#I cannot go through a January with no snow

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

How am I supposed to think it is winter when it looks like early spring outside?! Or late fall. Probably late fall since less stuff is flooded. I’m pretty sure El Niños aren’t supposed to go this hard. “Global warming isn’t real” I’m going to smash your face into the mud that is SUPPOSED to be covered in a foot of snow by now. I WANTED to go tubing this year but the slope is fucking dry and also my plants have no insulation from the elements. They fields have nothing keeping the dirt down! The birds flew all that way south for nothing! Although the ones that fly here from the arctic are probably having a field day. Maybe not though, they do fluff up more in winter. I should probably be enjoying the fact that I can still use the sidewalks but I can’t! Because this is fucking WEIRD!

[sailoryooons]

Red | KNJ | (m)

☾ Pairing: Werewolf!Namjoon x f. reader

☾ Summary: For as long as you can remember, your village has been relatively normal. But when people begin to turn up dead right after a group of newcomers arrive, pieces of your past start to fall into place, and something feels familiar - particularly the quiet man who can't take his eyes off of you.

☾ Word Count: 21,148

☾ Genre: Supernatural, thriller, smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Fantasy violence, light depections of murder and animal attacks, mentions of gore, discussions about community displacement and violence, Yoongi is an asshole, animal attacks, depictions of blood, tbh reader and Namjoon don’t know each other THAT well when they fuck so idk, implied protecting from a far but not in a stalker way, explicit language, intense sequences of fear and anxiety, reader is attacked by a wolf, there is a mention of animals being hurt/killed but not in explicit details, dead bodies, arson, sexually explicit content invluding vaginal fingering, nipple play, vaginal penetration, a little bit of mention of fluids but not really. 

☾ Published: Sunday, January 21 2024

☾ A/N: I wish I could explain to you how this got to be so long. I wrote it over several weeks and each day I picked it back up, I just kept adding dialogue and scenery and setting. Like half of this isn’t even Namjoon and reader reacting - what was I doing? I wish I knew! I hope you like my spin on Red Riding Hood anyway! I tried to do this in a way that it doesn’t seem creepy that Namjoon was silently looking out for reader but like… I could understand if someone finds it creepy I am so sorry lmfao.  I did read through this to edit but I 100% missed stuff because I'm a rougher editor and this is unbeta'd.

☾ A/N 2: This is a Red Riding Hood Retelling that is similar in vibe to the 2011 Red Riding Hood movie directed by Catherine Hardwicke.

 Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

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Father always said not to go into the woods at night. Like him, though, the woods have always called to you, feeling like a second home. You’ve never been able to explain it, and you’ve stopped trying to. 

It’s a little chilly outside, the first breath of harvest air nipping at your skin. In a few weeks, it will be freezing outside, forcing you into cloaks and furs. 

Grass crunches beneath your feet as you slip through the small yard and toward the tree line. Your house already sits at the edge of the village, the dark trees stretching high above the rooftops. Soon the trees will be dusted in snow, but for now, they sway gently in the autumn breeze, turned silver by the moonlight. 

You’ve always loved the woods. The sounds of the crickets singing and rabbits dashing underfoot are calming, the smell of sticky pine and fresh air invigorating. You especially love them at night, hidden beneath boughs and walking through the shafts of moonlight that slip through the trees. 

The best part is that you don’t feel so alone out here. There is a feeling you cannot place each time you enter the woods, like you’re a little closer to discovering yourself. You’ve been chasing that feeling since you were a little girl, hungry for finding whatever it is that drives you out here. 

Hands tucked into your pockets, you walk the same route you always follow. It isn’t deep into the woods - you aren’t silly enough to believe you’re safe alone in the dark - but it’s enough of a walk to clear your head. 

Howls echo up into the night, a wolf pack on their hunt. The sound of them makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

The wolves don’t come very close to the village anymore since the vicious wolf hunts when you were barely old enough to remember them. The relationship between the men of your home and the wolves in the wood is violent, a chill cooling your skin every time they’re mentioned by one of your neighbors. 

A terrible howl splits the night. You feel your body go cold with fear, warmth leaching out of you as you press yourself against a tree, heart in your throat. The sound is something like a howl laced with utter anguish, chilling you down to the marrow. It tapers off into a whimper before falling silent again. 

Pressed against the tree, you wait. Your heart is beating so harshly that it feels like you might vomit in fear. Soft whimpering drifts on the wind. You hold your breath and strain your ears. It almost sounds like an injured dog.

It tugs at your heartstrings. You bite your lip, weighing your options. The noise sounded like it came from the south a little off of your path and toward the ravine that splits the part of the woods that is relatively safe from the deeper part where the animals are more lethal and more frequent. You could easily find your way back if you made it to the ravine, and as the whimpering vanishes entirely, you can’t help but imagine an animal in pain. 

