks your voice could fix everything wrong in me if i just heard it again.

because loving you was the only thing that ever made me feel like i wasn’t cursed. like maybe the universe hadn’t picked me as its favorite chew toy. like i could be more than the broken kid in the sheriff’s house. and leaving you was the bravest and cruelest thing i have ever done. because i loved you enough to let you go. because i couldn’t keep dragging you through my storm and calling it love.

because somewhere, in another universe, we made it.

and in this one — i’m just the boy who couldn’t hold the sun without burning.

[that-basic-simp]

Dis Dane

Fem! Eivor x Fem! Reader CW: N/A WC: 3.3k+ A/N: Get it. It's because they call Vikings Danes. And it's a play on words of the word "disdain". I'll see myself out.

This is not good. Not one bit. As soon as I saw their boat sailing through our waters, I knew we were in for it. They were always brutes and whenever the first wave of Danes came, it was all over for us. This was a new world for them and all they ever knew was pillaging and violence. They didn't speak the language of the English. They certainly did not have the intelligence either. Now, there are more and more of them coming from across the sea. They must be stopped if we are to ensure the safety of our current people and the next generation.

I tried to tell that to my father, as he was a nobleman under the King's court. He did not listen and now the Danes were on our doorstep, slaughtering our people, taking what is not rightfully theirs. And it was all because the King could not see what was happening under his own nose. It was madness. New blood was spilled everyday and the livestock was growing thin. The farmers had fled East, away from the Danes and further into England. More and more people continue to flee and what do we do? Stay and do nothing. I was not going to become another victim.

I set out late in the night, so that it was dark as could be. The only thing that would light my way was the moon. I did not dare use a torch as it would give me away easily. Once I walked right past the gates, since we were running low on guards and soldiers, I was into farmland that was burnt or overwhelmed by the stench of dead animal carcasses. Wolves and other predatory animals found a home there and they were another threat to us.

After passing another set of gates and stepping onto the bridge, I turned and looked at the large castle in the distance. For my entire life I had lived there. I grew up with my father and sat beside princes, noblemen, everyone who held power. I remembered so many feasts whenever we had taken over new land or gained new allies. Our empire was growing, but now, it would see its end by the Danes. I for one would not want to witness such a powerful empire be brought down by a bunch of savages.

The night grew on and I grew tired and weary from walking. I had no idea how far East some of our people went. I expected to see some settlements by the river, as that brought in great opportunity for trade and hunting. But there was nothing. Those settlements were burnt down or pillaged. So much for settling on the river side after fleeing. The moon started to get higher in the sky and my feet were growing more weary by the minute. I had to press on. I couldn't stop, not even for one minute. But as the weariness washed over me, I found myself sitting down underneath a small cliff.

Sounds of metal and snickers caused me to wake from my slumber. I opened my eyes to find my arms were tied behind my back and my ankles bound. I was laying on the ground so all I could do was wriggle around like a useless worm. I let out a sigh as there were some men sitting in a circle by a fire.

"Unhand me, Danes!"

One man turned. They weren't Danes. They were Saxons. Bandits.

"You're really going to lump us in with them?" he asked.

"You can be as brutish as the Danes. Now unhand me. My father will hear about this."

"Can't do much now," he said, shaking his hand. "Your kind is as useful as thralls."

The others started to laugh while I just continued to lay on the ground in the cold. The moon was starting to dip down and little streaks of daylight were crawling onto the night sky. They got up once the sun was up and started to mill about their camp, getting ready to set off to who knows where. And I unfortunately was going to be with them. If only someone could save me.

A bush nearby started to rustle and I turned as much as I could to find there was something blue that stared back at me. I was about to scream, but a hand reached out and covered my mouth. Their face poked out from the bush and a finger was over their lips. I nodded my head and they removed their hand, receding back into the bushes. Over the course of ten minutes, the men who were in the camp were slowly being dealt with by this assassin. Once the last man was no longer standing, the person stood up. A Dane. I was saved by a filthy Dane?

She came over and cut off my bindings. I stood up and immediately slapped her, which she had no reaction to.

"You think a little slap can hurt me?" she asked in a low, raspy voice. It was like nails on a wall.

"Of all people, I am saved by a Dane!"

"You should be grateful. Your own kind wanted to use you."

"How do you know?"

"I followed them ever since they took you."

"And you just now decided to intervene?"

"Seems you were enjoying the show from down there," she snickered.

"I'll have you know--"

She reached over and pressed a finger to my lips.

"Little lady, I don't care who you are, what power you hold. If you're not someone I need to associate with, I will be on my way."

I smacked her hand away, "Get those rotund fingers away from me."

"Why? Afraid you might like them a bit too much?" she grinned.

"How uncouth! I would never associate with a Dane in such sinful manner."

"Not what I was implying, but ok."

"I must be going."

"And where exactly are you going?"

"Why? Are you going to follow me?"

"If you continue to be a target, I might as well."

"I am not some damsel in distress."

"You just were earlier."

"Fine, if I am to be a damsel in distress, I might as well wait for my knight in shining armor. An actual knight in shining armor."

She smacked her lips and shook her head, "I could have just let you be used as a thrall. I could have let those men have their way with you."

"I'd prefer that than be saved by someone like you."

"Believe me, my kind are not as bad as your people lead you to believe," she walked off.

"Can I at least get your name?" I asked.

"Now you want to be nice?"

"Just so I can put a name to your face. So I can avoid it later."

She laughed and removed the bear head she wore. Her blonde braided hair came into view and it made her piercing blue eyes stand out. There was a marking on the right side of her head and I could see some tattoos on her arms.

"Eivor," she said before putting the bear head back on, walking off into the woods.

Eivor. I shouldn't be thinking about her, even after I had finally made it East and found a small settlement to be a part of. Things were going smoothly for me and even if I wasn't in some fancy castle, it was nice being with like minded people with a similar disdain for the Danes. But as the days turned into weeks and people have been talking about the growth of a certain population of Danes, I couldn't help but think back to Eivor and that fateful night.

How the right corner of her mouth tipped upwards into a smirk. Those dangerous, yet gentle eyes that looked like the seas itself. And the blonde hair that looked like the wheat in the fields, soft and thick. Then it was the skin on her face, the scar that stretched across her left cheek. Through the ruggedness of her personality, that appeared to be the only soft thing about her.

"Y/N!"

I opened the door and found one of the villagers with someone. Wait a minute.

"Someone wishes to speak with you."

"Thank you," I said and walked towards the person. I could tell who they were just by their height and build.

I reached down and grabbed her hand, pulling her into my small house. As soon as the door closed, I ripped the hood of her cloak off.

"How'd you know it was me?" she chuckled.

"I could just smell the blood on you," I hissed.

"Really?"

She grabbed the corner of the hood and raised it to her face, taking a deep inhale.

"I just washed this."

"Idiot!" I said and smacked her upside the head.

"Hey, hey."

"I wasn't being serious."

"You need to lighten up," Eivor said and spun around the house.

"Small, yet cozy."

"What are you doing here? And how did you find me?"

"How can you eat and sleep in here? I'd be afraid of burning the place down," she tapped the small pot that was over the fire with her foot.

"Hey, stop that."

"And you sleep on that? Little lady, you really down graded from the once luxurious life you had."

"I'm actually happy."

"You are?" she turned, an eyebrow perking up.

"Yes. I am. I am happy here because I have a commune that share similar ideals and morals."

"Let me guess, you all hate the Danes. Us."

"Yes. Which I am surprised you were able to step a foot in here."

"I have to blend in where I can."

"Anyway, what are you doing here?"

"Came to see you. More like check in on you."

"It's been weeks since we had last spoken and now you're coming after me? What are you? A stalker?"

"It's not stalking if I had no idea where you went in the first place. Call it tracking."

"Alright, how did you track me?"

"Asked around of course. How else?"

"You didn't send a spy?"

"Synin is hardly a spy," she said.

"Synin?"

Eivor stepped towards the window and held out her arm, a sharp whistle came from her lips. A raven, black as night and large like a bull's head, came flying in and landed on her arm.

"This is Synin."

"She's huge," I exclaimed and stepped towards her.

The raven didn't even fly away or step back. She didn't even try to peck at me.

"May I?"

"Of course."

I reached over and rubbed the feathers. The raven let out a small caw of appreciation before I pulled my hand away.

"She's beautiful."

"The finest raven I have ever seen," Eivor said. "She's one of my best friends."

"Are you friends with all the animals?" I chuckled.

"More or less," Eivor stuck her arm out of the window and Synin flew off.

"You should leave," I said.

"Kicking me out already?" Eivor laughed.

"No, it's just that, once word travels that a Dane was here, everyone will be searching one another's houses and stuff. It is best that you keep a low profile and don't come here as often."

"I can handle myself."

"I know you can. But I don't want to be the reason I am ostracized from the village."

"Even if they do, I can always bring you back to Ravensthorpe."

I slowly nodded my head, "That's generous of you, Eivor. But would your people be willingly open to let my kind in? Especially after the way we've treated you?"

"We've seen change lately. For better and for worse. But even if you feel threatened by my clan, I won't hesitate to step in."

I smiled, "Thank you, Eivor."

I just realized my heart pounded against my chest, my face had grown warm and I felt light headed, like I was going to faint any second. What was this Dane doing to me? Was she cursed? Had she cursed me to feel this way? No. She's not like how my people describe her to be. She's different. And I've been blindly eating what my people feed me.

"I'll leave the back door open for you. Come any time. Preferably at night."

She smiled at me, "Thank you."

The back door swung open and she raised her hood on her cloak. She waved goodbye to me and stepped out of the house, heading back to where Ravensthorpe was. As she departed, something slipped out from behind her and onto the ground. I quickly went out and grabbed it before I came back inside. It looked like it was part of the gear she wears. Like one of her furs. I looked around the house before I brought the fabric to my face, taking in the scent of it. No blood. It smelt of the river and fish, the air and the birds, the pine of the trees and fresh grass. Of all people for me to be friends with, it was a Dane. I shouldn't be calling her that. A Norse woman.

I opened my eyes and found someone sitting across from me. I almost yelped and leapt out of my bed, but after I found it was Eivor, my heart calmed before it began to beat rapidly again. Her head was slumped over and her left arm was resting on her left leg as it was bent upwards. Her right leg was against the floor while her right arm was just dangling beside her. I couldn't help but smile. I got up and stepped towards her. I shook her shoulder a bit, but she remained asleep. I grabbed underneath her arms and dragged her to the bed. That was a struggle as I didn't know she had that much muscle density to her body. Once she was on the bed, I pulled a blanket over her.

"Sleep well, Eivor."

I began to do my daily chores about my house and by mid afternoon, after I had come back from helping a lady milk her cows, Eivor was awake.

"Did you bring me into your bed?"

"Yes. You looked uncomfortable sleeping against the wall."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said and put some things down on a small table, preparing dinner for tonight.

"I still never got your name."

I turned around and was face to face with her, those curious eyes looking right back into mine.

"Y-Y/N," I stuttered.

That was new.

"Y/N," she repeated. "Beautiful."

There was a long silence between us. Unlike the other silent moments I have experienced, this felt natural and comfortable.

"I should be going. It's getting late."

She was about to take off through the back door, but I reached over and grabbed her hand.

"Stay," I said.

"Why?"

"Stay for dinner."

"Do you need help preparing the meal?"

"I should be ok. Thank you."

The night was an interesting one. She told me stories of her journey from Norway and how she sailed across the sea with her people. She told stories of her raids and how she would kill those who needed to be killed. I could listen to her talk all day. That low, raspy voice was tickling something in the back of my head. It made me feel giddy inside, light weight. Like I was floating on cloud nine. After dinner was cleaned up, she bid me farewell and headed into the night. This would soon become our daily routine before a month later, someone was catching on.

"That person that keeps visiting you," the lady with the cows said.

"What about them?"

"You two seem to like one another."

"Not at first we didn't."

"They're mysterious."

"Indeed they are."

"How are they? Are they kind? Gentle? Brutish?"

I squeezed one of the udders too hard and the cow mooed loudly. I released my grip and turned to face the lady.

"I know who that person is."

"Y-You do?"

"They're a Dane."

My mouth opened and closed, but words have failed me.

"They're not causing any trouble."

"Not yet. They're all the same. Once we do something that they don't like, they're going to kill us. Slaughter us all like how they did back at home! We cannot let this happen again."

"You must believe me," I stood up, wiping my hands on my apron. "She would never hurt us."

"She?!"

"Yes. She. Not all Danes are men. And not all Danes are the same. Hell, they're not Danes. They're Norse!"

"A month ago you were talking to us about how you left the city to escape the Danes. Escape what could possible be our downfall. A month ago you were spitting on the dirt they walked on. Now, you're friends with one. Have they plagued your mind, Y/N? Have they made you commit sins against your own kind?"

"Eivor would never!"

My eyes widened and I slapped a hand to my mouth.

"Eivor," the lady whispered. "That's her name?"

I didn't move, but the tears forming in my eyes gave it away.

"Leave at once."

I ran back to the house and that night, when Eivor came, she was knocking on the back door as I had locked it. I had put something over the window and I locked the front door. She tried the front door, tried the window, but I wouldn't let her in. I can't anymore. For both of our safety.

"Y/N, if you don't open the door I am going to break it down."

"Fine, fine. G-Give me a second."

I got up and unlocked it. As soon as she stepped in, a worried look came across her face.

"Y/N, is something wrong, dear?"

"They know."

"Who knows?"

"This lady I milk cows with. She knows about you."

Eivor closed the door and pulled me into a tight embrace. The smell of the woods and river hit me. It reminded me of home. How I could smell the river from just opening my window and I could look out at the woods from the city. Tears filled my eyes and I found myself silently sobbing in her arms. Of all people, it was a person my people hated. It was someone I hated before. But now, how could I ever hate someone who is so soft and kind, gentle and caring as much as Eivor?

"Shh, shh," she cooed in my ear as she ran her hand through my hair. "We have to leave then."

"Where would we go?" I asked.

"I told you. If anything happens, you'd come to Ravensthorpe with me."

I pulled away and found the worried expression was replaced with a serious one.

"You mean it?"

She nodded her head, "Yes. I mean it."

"Thank you, Eivor," I hugged her once more.

"Of course, Y/N."

"E-Eivor?" I pulled away and faced her once more.

"Yes, Y/N?"

I grabbed her by her cloak and pulled her down to me, since she was a bit taller than me. Of all the nights we spent together, having dinner, sharing stories, being us around one another, it made me realize something about her. While she was a strong and powerful woman with a rage so strong I could never imagine, she also had a deep vulnerability that was as vast as the sea. There were nights of her crying in her sleep to where I had to comfort her. She taught me Nordic poems and songs that I sang to help her calm down. And she would do the same for me when I had nightmares of my mother. She was someone I had looked for in the city, but never found.

Her hand reached up and cupped my jaw as our lips met one another's. They were soft and warm, like how her cheeks were. Like how she was. Our lips melded together as if we were made for one another. I never would have thought I would love a Norse woman as I do now. I pulled away and tears were now sliding down Eivor's face. Her cheeks were flushed and a joyous tint was in her eyes. Such joy came together with awe and what appeared to be love was held in her eyes.

"You are mine, Y/N."

"I am yours, Eivor."

"We must go. Now. While people are asleep."

"Yes," I said.

Eivor helped me gather my most valuable belongings and we set out from the back of the village, making sure we were quiet on our way out. Once we had reached a safe distance away, we were home free to Ravensthorpe, where I would be greeted with a warm welcome and lots of mead.

[oldnumberseven]

the beast you've made of me

When Alcide Herveaux takes over as Shreveport’s new packmaster, werebitches lay themselves down at his feet—except for one, who’s hell-bent on running away from the animal he brings out in her. 

Inspired by ‘Howl’ by Florence and the Machine + Black Swan and Mirror!lander from The Boys

AO3

Tags/themes: MDNI/18+. NSFW. true blood, packmaster!Alcide/fem OC, evil twin, horror, swearing, size difference, non-negotiated predator/prey kink (but still consensual), dom Alcide, bratty OC, unprotected explicit smut (use protection irl please), multiple orgasms, aftercare

Word Count: 6.7k

Author’s note: well, this was an idea I had for Kinktober that I didn’t finish on time and then it turned into something completely different. Thank you very much to the True Blood discord community for beta-ing this and @blindmagdalena for pred/prey reference material inspo. I’ve never done a one shot before and I tried a new writing style, so this was hella hard for me. But enjoy! There’s not enough Alcide stuff out there. 

Credits: I made the opening banner, but I found the images and gifs on Google. If they are yours, please let me know and I’ll add credit! Divider by thecouncilmakes.

Henrietta skidded to a stop in her driveway, her truck tires screeching as loose gravel flew in every direction. Her heart was pounding—boom, boom!—but she didn’t stop to catch her breath. Instead, she sprinted towards her house to throw a few belongings into a suitcase. 

She had to get away. Before it was too late.

Her clammy, shaking hands dove into her drawers and pulled out whatever was at the top. A pair of nice jeans, an old sports bra, mismatched socks, a black hoodie, a lacy pair of panties; she wasn’t thinking clearly. Everything was a blur until she looked up and caught herself in the mirror attached to the top of her wooden dresser. 

She paused for the first time since the fight, taking in her reflection. A few bits of long brown hair had escaped her bun; her hazel eyes were full of fear. Then the lights flickered. And the Henrietta staring back at her started moving independently, her full lips curling into a sinister smirk. Her blood ran cold when she recognized the wolf inside her. 

The bloodthirsty beast she’d been running from. 

It would always be a part of her; her parents were weres and had passed their supernatural genetics onto her. Yet, she hated her feral urges and had repressed them ever since she was a teenager. They terrified her and threatened her illusion of control, her dream of having a quiet existence. Henrietta only registered with Shreveport’s pack after she moved there from her hometown of Houston because she’d heard how much lone wolves provoked the old packmaster, Marcus. His successor, JD, was no different. She went to gatherings because the rules dictated it (not because she wanted to) and kept to the edges to stay out of the spotlight. 

She shifted during the full moon when she had no choice, but when she occasionally caught the other side of her in the mirror, it was easy to walk away and forget it existed.  

But not tonight. 

“You really think you can keep me in, darlin’?” 

It was the first time she’d ever heard the wolf speak. Her Southern drawl was thick as molasses with each vowel lengthened. 

“Go a-away,” Henrietta stuttered. “I don’t want you here.” 

“Oh, but I think you do,” her twin chuckled. She placed her hands on the dresser and hunched forward, tilting her head. 

“No. I don’t.”  

“Yes. You do. Because I’ll make sure you get him.”  

The wolf’s eyes flashed and Henrietta jumped out of her skin, her arm smacking against the wood in front of her. She inhaled sharply, cradled her hand to her chest and looked away from the mirror as she tried to fight the scenes from earlier in the night flashing through her brain. JD calling a mandatory meeting she couldn’t ignore, stringing up a vampire, pouring his blood into cups so the pack could drink, Alcide appearing out of nowhere to challenge him for a second time, the way he’d kicked the absolute shit out of JD, blood everywhere until he finally snapped his neck, his eyes glowing— 

Henrietta shuddered; her reflection’s smirk returned. 

“I don’t want Alcide.” 

“Liar, liaaaaaar!” came the sing-song reply. “You’ve had a crush ever since you laid eyes on that sweet fella. Although he wasn’t that sweet tonight. And you loved that.” 

It was true. Watching her kindred spirit go from a lone wolf to a dominant packmaster had ignited something deeper within Henrietta. The goosebumps spreading across her skin, the way her heart jumped to her throat … that wasn’t fear. That was an intense, carnal need. She wanted him to claim her as his werebitch, throw her down, ravage the fuck out of her—

“Stop it.” She didn’t know if she was talking to herself or the wolf. 

“You want him.” The face in the mirror grinned like a madwoman. “Accept it.”  

Henrietta crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. 

“He wouldn’t want you,” she challenged. “He’s different.” 

The wolf threw her head back, let out a barking laugh and replied, “Yeah? And how’s that ‘normal girl’ routine working for you so far, hmm?”  

Henrietta gulped, not wanting to admit that he’d barely ever spoken to her. 

“Newsflash, honey. Alcide likes feisty. Debbie, Rikki too, lord. And let’s face it, all them other bitches swarming him after the fight are stronger than you. You need me. Cuz I’ll show him a damn good time.” Her twin snapped her pointy teeth and let out a low, hungry growl to drive her point home. 

Henrietta immediately turned away. Although the beast had her face, it was nothing like her meek, human secretary side. No, it was unruly and violent. A hairy, grotesque killer and the opposite of feminine. Alcide couldn’t want that. No one wanted that. 

Still, she came back to the mirror. Because after seeing his raw and unfiltered side tonight, maybe she was wrong. Maybe he did want the wolf. JD had a thing for weak, scrawny little things, not Alcide. He protected them, but he didn’t sleep with them. And God, now that she had stopped lying to herself, she desperately wanted to sleep with him. 

“Yeah, that’s right, look at me,” the mirror encouraged. “Look at me.” 

As much as Henrietta wanted to keep packing, she couldn’t. Her gaze was glued to the reflective glass, hypnotized by the thing she’d long kept in a cage. The side of her she refused to accept. 

“Come on, Hen.” A taunt her brother used when she was being a little chicken shit. “Let me out. Let him see the real you. The one you’re meant to be.” 

The offer was tempting beyond belief. No more hiding, no more dual personalities; the secretary and wolf would be one. Instinctually, Henrietta’s hand reached out toward her reflection, longing for it to be her reality. But the fantasy cracked when her fingers touched the glass and her human senses kicked in. Her vacant stare quickly morphed into a fearful look. 

No. No! The wolf had to stay locked away. For good. 

Her twin lunged forward, but Henrietta’s panicked reflexes were faster. Her hand gripped the side of the mirror, and with a forceful grunt, she ripped it from the dresser and threw it to the ground to destroy the connection. It shattered upon impact, shards of glass scattering across the floor. Yet, she caught the wolf’s hungry eyes in one of the pieces and could hear a threatening laugh bouncing around the room. 

Silly human. It’s going to take more than that.  

No! The beast was still free! Henrietta yelped, her back hitting the wall behind her. She took a few raspy, bewildered breaths and didn’t stay put for long. She grabbed her suitcase, even though she wasn’t done packing, and ran back to her truck. 

She had to leave. Now. 

She yanked the driver’s side door open and hopped into the front seat, quickly turning the keys in the ignition. She avoided the rearview mirror at all costs and backed out of the driveway, peeling out of her property. The truck was soon flying down the dark country roads and her nerves were shot as she pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. She aimed to hightail it south to Highway 20 and flicked her left turn signal in anticipation. 

Tick! Tick! Tick! 

But when Henrietta came to the stop sign, her foot stayed on the gas and she rolled through the intersection. Wait, huh? No. No, no. She was going back to Texas. She was leaving! Her brain screamed at her to turn, but her hands didn’t move, keeping her straight. 

Tick! Tick! Tick! 

It was like she’d been drugged; she could sense everything that was happening even though she wasn’t in control of her body. The slow country ballad playing on the radio drowned out her internal screams. 

Tick! Tick! Tick!

It wasn’t until Henrietta saw a sign for Caddo Lake that she realized what was happening. She was retracing her route from earlier that evening, the one she took to comply with JD’s mandatory meeting request. A place where the rest of the pack would likely still be running wild with their new packmaster. 

Alcide. 

It was like she awoke from a nightmare with a sudden jolt; the secretary was finally driving again. Her right foot slammed on the brake—causing the truck to swerve out of control—and she prayed for her life when it threw her back into her seat and drifted to the side of the road. When she finally came to a stop, her forgotten left turn signal was still on, mocking her alongside the wolf’s laugh. 

Tick! Tick! Tick!

Henrietta flipped the signal off and gulped down deep oxygen pulls to calm herself down. Tears pricked the edge of her eyes. The truck’s cabin quickly became too small, too confined, and she turned off the engine and spilled out into the night air to combat her claustrophobia. Her legs took her in circles; she walked in the middle of the road and her escape plan fell to the wayside. 

But when a loud, piercing howl echoed through the woods, she froze, her eyes growing wide. Instinctively, she looked at the truck’s side mirror and caught the wolf’s stare.  

That wasn’t me, darlin’. Looks like you’ve got company. 

It had to be someone from the pack; they must have heard her almost crash. Henrietta bolted back to the truck to flee, yet when her fingers curled under the door handle and desperately pulled, nothing moved. 

“Come on, come on!” 

She whined as she fiddled with the handle again, but deep down, she knew she’d left the keys in the ignition and the truck’s automatic locks had kicked in the moment she’d shut the door behind her. Stupid, stupid! Why did she have to be so paranoid and keep that setting on? It’s not like anyone would steal the decaying heap of scrap metal. 

Suddenly, a shiver ran down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. Her eyes nervously darted around until they landed on something moving further up the road: a white blur coming closer and closer. It didn’t take long for her to recognize the threat. 

It was him. There was no mistaking his unique pelt. 

Even though her inner voice was yelling for her to do something, anything, Henrietta remained frozen on the spot as Alcide caught up to her and slowed to a jaunty trot. Her hands shook; her stomach churned; she couldn’t breathe. More memories from the fight emerged, distracting her even further—Ain’t no such thing as too much V, That’s enough JD!, punches flying, Alcide’s vicious and powerful grunts, the way she started to lose her composure, the soft mewls that involuntarily tumbled out of her mouth, her body quivering with impatient longing … 

… which swiftly returned when he transformed into his naked human form and began closing the distance between them with a swagger that only a packmaster could carry. Her blood sang for him and only him and she began to ache between her legs, something that felt wrong alongside her shock and dread. Her dilated eyes drifted over his chiseled physique and the wolf let out a ravenous, wanton howl. 

Well, well, well. Look at the dick on this one. All the better to fuck me with— 

“Henrietta,” he interrupted. “What are you doing here?” 

The right answer, of course, was the truth. When Alcide laid down the new laws (respect the pack, no more V, no more harming the innocent) and said if someone didn’t like it, they had 24 hours to leave or face him, she’d chosen to run. Not because she disagreed with his stance but because she couldn’t face him. What he brought out in her. Yet, here she was, desperately wanting to drag her nails down his back. 

But Henrietta couldn’t find the words to tell him; she was too rooted in her fear, her conflicting hunger for him. And so, she watched Alcide make his own inferences and determine that if she’d left and come back, then she wanted a fight. A challenge to his new rule. Something he couldn’t have. 

He took a menacing step towards her, his monstrous body eclipsing her just over five feet tall frame. Henrietta inhaled a sharp breath in response. She didn’t want to fight him and he, in turn, seemed poised to kill her to protect the pack. Her eyes widened in terror. A tight knot formed in her stomach, pushing aside her desire. She moved backward when he took another step and hit the side of her truck, finding nowhere to go. 

“Go on,” he growled. “Make your move.” 

And with a flash, those damn yellow eyes were back, threatening to tear her apart. 

The wolf panted, salivated, whined, scratched, growled and yearned to be free. To meet Alcide’s beast now that he was so fucking close. And the secretary almost let herself go. Yet, just like during the pack fight, her human fear still had an iron grip on the wolf’s cage to keep it shut. She couldn’t let herself dissolve into madness. She needed to exert control to keep herself on track, hold herself back from running over the cliff into the unknown. 

She still panicked, suddenly mobile. Because when it came to fight or flight, Henrietta had a long history of running instead of standing her ground. She didn’t have the size, courage or strength to win. Alcide’s arms stretched out to grab her, but her dainty body did her a favor for once. She managed to duck out of the way and dart around the truck to sprint off into the woods behind it, her heart thumping against her rib cage and threatening to explode. 

You stupid fucking human! You think you can win against him?

The wolf had a point. In a blink of an eye, Alcide had transformed back into an animal and was hot on her tail, gaining more ground every second. Her two feet were no match for his four paws. But Henrietta kept running and running and running, from him and the beast within her. She couldn’t give in; it would be a betrayal of the entire life she’d built. 

Sweat poured down her face as she kept up the pace despite her stamina hitting a plateau. She knew she couldn’t outrun him forever and her eyes searched for some sort of advantage. A ditch she could lure him into. A tree she could climb. Oh God, anything to get away from him! 

Yet, Alcide reminded her he was no simple animal; he was a werewolf, specifically one who’d taken V earlier. He’d already killed once tonight and showed he’d do it again in service of his pack when he let out a deep snarl and snapped his teeth just shy of her calf. Henrietta’s surprised yelp echoed through the swampland trees. 

LET ME OUT, BITCH! OR YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!  

No! NO! She didn’t want to die! She wanted to live, get away from Louisiana and start again. Blend into the background and stay human. Human! She couldn’t submit! When Alcide lunged for her again though, the wolf slammed against the cage bars to save her life and the secretary’s grip couldn’t hold her back anymore. 

Her animal broke free. 

Henrietta’s primal instincts took full control. She became airborne and burst out of her clothes, her bones cracking and reforming themselves. She fluidly landed with four legs and hit the ground running with a sick thrill, rejoicing as her innermost wants and desires rose to the surface and stayed there with no resistance in sight. 

FUUUUUUCK! It had been decades since she’d transformed outside the full moon. She felt feral, whole. Giddy and relieved to be free from that ever-present nausea that gurgled around in her stomach when she was trapped in her human form. She wanted to stop and let out a roaring howl that could shake the entire state. 

But she didn’t have time to revel in her newly found wild edge; Alcide was still hot on her tracks, unfazed by her transformation. No matter. Now that the secretary had been banished to the backseat where she belonged, the wolf could handle him. 

She learned from her earlier size advantage by the truck and sharply cut to the left, catching him by surprise. He slammed into a tree and left a hefty dent in the trunk before racing to catch up with her. The two wolves scampered through the backwoods and her movements became more agile and playful as she dodged his advances, even shaking her rump a few times to entice him. And once, his resolve seemed to weaken in response to her wiles before he snapped back in and kept up the grueling hunt. 

But she was careful not to get too far away. Henrietta wanted to be caught. 

She could tell Alcide was getting frustrated and intentionally slowed, letting him get deliciously close before she faked getting clipped by a passing log and tumbled to the ground, her limbs flying in all directions. She made sure to land on her back to show her belly, a sign of submission in female wolves. Alcide took the bait and immediately pounced. His paws landed on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground, and when he moved to take a bite out of her neck, Henrietta switched back to her human body in full surrender. 

All part of the game. If she stayed a wolf, he’d likely be swept up in his animalistic tendencies and kill her. She knew she could play to his human side if she showed a little pale skin. 

The ploy worked; Alcide paused, his teeth bared and chest heaving with heavy breaths. Even though he’d relented, a deep growl rumbled from his throat to show her who was still in charge. 

The secretary threatened to come back to life now that Henrietta was in her human form, but the wolf took revenge and threw her into the cage that had housed her for years. Locked her away so she couldn’t interfere. Not this time. Not when she had Alcide right where she wanted him. Instead, Henrietta focused on the large white wolf bearing over her, his yellow eyes dilated almost black. She took in his natural musk full of spice and earth and shuddered as her toes began to curl. She wanted him to possess her, she was dripping wet already, holy shit— 

Alcide took in a deep sniff, the smell of her arousal assaulting him now that her fear had fully melted away. He tilted his head in surprise and returned to his own human body, although he still caged her against the ground with his hands. 

“You’re enjoying this,” he remarked quizzically. She let out a barking laugh. 

“Why, of course I am, darlin’!” Her eyes never broke contact with his as she tilted her chin up with glee and swiped her nails across his torso to give him hefty scratch marks. Still acting like unwilling prey to turn him on. 

Alcide recoiled momentarily in confusion, never seeing this side of her before. But when she licked her lips and gave him a ‘you better fuck me right now, you filthy animal’ look, he understood and decided to give in to one of the rewards of being a packmaster, as she’d hoped he might. He did have a thing for crazy bitches, after all. In one swift motion, he grabbed her hands and kept them over her head, a smirk not far behind. 

“Stay still.” 

There was no way in hell she would when his knees were flush up against the outside of her thighs. Their skin contact was so intoxicating; Henrietta craved more of it, hot with anticipation. Fuck, his enormous manhood was just hanging there too, waiting for her to do something. She canted her hips upwards, lightly brushing against it before Alcide responded with force, clamping his legs to keep her from moving.   

His mouth hovered right next to her ear and an amused tut escaped his lips. “Does your master need to teach you a lesson? To behave? ”  

This was her dream. An absolutely smoking hot packmaster—someone she’d been salivating over for months—was naked as the day he was born and so was she, trapped underneath him with nowhere to go. Oh, the fun they were going to have. The secretary only had simple vanilla sex and the wolf knew this would be anything but. 

“Go ahead and try, big boy.” 

The resistance spurred him on and Henrietta cried out in surprise when he broke the tender skin of her neck to mark his territory. The pressure from his mouth was sharp, strong and sensual. Better than she could have imagined. She let out a husky moan when Alcide’s tongue licked a perverted line up to her earlobe and caught it between his teeth with a tug. 

“You’ll do as I say,” he commanded, inhaling her scent. 

“Make me,” she taunted right back. 

His onslaught became relentless and unyielding; his bite moved back down her neck and left marks on her shoulder, collar bone and finally, her breast. Henrietta’s back arched (fuck, fuck, fuck —that felt gooooooood ) and he forcefully gathered both of her wrists into his left hand before his right pushed her ribcage back to the ground. 

“I said stay still.” 

Fine. Fine! She could do that for now; she needed him to keep going. Because a debauched desire was building inside her the more they played their game and fuck, it needed a release. His mouth found her chest again and caught one of her nipples between his lips as a reward for her submission … until she couldn’t help but disobey and keen for things to go faster. It was simply too fun to antagonize him. 

“Be quiet. Or I’ll make you,” he said gruffly, his commanding packmaster tone returning and driving her crazy. It spurred her to resist again. She wriggled against his hold and her ragged breaths became louder and louder as he turned his attention to her other breast. She pushed him even further with a soft “fuck!” and Alcide finally abandoned his task, capturing her mouth with his to force her to be quiet. 

Henrietta greedily savored his heated kiss, his dominating tongue smothering her cries; she lost herself in his flavor as he devoured her whole. Mmmmmmm. But when his teeth hastily scraped against her tongue, she sprang into action and rushed upwards, biting down on his bottom lip hard. He began to pull back and she refused to let go, a hungry growl escaping as she continued to tug. 

Alcide’s hand grabbed her jaw and a surge of that familiar need jolted through her. She relented, letting go of his lip and nestling back onto the ground. Henrietta expected him to withhold as punishment for her outburst but was surprised by his next move.  

“I’ll have to try something more drastic. To make you obey.” 

He let go of her chin, forcefully shoved her knees apart and buried his face in her cunt with a snarl. 

Henrietta gasped—an incredulous smile bursting across her face—and her eyes began to roll back into her head, her lashes fluttering as his tongue flicked against her clit. Her body jerked in response to one particularly furious swirl and Alcide’s dominant hands dug into her hip bones to keep her rooted to the spot. His reminder that while she had more freedom, he was still in control. She had to behave for him. Of course, that made her writhe even further, but his grip was too strong and her own hands clenched the dirt beneath her as she held on for dear life. Each lick, each lap fed her hunger while simultaneously making her crave more. 

And without a warning or announcement, he gave her more; two of his fingers pushed inside her and Henrietta bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a moan. An explosive pulse ripped through her, quickly followed by another one that was just as w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l. Alcide’s mouth still teased her clit while he snuck in a third and worked her open as he pumped in and out. Crooking his fingers to find that spot that made her quiver. 

More pulses shot through her until she couldn’t hold back any longer and her body gave way. A flash of white light streaked across her eyelids as she came and she sighed, melting into the earth shortly afterwards. She didn’t get a moment to bask in the afterglow and drink in the luxurious heat spreading across her skin, though. 

“Again,” Alcide ordered. 

He pounced, quickly moving up her body and using one of his hands to thrust his hard cock into her entrance. Despite the earlier work with his fingers, it still felt like he was splitting her in two. A delightful shock that rendered her speechless. She gulped as she adjusted to his size and his face—her slick still clinging to his beard—hovered over hers. He licked the edges of his canines; he knew she was struggling to fight back with each snap of his hips. 

The pleasure started breaking her will, just as he’d planned. 

But Henrietta wasn’t quite done resisting yet. The squelching sounds of him fucking her raw without protection (something the secretary would never do) turned her on to no end, stimulating her animalistic breeding kink. The thought of potentially carrying her packmaster’s baby lit a fire within her and she let out wild grunts as she took him and matched his pace. Fuck, fuck! She gripped his shoulders, dug her nails into his skin and raked her hands downwards to scratch him again as he slammed into her over and over and over. 

Alcide hissed when she drew blood and roughly threw her right leg up towards her shoulder to find a deeper fit. It was borderline painful at first, but Henrietta still pushed back against each slide in and out, which melted the tension away and brought her closer to the brink. He resumed his thunderous pace and she whined as the heat between them consumed her, finally burning away her defiance. It didn’t take long for her to tumble over the edge; her release was ardent and fierce, the kind that knocked the wind out of her sails. 

Even though he’d won, broken her … she still didn’t get a chance to catch her breath. 

“Again.” 

Her eyes widened when Alcide’s strong hands lifted her and flipped her over to her hands and knees with ease; her size was nothing compared to his. She barely caught her balance before he lined his cock up and pounded into her from behind. Doggy style. And he wasn’t gentle either. His fingers gripped her hips (surely leaving some bruises) and his movements went into a vigorous overdrive. FUUUUUUUCK! Henrietta wasn’t prepared to keep going after such earth shattering orgasms and floated on the edge of ecstasy and overstimulation, stars beginning to dance in her field of vision. It was so much, almost too much— 

“You. Will. Obey. Your. Pack. Master!” Alcide barked, each word punctuated by one of his punishing thrusts. 

She couldn’t even put two words together in her head, still too enthralled by the way he completely filled her, left her empty, then overwhelmed her cunt once more. Repeating the cycle again and again and again. The complete surrender to him was sublime, she didn’t want him to stop. It was like an out-of-body experience, disassociating from the wolf, the secretary, the entire world …  

Yet, he didn’t care how cockdrunk she was. “Answer. Me.” 

A mixture of whimpers and sobs poured out of her lips instead of the words he wanted to hear. Still not good enough. He gripped her flesh tighter and jackhammered into her with even more force. 

“Say it!” 

Her eyes flashed yellow before he tore her to absolute pieces and forced both of her releases. 

“Y-yes!” she finally submitted. 

Her rapturous climax followed, a muted wheeze eking past her lips. 

Alcide let out a victorious, booming howl and emptied himself inside her seconds later. 

She went from the highest high to the lowest low; Henrietta’s weak limbs turned to jelly and slumped towards the ground as she dropped and crashed at the bottom. Her mental cage was nowhere in sight (obliterated by her third release) and her wolf and human sides existed within the same space of her brain. She went around in circles, feeling extremely fulfilled but also confused about why she got such mind-numbing pleasure from it all. She didn’t notice Alcide starting to adjust back to himself. She was dizzy and exhausted and— 

“Hey, hey,” he cut in, his voice much more tender now that he’d shed his role. “Are you alright?” 

She collapsed into a pile, unable to hold herself up anymore; the ground was cold and hard against her body. Alcide settled down beside her, swept her into his arms and softly pressed her against his chest. Henrietta thought to recoil from such a gesture—ashamed of what had happened—but his scent and warmth soothed her. She took in a shuddering, deep breath and melted into him, pressing her face against his skin and closing her eyes in an attempt to settle her mind. 

“Did I … cross a boundary?” 

The secretary took her turn. “No. I’ve just … never done that before.” Then the wolf. “I loved every second of it.” 

He pulled her closer and his chest rumbled with a chuckle. 

“Then I suppose we’ll have to use a safe word next time. To make sure nothing goes too far.” 

Henrietta’s brows shot up in surprise, pushing aside any thoughts of how, yes, they should have discussed the ground rules of their game before playing. Next time? There was going to be a next time? One side of her couldn’t believe it; the other desperately craved another round. Her body involuntarily shivered and a wave of chills flooded down her spine. It was cold but also refreshing and arousing. 

“And I’m sure there’s more we could adjust. But for now,” Alcide continued, “let’s get you home.” 

Right. Home. She was thankful he was still with it enough to make the right decision for them both, seeing as they shouldn’t spend the rest of the night naked in the middle of the swampland. The game was finished, the fantasy slowly evaporating. It was time to get back to the real world, as much as she hated to admit it. But how exactly she would adjust to her old reality was a mystery. How could she when everything had changed, her two personalities now side by side without a barrier? 

Alcide released his hold to stand and her arms immediately reached out to keep touching him. He was her anchor and she wasn’t ready to let go just yet. He shot her a smile and extended his hand to pull her to her feet. Seconds later, she was standing beside him and he didn’t let go of her as he started to walk back towards the road. Henrietta’s legs and thought patterns were unfocused and wobbly (not entirely adjusted from her drop), but Alcide patiently remained by her side to guide her. 

The dirt finally turned into concrete; her truck sat yards away, just where they’d left it. As her packmaster walked towards it, the first dose of the real world hit. 

Her voice was breathy and meek. “It’s locked. With the keys inside.” Shit, what were they going to do? She was in no state to shift and run miles home. 

Alcide wasn’t concerned. He looked back at her with a mischievous grin. “I’ll repay you, I promise.” 

Before she could ask what he was talking about, his balled up fist smashed through the back window and she jumped in shock as the glass sprayed across the second row seat. Alcide reached inside, curled his arm forward and pushed a button on the driver’s side door, unlocking the rest of the truck with ease before brushing any remnants on the front seat out into the road. Careful not to cut his bare skin before he slipped into the truck. 

“You coming or what?” he teased over his shoulder. 

It took her a second to process what had just happened, but Henrietta sheepishly saddled up to the passenger side, opened her door and joined him. Once her flesh hit the upholstery, she was starkly reminded that her clothes were torn to shreds somewhere in the woods and they’d both have to stay naked the entire ride home. She attempted to cover herself with her arms—what if someone saw them or God forbid, they got pulled over?—and Alcide didn’t seem to share her shame as he twisted the keys in the ignition and the engine hummed with life. 

”Alright, tell me where to head.” 

“Ummm,” she faltered. His hand on her thigh was too distracting. “Make a u-turn and go back the other way.” 

They retraced her steps from earlier in the night and Henrietta still felt dizzy as she bounced between her selves; the wolf loved that his hand never moved from its position and the secretary was hard at work to remember how to direct him to her house. It was unfamiliar to be so uninhibited and when Alcide started to hum along with the radio and tap her leg to the beat, she stared at him incredulously. How was he so in control of himself? 

Her uneasiness accelerated when the second reality shock hit as they pulled into her driveway. Her lights were still on and she knew the door was open; she hadn’t cared about any of those details as she rushed to leave earlier that night. 

“Don’t tell me you’re locked out of your house, too,” he joked. She shook her head. “Good. Come on, then.” 

His fingers lingered on her shoulder blades as he led her to the front porch. Henrietta was thankful for his steady demeanor and that her property was rather secluded, not wanting to explain herself to any nosy neighbors. Like a true gentleman, he held the door open and motioned for her to enter first. Henrietta obliged but froze when she looked at the mess she’d left.  

“Sorry” was the only thing that tumbled out of her mouth. Otherwise, she turned mute, mortified at the state of her place. 

“Sit,” he coaxed, gesturing to her couch. 

He didn’t need any dominance in his voice to get her to cooperate; she plopped onto it while he wandered into the kitchen. She sat in silence, her exhaustion hitting her like a freight train and she sank into the pillows, feeling small. Barely hearing sounds in the other room—the opening of cabinets, rustle of dishware, whoosh of water from the tap, hum of the refrigerator, thuds of a knife hitting a cutting board and footsteps that continued back into the living room. Alcide returned with a full glass of water and snack plate, placing them on the coffee table and settling beside her. He reached over, grabbed a blanket off the other side of the couch and wrapped it around them. 

“Eat.” 

Henrietta didn’t want to leave his embrace at first. His warm skin just felt right against hers, but the collection of crackers, apple slices and cheese (man, how did he know that was her true weakness?) was tempting enough to get her to move. She leaned forward and took a sip from the glass before compiling a layered combination of food that she popped into her mouth. 

And as she leaned back into his chest, her body and mind finally began to relax. Muscles unclenched, anxious thoughts faded into the background. Her heart rate slowed for the first time since the pack fight. She realized she hadn’t actually had dinner that night and the snack satisfied a hunger she didn’t know she’d been suffering from. Moreover, the juicy, tangy and savory flavors hitting all at once fed something deeper within her. 

Why did it matter that she was human sometimes, a wolf another? Why did they have to be separate when they could coexist and bring about something more enjoyable together? Wasn’t that better than keeping them locked away from one another? 

Wasn’t that natural?  

It was the first time in her life she’d ever seriously considered the possibility. If Alcide could do it, so could she.

Alcide’s fingers brushed up and down against her shoulder and she closed her eyes and sighed contently as a profound release left her body. Her brain was still fuzzy—but now in a satisfied and pleased way—and she rolled her head back onto her shoulders and reached out for more food. The secretary said she needed the sustenance and the wolf agreed. This time, she grabbed a bigger portion and offered some to her packmaster, who accepted it with a chuckle and shoved the pile into his mouth. 

His laughter was contagious and Henrietta felt herself following suit with a giggle of her own. She comically stretched her arms in the air and draped herself over his lap, staring up at him while he toyed with her rat's nest hair. 

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking care of me.” 

In more ways than he realized. 

He smiled down at her before grabbing some water and taking a couple sips himself. “My pleasure.” 

Henrietta closed her eyes and melted into her surroundings. Each breath was easy and enjoyable instead of shallow and panicked. She felt happy, a strange feeling compared to how she’d left the house. But she didn’t question it. Instead, she welcomed the euphoria … until her nose twitched and caught a rather unpleasant scent. One eyelid lifted as she inhaled more and realized it was coming from her; she was covered in stale sweat and swamp earth. Not to mention the aftermath of hot, nasty sex.  

“Ummm … would you mind if I took a shower?” the secretary asked shyly. “I think I need it.” 

“You and me both.” He quirked a brow. “Can I join?” 

The wolf pounced at the opportunity. “Only if you can fit, big boy.” 

Alcide surprised her by gathering her in his arms and carrying her over to the bathroom; Henrietta squeaked with delight and kicked her legs. He nudged the door open, put her on the ground and finally understood her earlier comment. Her place only had a small stall shower that didn’t afford much room. But they still made it work, taking turns under the spray and lathering each other up with soap suds to wash off. 

Neither of them were in the right place to resume their earlier fucking, but that didn’t stop them from still exploring each other’s bodies. Their touch was slower and tender, nothing compared to the rawness during their game. Each kiss was featherlight and sentimental. It warmed Henrietta’s heart, completing the rise from the abyss she’d landed in after both their releases. 

“I’ll let you finish up,” he said, smoothing her wet hair back and kissing her forehead before leaving the shower and closing the door behind him.   

Henrietta took a moment to stand underneath the hot barrage of water (a poor substitute for Alcide’s warm body) and soak in the happy feeling that just wouldn’t go away. She sighed as the corners of her mouth lifted. Yet, every part of her pulled her to wash off the remaining soap, leave the shower, wrap a fluffy towel around her and find her packmaster. She couldn’t bear to be away from him for too long. 

When she found him in her bedroom, he was just finishing up sweeping the remnants of her broken dresser mirror into a dustpan. He turned to reciprocate her satisfied stare, water droplets running down the V of his abs and colliding with her small bath towel slung around his hips. Henrietta felt the carnal fire return; the secretary howled and the wolf blushed.  

Oh yes. There would definitely be a next time.

[aimfor-theheart]

|| zhongli x afab!reader || E/18+ || smut/a touch of angst/comfort || wc: 7k || ao3 ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

You have never been patient enough for worship. Sometimes, he thinks you always expect to be scorned or feared or hated. As a god of hunger, you are not beloved or worshiped by many, if any at all.

You’ve never known the sort of worship that he gives you. 

✧ meet fruit collab masterlist ✧

a/n: this is apart of @willowser 's house server summer collab, meet fruit!! i took plums as my prompt!! this really got away from me and i had a lot of fun with this dynamic and i WILL be writing more of godly wife!reader and zhongli. i have a whole backstory. a huge massive fic i shouldn't work on but will fjdkslfdk i also need to give a special thanks to @itoshisoup , @lorelune , and @petrichorium for helping me with brainstorming and riffing earlier! also finding some godly names for the reader! in particular, mao came up with the name Tanai Zhenjun, which i will leave a note at the end about!! i hope you enjoy this sweet taste!! thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts <333

tags: afab!reader referred to as wife, and has several godly titles that mortals have called her, etc., a complicated relationship between zhongli and reader, mentions of past fights/canon typical violence, erotic fruit eating and feeding, finger sucking, biting, oral sex (f!recieving), some over stimulation, praise, maybe a little sex pollen because the reader causes feelings of hunger/lust/etc. but its consensual and zhongli can withstand it if he wanted, scratching, unhealthy godly dynamics, let me know if i missed anything!

In the shadows of his home, he would know you anywhere. 

(He would know you even if you didn’t appear to him like this, fully formed, and in the visage of mortals. He’d know you in the thunder and the wolves’ howl. He’d know you in autumn’s bitter wind and the fox’s cry. Across all of time, he’d know you.) 

You slip, serpentine, slow and with the easy grace of a predator into the last falling light of the sun; bronzed, honeyed, and appearing before him like you did decades ago, perhaps a hundred of years ago. 

Has it been so long already? 

The sight of you–perhaps simply you, yourself, spark an ache in his chest. Fierce. Hunger pains. 

And after all these years, he welcomes it, savors the pit in his stomach like a sweet fruit. 

You, his god of hunger. 

You, his divine wife. 

He tips his head back, leaning further into the chair at his deep, mahogany desk, as if he could fix his eyes to better see you. As if he could take in more of you, somehow, greedily, hungirly. 

“Hello, my Morax.” You hum and the sun catches in your eye as you step into his life again, after so long without. 

“Hello, my love.” He responds, as if it could’ve just been yesterday.

As if you are his wife and you’ve come home to greet him. As if he is your husband and he’s been working all day without you. 

“It’s been a long time,” he says then, “you’ve been away a long time.” 

You meander closer, on the other side of his desk, peering at the scrolls and papers there. His hands are stained in ink. He catches the downturn of your lips, the small quirking of them in displeasure. Such mortal things, he can hear your voice, the little hiss you get when you dislike something. 

But then your eyes roam to the bowl of fruit, now untouched, that had been brought to him in hopes of eating;

Slices of plum, gold and orange and tender on the inside, their moon-dark skins still curved to them. One still has the pit attached to it, carefully nestled within its flesh. 

Plums always remind him of you. 

(In truth, anything with pits, with bones, with something that can be picked clean and left behind reminds him of you.) 

In an instant, your fingers, nimble–adorned with his jewels, the jewels of his earth, snag a slice.

He watches as you sink your teeth into it, juice bursting, caught on your lip. 

You chew only a moment, swallow slowly as you watch him. 

“I thought I wasn’t allowed around Liyue Harbor,” you begin, “I thought I wasn’t allowed around your precious mortals.” 

His voice, low and soft, rumbles in affirmation. “Yes, that is true.” 

“And yet you speak to me like I’m welcome.” You hold the last bite of your slice to your lips, speaking against it, “like I should’ve visited sooner.” 

You bear down into the fruit again. 

“You’ve come to pick a fight?” He asks, “I can feel you’re trying to stir trouble.” 

And it's true; your ability as a god of hunger, to spark it in others. To sharpen and change it from starvation to bloodlust to desire to despair to greed–to any form of hunger. 

You caused whole towns to be decimated, driven mad with just the residuals of you, the feeling of you too near, like a wraith haunting their doorway. You turned tides in the Archon war for him and against him. You have always been one of the biggest threats to Liyue’s peace—to the world. Perhaps even beyond.

You perch on the corner of his desk prettily. 

“I can’t visit my husband?” You purr.

He quirks a brow, “you only ever call me husband when you’re trying to kill me.”

Your grin is a wild slip of excitement, a fissure of heat in the clash of your gazes.

“I am trying to kill you,” you agree, but perhaps you have always been trying to kill him. The battles between you two carved the very land of Liyue and at the end of them, no matter what had transpired, he was still your husband. And you, his wife. “But I don’t feel like fighting tonight.” 

You pluck another slice of plum from the bowl and bring it to your mouth. He watches your lips part to take the fruit in again. 

He thinks of replacing your hand with his own. He thinks of the sticky sweet taste he would find if he licked into your mouth, he thinks of being between your teeth again like the little piece of plum.  

Something inside of him yawns open. 

You’re toying with him. 

“You’re in rare form, then.” he hums and does not deny your draw. He has long since stopped trying not to be swept up in you–he realized it was inevitable at some point. You would always pull at parts of him none of the world had, and like a puppeteer did you play with those strings. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

You gaze down at him, almost lovingly, if he didn’t know better. 

Then you shift slightly, adjust yourself. 

And the first touch he has of you in decades, perhaps a century, is just a brushing of your calf against his forearm from where you sit atop his desk. Your bare skin beneath the pooling silks of your skirts. 

Heat rips through him like a tearing wound. 

His gaze flicks up to yours. 

“Did you know I was in Liyue?” You ask. 

“I always know the moment you enter my land again.” 

I always know the moment you come home. 

You shift your leg again, this time, a steadier press to his arm. 

He can’t help himself–he shifts his arm, opens his palm up against the curve of your bare calf to fully feel you, to hold you, in any minute way you might let him. Rough calluses scrape up  against the soft skin of your leg, the silk of your dress pooling around his arm, cool and like spun moonlight. 

You let him hold you like this, curl against the contour of you. His hand moves, dips down almost to your ankle, and back up to the bend of your knee. 

“You missed me,” you accuse, your voice a teasing lilt. 

Perhaps it’s you and the heady rush you cast on a room, on him, “yes,” he agrees honestly, “I always do.” 

“So sentimental in your old age. You’ve spent too long around these mortals.” You tell him, looking away so all you give him is the profile of your lovely face. The upward tilt of your chin, the haughty way you look down your nose. 

“Did you miss me?” He asks and he isn’t looking for you to placate him, but his hand is broad and inching up the back of your thigh. He pulls at you, urges you to the edge of the desk, where his other hand fits around the curve of your waist. 

“Don’t get greedy,” you chastise gently, but you still go with the pull of his hold. 

You slip into his lap like you were always meant to be there, fitting to him the way the moon fits into the sky, or the land against the sea. It’s an ancient feeling, bone deep, soul-cut. 

You let your arms fall around his neck loosely and to have you again in his embrace, after so long, does in fact, make him feel greedy. 

“I can feel it,” he says instead, perhaps just to spite you a little–to move another piece in this eternal chess game with you. “I can feel how you ache. I can feel the way you missed me.” 

“I always feel like that,” you snip, deft fingers slipping the band in his hair out so that it all falls free, loose and flowing over his shoulders in a wave of inky black. “I am always hungry like that.” 

“No,” he says and his voice is low like a wolf’s growling, a tiger’s purr, “I know your hunger. And I know this hunger of yours. You missed me.” 

“If you’re looking for a heartfelt confession, you won’t find it in me.” You tell him, proud little god that you’ve always been, “perhaps you’ll find it in your precious mortals.” 

Your voice takes on an edge, just shy of a sneer.

He laughs, a low rumble from his chest, amused, and pleased.

“Oh, that jealousy of yours. I missed that, too.” 

“Don’t get full of yourself,” you hiss like an asp and now, he worries you’ll bring your claws out. Your eyes glint in the last rays of light, like a bolt of lightning, like a spark of flame in a cold night.

He reaches up to touch your face, thumb sweeping over the arc of your jaw bone in a possessive hold. He forces you to look at him. “Come now, I thought you said you weren’t in the mood for a fight.”

“Then don’t test me.” You snap.

He fights back another fond smile in order to not test you further than he already has. 

He leans closer, his nose almost nudging against yours, “if you’re not here to fight. What are you here for?” 

“To eat through all your land until it is barren again.” You murmur and he knows it is just to pester him. Your fingers are winding in his long, silky hair and your eyes have gone half-lidded, so he knows you are not nearly as waspish as you’re pretending to be.

“If I could satiate your hunger, I would.” He murmurs darkly, lips brushing against yours as you carefully hold yourself back, a dog on a strained leash. At your best, you have always been a caged beast, pacing and desperate for escape. At your worst, you have been nothing short of desolation, teeth upon the earth in a vicious grasp, shaking hard, tearing it to shreds. Your bite never compared to your bark. You’d threaten destruction and deliver devastation; even you, surprised with your own vitriol, your own capability for demolition. 

He threatened to muzzle you once, long ago. 

You rear back slightly to look at him, “no, you wouldn’t. What would you have me be? Content?” 

He laughs softly again, low and warm, terribly fond of you despite it all, “yes,” he says very frankly, and then, “soothed, for once in your life.” 

“I won’t ever be soothed while you walk this earth.” You tell him and he cannot tell if you mean it with vengeance or with love. Are you being romantic? Or threatening him? Sometimes, he felt that your violence was supposed to be more like a kiss, and your kiss the type of violence that leaves him ruined for decades after. 

“And you would be after?” He asks, “I don’t think you’d know what to do if you finally managed to kill me in a meaningful capacity. You’d be bored.” 

You move to pull away from him with a snarl but he fastens his hold onto you tighter to get you to stay, he touches your face again, coaxing. “I only tease you.” 

“I said don’t test me.” You respond, but again, there is nothing nearly so vicious in you tonight. 

No, he knows the hunger in you tonight is a soft creature, a warbling, tender one. He’ll be kind to it, he will feed it and tend to it, even if he knows it will only grow larger still. Like caring for a tiger cub, only for it to grow into all those teeth and muscles, to bite the hand that fed it. 

“Forgive me,” he rumbles, and this time, he angles your head so that he can skim the strong line of his nose against your jaw, “let me make it up to you.” 

“You will not be able to,” you say indignantly and his own smile now feels sharper with the challenge, with your throat so near. He settles himself into a burning kiss against your pulse. Inside of him, something catches and sparks. Your hands curl around the muscles of his shoulders. 

“I know,” he coos, low and soft, almost sympathetic. “Then at least indulge the hunger you’ve caused in me.” 

This, in the least, you settle into. 

He pulls away barely to sit back, to look at you fully in all of your glory a moment. 

You look back at him, perhaps taking him in as well. 

The smoldering turns into a flame. 

The decades of years unspool inside of him and give way to a racing mind, images of what he wants, how he wants you. 

It is always like this, he thinks, eternally, desiring you, and never getting enough.

He thinks he must know how you feel. 

And then he gives into one of several of his desires that are rearing their large, horned heads inside of him. The beasts of his desire are all chained to you, he thinks. He reaches for the bowl of fruit. 

Perhaps it's your turn to be amused as he brings a slice of plum to your lips. You must know how he was looking at you earlier, you must know his desires if you are the one to stoke them. 

Still, you accept the fruit easily, minding your teeth as his finger slips against your lips. Sticky and soft and warm. You draw his finger into your mouth briefly, closing around it. He can feel the edges of your teeth as he pulls it out. 

The moment you swallow around the piece, he surges up to kiss you. 

To finally kiss you. 

He wishes he could call it something of a greeting or reunion, but it is too desperate and too vicious for that. Your teeth click together, coming up against one another, like an old key coming up against a lock. 

He tastes the plum in your mouth, sweet and a little tart, and can’t help the groan that rumbles out of him. 

Your hands disappear into his hair, tangle in the strands so that he can feel the press of your nails against his scalp. He feels the way you arch into the slide of his hands along your torso, bending to them, as if he is a sculptor. It pulls you closer, opens your hips wider in his lap in a way that makes heat rip through him.

When he pulls away, you’re already hazy-eyed, heady with the quick-burn of this sort of hunger, this lust. 

It pulls at him like the tide on the shore to drag him under. 

This time, when he places his lips to your throat, he sinks into a bite at the tender flesh there. 

Sometimes, he wishes he’d treat you more tenderly. As if that might be all you ever needed; more gentleness, and less teeth at your throat. 

But you arch and from your mouth spills your own moan finally, fingers tightening in his hair as if to hold him there. He feels your hips twitch forward, into him, an aborted rock of them, perhaps unknowingly or subconscious.

He wishes you inspired patience in him. 

(Usually, he claims to have a great deal. Unfortunately, he cannot claim the same with you in his arms again. Forgive me, he thinks again, but I haven’t seen you in nearly a century.) 

He stands suddenly with you still wrapped around his waist, hands fit beneath your thighs to lift you and place you on the broad expanse of his desk. Papers get pushed aside, some topple onto the floor in a fluttering mess. You laugh when the bowl of plums rattle precariously, but his mouth covers yours again, and he swallows the sound eagerly. 

He kisses you hard again, hitching your hips up to fit snugly to his, fitting his broad hands over the curves of your waist. You respond in kind, though, and twine your leg around his waist to pull him closer, arch your back to press your chest up to his.

When he pulls away this time, he takes you in, splayed out beneath him. 

“I did miss you,” he gets out roughly.

“Then show me,” you respond, stretching out beneath him, as if to tempt him. 

His hands move over the silk of your dress, bunching parts of it, tangling it. He decides in an instant that he doesn’t actually wish to deal with it, so he sets his hands on the bust and simply pulls. It tears like paper beneath him. And again, you laugh, amused with him now, with what you do to him.

“So impatient.” 

“It’s been a long time, my love.” 

And this time when he kisses you, perhaps you give into him more, feed what he wants. You mewl into his mouth, arch against him, drag your nails down his covered back. 

“Touch me,” you get out, demanding, a little fussy. 

“So impatient.” He mocks dryly. 

For his trouble, you pull harshly on the hair at the nape of his neck, baring his throat to you. 

His broad palm roams up the expanse of your side, your bare stomach, and to your chest. He cups your breast, thumb brushing against the peak in a way that makes you hum and squirm beneath him eagerly. 

You bury your face in his now exposed neck, nudge your nose there, which turns into your warm, open mouth. 

For a moment, surprisingly gentle, until he feels the quick flash of pain from your teeth. He rolls your nipple between thumb and forefinger with a little more pressure than necessary, just to hear the little noise of pain you make. 

He drops his face to the crux of your chest, lips dragging along the skin there, above your beating heart. And for all your bite and bark, you still offer yourself up to him for the taking. You still draw your hands over his shoulders, pushing at the clothes still on him. He doesn’t indulge you, but draws lower, hair spilling over your chest as his mouth opens against your breast. 

He nips and marks, sets his teeth against the tender flesh and sucks a bruise into you. 

“I miss your sharp teeth,” you admit.

He huffs, breath fanning against your skin. He raises his eyes, molten gold, to meet your own, “there’s no pleasing you.” 

And then he captures the bud of your breast in his mouth and at least manages to pull another sound from you, meandering, growing in your own desire. You squirm beneath him again but something inside of him (old and draconic) blinks its eyes open and he seizes your waist to still you the way a predator subdues their prey, sharply, and with a slow rolling of muscle, a flex of their strength. A serpent squeezing down around a mouse. A tiger bearing down on the deer. 

You don’t go easily, though. 

And the moment you feel his resistance, you squirm and push harder, straining. Arching and impatient. 

He nips, he fights back the more base urge to growl, and readjusts his hold on you.

“Stop squirming,” he commands.

“Stop teasing,” you reply, stubborn, and disobedient. 

“Let me enjoy you.” Zhongli responds, watching his own hand sweep over your breast, cover it, and toy with you. 

“Enjoy me later.” You snip, fastening your legs tighter to his waist, hitching him closer. 

And he feels a head rush of your ability pour through him, the tightening of your desire and lust, of your hunger spilling from you. It’s purposeful. He feels the dull thud of his heart kick upwards, the warmth that simmers beneath his skin. He blinks hard with it, but does not succumb. 

“You’re so insolent.” He finally gets out, just shy of a growl, “now hold still for me.” 

His lips skim the top of your stomach as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. 

You sit up onto your elbows, eyeing him, inching your hips to the edge of the desk eagerly. 

“I’ve always liked you best on your knees, Morax.” 

He sinks his teeth into your inner thigh in a more ruthless bite, forcing your legs open even as they threaten to close with the sudden jolt of pain. Hard enough that you hiss through your teeth, twitching towards or away from him, he can’t tell. 

(Images of days long past flash hotly in his mind, in another form, with those sharper teeth you’d said you missed.) 

He feels your hunger burst open like a ripe fruit, like the plum between your teeth. 

He soothes the bite with a slow, lingering pass of his tongue. 

His eyes flick upwards towards you. 

You look a little shaken finally, eyes glassy, teeth stuck in your bottom lip. 

He drags you closer, pulls you flush so that your hips are almost off the edge. You fall back with the movement and he doesn’t give you a moment. He isn’t feeling generous or very kind anymore. 

His mouth opens against you in a crush of heat, eager, perhaps impatient himself. 

A groan, low, from the back of his throat, works out of him at the first taste of you. 

Again, you try to squirm, and something ancient and vicious in him squeezes hard enough on your waist that if you were a mortal, he might sincerely hurt you. He doesn’t care if you’re trying to squirm closer or away, he realizes, he doesn’t care if it hurts a little, as long as he can have you like this. Open. His. 

Ah, he realizes, perhaps he isn’t ignoring your sway as well as he thought he was. 

He delves between soft folds, already slick, but he’ll make it worse still. 

(Perhaps, at one point, he had ideas of being a gentleman of some kind with you. Perhaps, at some point, he thought he would carefully work you open with mouth and soft tongue. He’d be loving and gentle with you. But you’ve always done something horrible to him, something he can’t tame, something he wishes he feared more.) 

You whine a little and the sound pools straight into his own desire for you. 

He fits himself closer, keeps your legs wider apart with his shoulders. 

“Morax,” you gasp and it’s with more heat and desperation than he is anticipating.

His eyes, heavy and gold, flick up towards your face, looking up at you beneath the dark fan of his lashes. 

Oh, you’re closer than he thought, he realizes. 

He doesn’t slow or stop or lessen himself, groans a little, and fits himself tighter to you. He digs his fingers into your skin and keeps you close. 

To his surprise, that is all it takes. 

Your gasp is strangled, perhaps a little surprised, as you arch off the desk in a bow-curve, poised to snap.

You fall to pieces as a cry loosens from your throat. 

He feels you pulse against his tongue and without thinking, he growls a little, a pleased rumble, and doesn’t stop.

He tastes you, savors it, and doesn’t let you hide or pull away from him.

Your hips twist and he follows the movement, wrestling you still, so that he can still enjoy you. 

You’re out of breath, hiccuping a little, trying to squirm away from him but there’s nowhere to go.

He won’t let you go.

He pulls away to rest his head on your inner thigh a moment, “so quick.” He teases, “you must’ve been pent up for it to be that easy.” 

He thinks, I wasn’t even doing that for you yet—I was still enjoying myself. I was being greedy. Hungry in my own way, in the way that you inspire.

“I should leave you now.” You huff, picking yourself up on your elbows to gaze down at him, but your eyes are simmering.

He squeezes at your thighs, “you’re not going anywhere tonight.”

And before he can hear your protests, he dips forward again and flattens his tongue against your folds. Slow, broad licks that make you twist and twitch. 

“Morax—“ 

“I’m not finished with you yet, my love.” He says lowly, somewhere against where you’re most tender and sensitive. 

He takes his time teasing now. 

Enjoy me later, you’d said, and he doesn’t think this is what you meant. 

You have never been patient enough for teasing–for worship. Sometimes he thinks you always expect to be scorned or feared. You were always Deus Inanis, Tanai Zhenjun, and later, Rapax Regina to the people. You have many names from them, none particularly kind or cherished. You were always the ghoulish god, the bad omen, the drooling maw of a starved predator. Your myth is not a beloved one by most. 

And some dare not even speak your name at all, for fear of inviting you. 

You are not a welcome god in the home and hearth, you are not for protection or courage. You are feared and warded off. You are, at best, used as a condemnation. 

(To him you were always softened with affection, even at your worst; little god, my curse, my love, keeper of my heart.) 

You’ve never known the sort of worship he gives you. 

You struggle with it, keen sharp and broken when he gives it to you. 

Sometimes you have all-out tried to refuse him or hasten him, poured your lust and impatience into him to get your way, to sway him to your own will. He can feel it again now but it never manifests in him the way you’d like it to. You assume his desire is one of his own pleasure. But it has always been this; 

You, belly-up and vulnerable, only for him, delicate in a way the rest of the world will never know. Pleasure-drunk and hazy. Lost to what he can give you–he wants to gorge you. He wishes he could fill the empty place inside of you. 

He’s spent an eternity trying. He’ll spend an eternity more. 

He focuses his intentions, strengthens the pass of his tongue with what he wants. He wants your pleasure. He wants it again and again. 

You curse a little, an ancient word, from when the land was Archon-less and free. 

He lifts his mouth from you briefly, “you are already cursing like that? This will be a long night for you then.” 

He opens his mouth again to taste you, to suck gently, your legs twitching over his shoulders as your breath hitches. 

This time you curse him, hissing through clenched teeth.  

He laughs against you in amusement, low and dark, and smooths a broad hand over the soft plain of your tensing stomach. As if he might soothe you, or perhaps because he wants to feel all of you, have you in his palms, in his arms. Against his mouth.

The next time you fall apart, he doesn’t let up once. His eyes have gone half-lidded and burning, a flint-strike of amber. You try to fight him again, wrestle out of his hold, but he strengthens himself. He steels himself, even, to your pulling of his hair, to your fussing and snapping–all of that melts to whining, to near-crying, as he continues. 

You’re too stubborn to cry for him now–there have been only a handful of times he’s broken you down that much. 

Perhaps if he were feeling crueler, he would try. 

(These instances have always come in the wake of something worse; your largest fights, or worst transgressions where he felt the need to punish. To strip you bare. These are saved, not for his desires, but for your catharsis after all your grief.) 

But your voice has gone higher with desperation, more broken, and he is pleased with that. 

Pleased enough that when you burst on his tongue again, your nails digging into the back of his hand as he holds you, he finally rises. 

Instantly, you twine yourself around him, legs around his waist, arms pulling at the front of his clothes to drag him down into your arms. You are always more desperate for affection like this, softened by pleasure, hungry for more. 

He goes down easily for you.

 Kisses you hard and open, so that you’ll taste yourself from his mouth, the way he tasted the plum from yours. 

You groan weakly and manage to gasp when he pulls away, “please–more. I need more. Need–” 

Always need, you say, when you get like this. Never want. 

“Need you.” 

He hums, the noise lumbering from his chest in a pleased, dark sound. 

“You have me,” he soothes, even as he feels dizzy with your own desire, a headrush of desperation–of need that rushes from you to him. 

Feed me, need me, fill me, possess me, take, take, take me. Fill. Aching–so empty, I’m so empty. Please, please, it hurts– please, I need more, need, need, need–

He lets out a harsh breath. It aches, almost sharply, almost on the wrong side of pain and pleasure. 

He does not torment you any longer. He does not torment himself, either. 

With fingers far more nimble than he feels, he loosens his slacks, he pushes his clothes out of the way just enough, enough to take himself in hand and hiss through his teeth as the head of his cock touches your slick folds. 

Molten. Fluttering still with sensitivity, with desperation. 

Your hips roll, eager, trying to urge him closer, inside–

“Morax–” you cry and the sound twists something in his chest, blooms like a bruise being pressed on. 

 He presses inside you and fills you in one, deep thrust. 

You gasp sharply, you pull at him, force him to collapse over you nearly, cover you completely. You cling to him, you wrap yourself around him like a serpent, now constricting him–

(He’s never been able to tell who is the serpent and who is the mouse, anyways. Who is the tiger or the deer? Was he capturing you? Or were you always capturing him?)

You hold him so tightly, calves flexing around his back, that he can hardly pull out from you to thrust.

He groans, almost in frustration, or maybe some form of defeat. 

“Darling,” he gets out roughly, “my love. My little god.”

The old, affectionate nickname burns through you and he can feel the desire like a knife’s blade in his own stomach. You moan– a soft, warbling sound. 

He manages to move his hips, barely leaving the hot clutch of you, to push back in deeper, harder. 

“Please–” you gasp, “more–kiss me. Touch me.”

“So demanding,” he scolds, but he kisses you hard, with too much teeth and roughness, and fits his palms over the sides of your body. He takes handfuls of curves, of your waist and your breasts, rough hands bending over the lines of you the way the light of the moon bends over the hills and valleys of his land. 

His next thrust is harder, a little rougher. You turn your face into his throat after you break the kiss and your teeth sink down into him hard. 

You always draw blood. You always have to leave your mark on him, on all that you’ve touched. 

But then you draw your tongue over the wound, licking softly, perhaps in apology. Perhaps to satiate another need that winds around inside you. 

Your hand tangles in his hair again and he bites back another raw groan as he thrusts, in and out, on a slow, rough drag. You’re clinging to him, tight and so wet that it’s making his thoughts bleary and clouded. Your lust shadows any rationality; your hunger possesses him. 

“Harder,” you gasp, you beg, you plead. 

And he thinks who am I to deny you? Who am I to deny the god of my hunger? 

His hand slips over your arm, your free one clawing at his clothed back still. He knows you will mourn not getting your nails into his skin after, but he will let you satiate the need all you like later. He’ll savor the way you try to tear him apart, like he always does. 

(And sometimes, he swears, you’re just trying to tear down his skin to be closer. Deeper in him. Scratching at his ribs and his sides like you want in, in, in. A bad dog at his door. A wraith that claws at his soul.)      

As he pulls at your forearm, flattening it out against the desk beneath you to pin you beneath him, he knocks into the bowl of fruit. 

The last of the plum slices tip out onto the desk and the remaining juice at the bottom of the bowl pools in a sticky mess over the wood, some over your forearm and wrist, over his own, too. 

He thinks you move without thinking, bringing his wrist up to your lips where you lick up a stripe up into his palm, against his thumb. 

You take his thumb into your mouth with ease and he cups your cheek in a possessive hold as he lets you suckle, tongue soft and warm and gentle against the pad of it. You groan, lashes fluttering, and this seems to please some part of you. 

His thumb in your mouth, cock lodged deep inside you. 

He pushes himself deeper on his next thrust, enough that you whine a little, eyes going glassy, cheeks hollowing around his thumb. 

He can feel the spit pooling in your mouth, wet and slick, can feel the way your walls squeeze and flutter around him desperately. 

He presses on your tongue, thrust growing a little faster, but still hard, deep–a little ruthless. 

But it’s what you need–so it’s what he gives you. 

You hold his wrist, little nails digging into his skin, desperate to keep his thumb between your lips. He can feel the press of your teeth in the meat of his hand. 

He readjusts, tries to draw his thumb out barely, only for you to latch down tighter on his wrist, and slide it back into your mouth with a noise of protest. Saliva spills a little, slick and messy against your bottom lip, against his hand. 

He coos, but it’s too dark to sound reassuring, and sounds more like a rough purr, just shy of a pleased growl. 

“I won’t go anywhere,” he soothes lowly, but it sounds like less of a comfort from a husband, and more of a promise from the beast you shouldn’t have let in in the first place. It’s loving in the same way a possession is. “My little god, I have you now.” 

Your peak this time makes something inside of him roar open. He feels your inner muscles bear down on him, fluttering desperately. 

Your eyes tip behind your eyelids, hiccuped breath against his hand as it twists into a guttural sound that he feels against his palm. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, turning your face so that he can press open mouthed kisses against your throat, suck a bruise there, turn the flesh tender, “I’ve got you. Good girl–that’s it.” 

Perhaps he draws blood when he bites you this time, too. Tastes it sharp on his tongue, the blood of a god. He lifts his head from your neck and finally draws his thumb from your mouth, spit slick as he traces your bottom lip. He pulls himself up from you to gaze down at you, slack jawed and messy, near feverish with your lust. 

His hips quicken, harder, and you reach out to splay your hand out against his tensing stomach, to push at him a little. 

But he doesn’t stop, feels you nip at his thumb, still making a mess of your lips and chin. 

Your legs are still hitched tight around him, drawing him in, keeping him close. 

He squeezes your hip with his free hand, he loses his rhythm when you draw his thumb back into your mouth, suckling softly on it. 

He groans, feels his own pleasure in a rush down his spine, a burst of heat that unfurls like a supernova. Collapses inward. Expands outwards. He buries himself inside of you, as deep as he can manage, deep enough that you make a little noise of pain maybe, but you hold him tight to you. Again, you constrict around him, dragging him back down by his clothes to slot your mouth against his as he fills you. 

It’s your turn to hum, pleased, almost purring, tightening your hold around him, locking him against you.

The kiss this time is slower, but dirtier, all tongue, open and messy. He groans into it, holding your jaw, feeling himself twitch inside of you, his own eyes fluttering with pleasure, lashes against your cheek. 

When you both pull away, you’re out of breath. Chests rising and falling against each other. 

You seem subdued now, heavy-lidded, but your lips drag to his cheek, down to the curve of his jaw. 

You roll your hips a little.

“More–” You murmur, “I want more.” 

His laugh tapers into a moan. He flexes his hips a little, heat simmering beneath his own skin. 

Your hands pull at his clothes finally, tugging at them, pulling at buttons until they snap and burst beneath your fingers, until you reveal bare skin. Instantly, your hands are on him, nails scratching into his chest gently, over his shoulders. 

(He’s going to take you to bed after this and he’ll rid you of the scraps of your clothes and the rest of his. He'll get rid of anything between you.) 

The ache in him builds again and suddenly he’s rocking into you again, deep and slow, watching the way he disappears inside of you. The mess he’s already made of you, the way he wants to make it all worse. He feels feverish himself now, a little lost to the sight– his desire suddenly feels inhuman. Monstrous. Too big for his own skin. 

You always seem to remind him of his divinity. 

“Hold me,” you demand now and as if commanded, he goes to you. 

He gets his arms around you and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. His desire unwinds. Time unspools from him. He loses himself in the pull of you, in the undertow of desire and hunger. He tries to satiate the ache you have carved in him. The ache you always have nestled inside of you. 

You beg him of more–more pain and more pleasure and more of him–until he feels near mindless with it. Gone with it. 

Shuddering with sensitivity and feeling you tremble with it, too. 

He doesn’t regain himself until another peak has been reached and fallen from, until he realizes the hour; the moon hanging in the window of his study like a copper penny. He forces himself to slow. To lodge himself deep and go still inside of you and let his head fall to your chest.

You cradle his skull, fingers slipping into his hair, catching your breath as the haze fades for a moment. 

He picks his head up barely, shifts only so he can catch your gaze. 

“Stay for a while.” He demands now. 

 You let go of a sigh, deep, perhaps tired. 

“I thought I wasn’t allowed.” You hum softly. 

“Will you behave?” He asks and you lean down to kiss him–sweeter now. Perhaps apologizing. He accepts your affection with warmth, though. 

“You know how I get restless.” You respond, fingers tracing along the nape of his neck, one of them trailing down the bend of his jaw. 

You are softest now, like this. It’s a rare sight; one he savors, one he will stay hungry for his whole life, he thinks. 

“Yes,” he agrees, perhaps fondly, perhaps sadly. “If you could keep mortals out of it, I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Even if I tried to kill you again?” You ask, finger tracing the bow of his upper lip. 

He smiles faintly and you touch the corner of his mouth, “yes,” he agrees, “even then.” 

“Or tried to steal your Gnosis again?” 

He snorts softly, picking himself up further to hover over you, to gaze down at you with more love than you have ever known what to do with. “You can certainly try again.” 

“Perhaps I should try harder this time.” The threat is fangless this time and you are at least soothed somewhat for now. He knows it won’t last long. 

But for now, he takes advantage of it. He cups your cheek, brushes his thumb along your jaw affectionately, and for once, you nuzzle into the touch. You rub your cheek into his palm like a cat. 

A flash of your teeth. You bite down into his hand. 

He laughs softly, but pulls his hand from you, dislodges your teeth from his flesh. 

Slowly, he tries to detangle himself from you. You are reluctant, but he appeases you with promises of more, of his bedroom. Of a bath and whatever you want. 

“More plums,” you say, letting him carry you to his bedroom like a young bride, cradled in his arms. “I’ve always loved plums.” 

He smiles, “I know. They remind me of you.” 

The admittance is a tender one, one that he has held for centuries that has finally loosened from his mouth like a bird taking to flight. 

In the morning, when you have slipped from him and his bed and his life once more, all that’s left are the marks you left on him, the deep scratches and latches of your teeth on tan skin–

And the pits of plums you devoured before you left. Not one is spared and he thinks his heart never has been, either. 

Not from you, his wife, his curse, his love–not from his god of hunger. 

***

a/n part ii: thank you for reading!! here are those notes on the reader's godly names:

There are three titles the reader is referred to. Two of them are latin, similar to Rex Lapis, and the third is from @itoshisoup, and is Tanai Zhenjun, which mao explained as such: "贪爱 (tanai) is a Buddhist term that is often translated as "craving", and refers to desire for both physical and mental things. From my understanding, tanai is sometimes considered a cause of suffering (苦 or ku), but is sometimes considered closely related to suffering in other ways. Given the motif of hunger, I would name the god Tanai, and additionally give them the honorific "Zhenjun" (a title associated with Taoist gods - much like "Dijun", which is the honorific in Zhongli's Chinese title, Yanwang Dijun; however, it is a lesser title than Dijun). Tanai Zhenjun is therefore what I'd call them."

The other two are Deus Inanis and Rapax Regina, which mean "empty god" and "rapacious/ravenous queen" in Latin.

i plan to write more of this reader and use these godly names again soon &lt;3

[specialagentlokitty]

Klaus x reader - change for you

Can you do klaus x reader - Anon💜

Sitting in the tree, you overlooked the vast forest around you, only lit up by the light of the moon, shooting stars racing across the sky.

It would’ve been a perfect night to anybody, it was peaceful, and stunning.

But for you it was just a chance to sit there, lost deep in thought, away from everything that was going on.

You had seen these sights over a thousand times, you had seen everything again and again, nothing in this world was new to you anymore.

It was boring.

Sighing heavily, you listening to the howling of wolves in the distance, and the sounds of nocturnal animals out and about.

But what wasn’t an animal was the sound of the steps coming closer and stopping underneath the tree you were in.

“Why are you here?” You asked.

“I know where to find you.” Elijah relied.

Looking down at him, you went back to what you were doing.

“Niklaus requests your assistance.”

“No.”

Elijah looked up at you.

“No? You have never told my brother no before.”

Sighing you jumped down, standing next to him as you crossed your arms.

“I’m tired of running around after Klaus Elijah, I grow bored of it and this never ending life. When I agreed to this, I thought I would never be alone, that was what I was promised, but I suppose I was wrong. So no, I will not help him anymore.”

Elijah turned to look at you.

“Is everything alright?”

“I just wish to be left alone Elijah.”

With that, you walked away from him.

It was hard, the Mikaelsons had been part of your life for as long as you could remember, ever since you became a vampire they were there to help you every step of the way.

But now you realise the beauty to mortality, and you missed that, you missed the simpleness that was a human life.

You wanted out of this world.

So that’s what you did, you withdrew yourself to the deepest forest you could possibly find, and you resigned yourself into isolation.

You had lost track of time, and you weren’t sure how long you had been away for.

Sitting on the log you had turned into a bench, you looked almost like a statue to anyone that would have found themselves this far.

But the man stood in front of you knew better, and he knew that you sensed him there because you got up and walked inside of the small cabin.

“I never thought I would see the day you would walk away from me.”

“Did your brother not tell you I want to be left alone Klaus?” You asked from the doorway.

“He did.”

Klaus walked over, stopping in front of the doorway, watching as you retreated into the home.

You seemed to do a few things before you came back over.

“If you’re here to kill me then fine, just get it over with.”

Klaus sighed a little bit, shaking his head at you.

“I would never, you know that love.”

“Then leave me to my peace.”

“I can’t do that either, not until you agree to come back with me.”

“Then you’re going to be there a long time.”

Klaus walked to sit on the bench you were sat in, and he looked around the little land.

“I would appreciate it if my spouse came back with me, but if not then we can stay here.”

“I don’t want you here, and don’t call me that.”

Klaus furrowed his brows and looked at you.

“Why? We’re married.”

“We haven’t been married for a long time.” You said lowly.

You were fed up.

Everything you had been holding in was bubbling at the top of your throat, waiting to be spilled out.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not Niklaus? It’s true enough is it not? We have been married for years, you made a vow that I would never be on my own and you would always be there but you never once have been there.” You snapped.

Klaus slowly stood up.

“I have been busy.” He growled.

“Chasing nonsense and trying to murder teenagers who have nothing to do with whatever the hell it is you want!”

You pulled the ring off your hand and tossed it into the forest as hard and as far as you could.

“I thought this would be the most amazing life when I fell for you all those years ago. I realise now I was wrong, and I wish I had died a human. I am weary and have grown sad if the life I have now. I no longer wish to be a vampire, and if the witch I hired cannot find a cure to make me human than I suppose I will die with as much dignity as I can. I will not follow you around like a lost puppy anymore.”

You slammed the door shut.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Klaus roared.

He knew you would ignore him.

You were always more stubborn than he was, and that was something he loved about you, your stubbornness.

Looking in the direction you threw the ring he began to search for it, and you hadn’t seen him for days.

Those days turned into weeks.

You decided to take a walk, heading through the trees to one of the cliff faces to watch the water, listen to the gentle sounds of the waves.

“I was hoping you would leave me alone.”

“I have something for you.”

You glanced at Klaus as he stood next to you, and he held your ring in his palm.

It was a little dented with scratches.

“I did have someone fix it, but he was unable to get the scratches or dent out of it. I can have a new one made if you prefer?”

“I prefer to be left alone.”

Klaus sighed, putting the ring into his pocket, and he looked at you.

“I’m just trying to make a world where we can both live happily.”

You turned to him.

“That’s what you don’t understand, I don’t care about any of that. Klaus I was happy to just spend my whole life with you. Me and you, that was enough for me. You came into my life and you set my whole world on fire, you made me have a happiness I’d never had before, I thought we would have the most wonderful future together.”

“And we still can my love.”

You shook your head.

“No, we can’t.”

You went to leave.

“You set my heart on fire (Y/N), you are everything I’ve always wanted and more. And I understand I haven’t always been the best husband to you. You were always there for me and I was never there for you, I know.” He sighed.

You turned around to look at him.

“If we were humans I’d want to be with you until we grow old, but I want to be with you until the end of time, I couldn’t picture my life without the likes of you. Please, don’t walk away.”

“I’m done with this Klaus, I cannot do this anymore.”

“Do you want to push me off the cliff? Would that make it better? Because you can.”

“No you idiot.”

“Do it.”

He held his arms out and stood with his back to the water.

“Push me as many times as you want until you feel better.”

“Oh my god I don’t want to hurt you idiot, I’m just tired of this. Maybe this life is for you, but I don’t think it’s for me.”

Klaus walked over to you, and he took your hand in his, placing his other hand on the side of your face.

“It is for you.”

“Klaus.” You warned.

He smiled at you.

“Do you want to live out here? A whole different country? What do you want?”

“I want you to be my husband klaus, I want you to put me higher on your list of priorities, not be the last thing you think about.”

“Oh love you are my highest priority.”

He pulled you in for a hug, holding you tightly.

He hated the thought of not having you with him, not knowing you were were stood right next to him where you should be.

He knew he hadn’t been the best husband, and there was many things he should’ve done differently, but he hated the Idea of you not being there.

Your hands came up to ball into the fabric of his jacket, and you rested your head on his chest.

“Never leave me…” he whispered.

He kissed the side of your head and held you tightly, he wasn’t sure how he was going to change, but he was going to try

[letthemkook]

𓆱 THE PANTHEON SERIES: PEREGRYN J.HS 𓆱

Pairing: Yandere God Artemis!Hoseok × Mortal Huntress!OC (You as Astymede)

Themes: Obsession, Power Imbalance, Predator–Prey Dynamic, Divine Possession, Wild Nature, Gender Reversal of Mythology, Slow Burn Tension

Genre: Dark Romance, Mythological Fantasy, Psychological Thriller

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Possessiveness, Violence, Blood, Dubious Consent, Isolation, Animal Deaths (hunting), Divine Punishment, Forced Proximity, Worship/Kneeling Imagery, eventual SMUT

Note: I know that Artemis is technically a goddess, but for all intensive purposes he is male here because gods can do that o whateva

Intro: They called you a prodigy of the woods — sharp-eyed, steel-hearted, faster than even the wolves. And he is the silent god cloaked in silver light, who watches you from the dark pines with a bow at his back and blood on his palms.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Part 1: Flight of the Stag

Kitharos was a village held in the cradle of the gods.

Nestled between jagged hills and thick pinewood, its days were ruled by olive groves and its nights by the sound of howling wind through stone. Life was simple, and for most, simple was enough—harvest in autumn, weaving in winter, offerings in spring, and long hunts in the summer when the deer roamed thick and the gods watched from their thrones.

Astymede was born during the full moon of the hunting season, and some said that was why she never grew meek. Her mother, Hypsara, called her stubborn. Her younger sister, Thelxinoë, said she was brave. Her older brother Timos just laughed and handed her his spare bow.

But her father, Damocles, said little.

She had always been difficult. Not cruel—never cruel—but impossible to bend. Even as a child, she would not wear the embroidered dresses her mother made, nor attend temple with the other girls. She’d sneak out barefoot and muddy, climbing trees, tracking footprints, listening to the forest until it became part of her blood. When boys learned swordplay, she mimicked them from the shadows. When her brother trained for war, she copied his stances in secret.

She taught herself to track by studying prints in the soil. She knew the call of the white-throated owl, could string a bow faster than most men, and once, when a fox had threatened her mother’s chickens, she had killed it with a single shot before it reached the coop. No one thanked her. But the village whispered. They whispered of the girl who ran with wolves, who danced with danger, who met the world with no fear.

By fifteen, her aim was sharper than most grown men in the village. By sixteen, she could bring down a hawk in flight. And yet, each time she returned home with mud on her shins and game over her shoulder, her mother would groan like the sky had split.

“Again?” Hypsara would snap, flinging open the door to find her daughter dusted in leaves and blood. “Do you want to shame your father? To have the elders talk? You are a girl, Astymede, not a woodsman. The GODS have made it so!”

“I’m not a wife,” Astymede would say, dropping the pheasant to the table. “the gods also gave me two hands,” she once replied. “Should I only use them to stir a pot?”

Hypsara muttered prayers to Hera and turned away. Thelxinoë trailed behind their mother with a frown, braiding garlands with downcast eyes. Timos, ever loyal, would ruffle Astymede’s hair and call her “little fox.”

It was Damocles who never laughed.

One evening, after she had returned with fresh rabbit, he sat by the hearth sharpening his knife. The fire painted his face in harsh lines.

“You were seen today,” he said.

Astymede paused. “So?”

“You humiliated Klymenos and his sons. They were out for three hours. Came back empty. And you returned with game they missed.”

She bit her cheek. “I didn’t do it for sport.”

“Doesn’t matter why. They’re men. You’re not. You’re sixteen. Time to behave like it.”

She stood silent for a moment. Then, “What if I never want to marry? What if I want to hunt?”

Damocles looked up at her then, eyes hard as stone. “Then you’ll end up with neither name nor home. Just a shadow in the forest. And shadows don’t get remembered.”

Astymede didn’t reply. She turned and left, fists clenched and throat tight. Let him think her a shadow. Better that than someone else’s obedient wife.

That summer, the men prepared for the hunt—a sacred rite, held once every two years for those who had earned the right to join. Timos would go, as expected. The best of the village’s young men were chosen. Not her.

But she followed anyway.

At dawn, while dew still clung to the grass and the scent of earth was thick in the air, she tracked their trail through the woods. They never heard her. Never saw the sharp glint of her arrows as she trailed them from the treetops. When a deer bolt startled the group into chaos, it was Astymede who calmed, stalked, and brought it down.

The buck was massive—prized, antlers sharp and ivory-white. She dragged it back alone.

When she emerged into the clearing, sweat gleaming on her arms, jaw set in triumph, her father looked at her like she had broken the world.

“You should not be here,” he said, voice low with fury. “You disgrace yourself.”

Timos stepped between them, staring at the buck. “She brought it down.”

Damocles turned away. The others said nothing. But when they returned to the village with the beast strapped across two backs, the villagers stared.

Astymede walked at the front.

And far above, hidden in the trembling shade of pine, a god watched.

He had seen her before—once, years ago, when she had been barely more than a child. She had shouted into the forest, daring the gods to come down if they dared mock her for being born a girl. Artemis, god of the wild, of purity, of the bow, had watched from a distance then.

He was not supposed to want. His vow was older than most cities. While other gods fell to pleasure, he remained untouched by it—by nymphs, by goddesses, by mortals who offered themselves freely.

But not her.

Not her with the eyes of flame and the aim of a storm.

She hunted with reverence, not cruelty. She did not chase for pride. She ran with the wind, and it obeyed her.

And it undid him.

The next day, a stranger came to Kitharos.

Tall, cloaked in deerskin and shadow, with eyes the color of split amber, he called himself Hoseok. A wandering hunter, new to the hills, seeking quiet and shelter.

The village women swooned at once. He was unlike any man they knew. Gentle in tone, strange in beauty, smelling of woodsmoke and rain. When he passed the baker’s daughter, she dropped her basket. When he lingered in the market, mothers blushed. Girls giggled.

He laughed kindly, nodded, thanked them. But he looked for only one.

He found her near the river, skin glinting with sweat, bow across her lap as she polished its edge. She glanced up, wary.

“You’re the one who bested the buck,” he said.

“And you’re the one who smells like bear fur and incense.”

He laughed. “Is that praise?”

“It’s suspicion.”

He stepped closer, slow, unthreatening. “Your shot was perfect. The kind only gods admire.”

“Then let the gods keep their distance.”

She stood, brushing off her tunic, ready to leave.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Not yours to know.”

He smiled. “I’m Hoseok.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Her tone was curt, eyes sharp, but he only bowed low, with the reverence of someone not mocking, not flirting, but… worshiping.

“I’ll learn it soon enough,” he said.

She left without looking back.

And beneath the branches, Hoseok watched her go.

The god of the hunt had hunted many things. But never before had he felt the wildness turn inward—never before had his prey been something he could not touch.

Not yet.

But soon.

—

In the days that followed Hoseok’s arrival, the village of Kitharos changed.

The baker’s daughter brought extra loaves to the communal table each morning, “in case the traveler was hungry.” The blacksmith’s wife stitched him a tunic, claiming the wind would chill his foreign blood. Even Hypsara, Astymede’s mother, invited him to supper one evening, muttering afterward that he was “handsome, but too soft-spoken to be dangerous.”

He was never idle. Each morning before dawn, he’d return from the hills with something new—a boar, a hawk, once even a lynx, strung over his shoulder like cloth. The elders marveled at his skills. The young men tried to match him and failed. The young women watched from doorways and windows as he passed, eyes bright.

But he looked for only one.

Astymede.

She avoided him at first. When he passed in the village square, she turned away. When he greeted her after temple, she offered no reply. When he praised her shots during practice, she loosed arrows with red-faced silence. It wasn’t hatred. It was something fiercer—defiance, suspicion, the scent of prey not willing to yield.

It delighted him.

She still trained every morning in the grove north of the village, running drills her father never approved but could no longer forbid. Her brother, Timos, sometimes joined, laughing when she beat him, which she often did.

One morning, she found Hoseok already there.

He stood at the edge of the clearing with a longbow in hand, dressed not like a traveler now, but a hunter. His stance was perfect. His gaze quiet.

She paused, scowled. “This is my place.”

“I rose early,” he said, not looking at her, drawing an arrow with measured grace. “Thought I’d see if the stories were true.”

“What stories?”

He loosed the arrow.

It struck dead center of the bark target she had carved two summers ago.

“That you’re the best archer in Kitharos.”

She walked past him without a word and drew her own bow. Her arrow buried beside his with a dull thud. Close. Closer than his. He turned to her with a smile that was far too pleased.

“I suppose the stories are wrong,” he murmured.

“I suppose they are.”

From that day forward, he began to appear more frequently. Always at the edge of her world. Watching, not speaking. Silent as shadow, observant as the wind. She never saw him at rest, never tired, never disheveled. Always composed. Always ready.

Once, during a village contest held near the riverbank, he joined the archers and outpaced even the best—except her. She hit the final target before he did, and for a fleeting second, his smile faltered.

Then he bowed to her, slowly, and murmured just loud enough for her to hear, “I’ve waited many lifetimes to meet someone like you.”

She turned from him without answering.

That night, at the village feast, he sat beside her family. Hypsara was charmed. Timos curious. Damocles, for once, did not scowl.

“He’s a good hunter,” her father said, carving roasted lamb. “Strong, honorable. You could do worse.”

“I could do better,” Astymede replied.

“You won’t be sixteen forever,” her mother warned, sipping her wine. “Soon it will be time to choose.”

“I’ve already chosen.”

Hypsara’s smile stiffened. “And who is he, this boy who hasn’t shown himself?”

“There is no boy. There’s the forest. My bow. Myself.”

Her father frowned but said nothing more. Beside them, Hoseok only listened, eyes shining in the firelight, lips parted just enough to show a glimpse of teeth.

Later, she caught him alone near the well.

“You’re not like the others,” he said, voice low.

She sighed. “I know.”

“I mean that you… move differently. You don’t step like a villager. You step like a wolf. A god might mistake you for one of his own.”

“I’m not interested in gods,” she snapped.

He laughed, soft. “No. But one might be interested in you.”

She stiffened. “And if he is?”

He stepped closer, only a hand’s breadth away now. “Then he would wait. Until she stopped running.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “Then he’d die waiting.”

She turned. Walked away.

Did not see the smile that followed her.

Not of amusement.

Not of defeat.

But of something far more patient. More inevitable.

Obsession.

The hunt had begun.

And this time, the prey was divine.

——————-

Taglist: @ungodlyjoon