The most difficult part about working with Dr. Kim at the veterinary clinic is always the animals that he can’t fix. You’ve held the hands of loved ones who couldn’t save their aging dogs, and you’ve hushed lame horses as Dr. Kim prepared draughts to send them to sleep and then to death. 

Pivoting, you turn and march toward the initial sound. It may perhaps be the single worst idea you’ve ever had, but you suddenly don’t care. You’ve worked with Dr. Kim enough to know how to triage animal wounds, and the thought of leaving something alone and suffering replaces any sort of fear you originally had. 

You’re careful not to lose your footing as the ground slopes steadily as you get closer to the ravines and canyons of the south side. Leaves shift underneath your feet as you go. It feels overly loud in a forest that is suddenly so quiet, only filled with the softest sound of labored breathing.

A small dip in the ground catches you off guard. You gasp, a scream stuck in your throat as you lose your footing and slide down the slope, your back and ass hitting the ground hard as you slide, leaves hissing underneath you. You scramble to grab a hold of something, but the hill isn’t very high and you hit the bottom of it quickly.

Heart pounding, you lay in the damp leaves for a second, panting, hand pressed to your heart as it rattles under your palm. Just as the fear settles down, a growl makes your blood run cold. Slowly, you begin to turn your face toward the left. You realize you’ve slid down a dell, and a few yards from you is a large, shivering form covered in fur.

You blink. Once. Twice. You realize that the large mound of fur is a creature - a wolf. It lays on the ground shaking, a ride of jet black hair standing up on its spine, hackles raised. The wolf’s ears are pinned back and its yellow eyes are wild, nearly consumed by the dark pupils drinking you in. Its teeth are bared, foam and drool lining pink gums as it snares, nose twitching. 

It’s the biggest wolf you’ve ever seen. You can’t move. You can only stare at it, wondering why it continues to snarl and stare at you, but not move. Your eyes rove its trembling form from maw to tail, and you realize its front leg is wet and held at an odd angle.

“Oh,” you gasp, realizing that the wolf’s foot is stuck in a claw trap. “I’m so sorry. I… can I help you?”

The wolf stops growling for a moment as if it understands. You stare with wide eyes, not daring to move as it assesses you. It leans toward you and sniffs, the sound of snuffing loud in the silence of the dell. For a few moments, you just watch as the beast regards you. 

Then, it chuffs and looks at its own foot, whining. You sit up slowly in amazement. The creature watches you with what you can only describe as a caution. You get up carefully and make your way toward the wolf. It watches your every movement. It can surely smell your fear as you get a few feet away, crouching down with your hands held out to let it know you’re not going to cause harm. 

You pause, waiting for permission to examine the wolf’s foot. It gazes at you and for a moment, you lose yourself in that burning, golden gaze. The wolf’s eyes are so human that it’s hard to see it as a simple beast. There is something alive and intelligent there.

As if sensing that you’re waiting for the all-clear, the wolf chuffs and lowers its head toward its foot, gesturing. You smile a little at that, marveling at the communication skills. Carefully, you look at the trap around the wolf’s foot. It’s a metal contraption that is pressure-engaged, with metal teeth. You cringe seeing the red on matted fur and metal.

“You must have stepped on the pressure plate,” you tell the wolf, though it probably doesn’t understand. You gesture to the round plate at the center of the trap. “It would have been in a circle and when stepped on, snapped closed like jaws.”

The wolf whines and bows its head. You wince. “They’re really strong,” you admit, chewing on your lip. “I don’t think I can pull it apart all the way, but I might be able to open it enough just for a moment for you to pull out your leg. Can you do that?” 

A huff. Somehow, you think if it could, the wolf might roll its eyes. Your mouth twitches in an almost smile as you get onto your knees, wiping sweaty hands on your pants. This close to the beast, you realize just how large it is. 

“This is going to hurt,” you insist. “Please… Please don’t bite me, okay? I want to help you.” 

The wolf lowers its head until it's lying on the ground, gold eyes watching you. Its muscles are tense and the hair along the ridge of its back is still standing, afraid and alert. 

“Okay. I’m just… I’m just going to touch the trap and try to get a grip first, okay?” The wolf doesn’t answer. It blinks at you, waiting. Licking your lips, you whisper, more to yourself than anything, “Okay, I can do this.”

Slowly, you reach out toward the wolf’s injured foot. You flick your gaze over to the wolf looking for a reaction. It just watches you, though you feel tension. The metal is wicked cold to the touch. You hiss and the creature flinches a little, a whistle-whine escaping its nose. You mutter an apology, fingers pressing to the ridges of the cold metal. 

It’s slippery with blood. You chew on your lip, prodding your finger in the space between the metal teeth on the edges where it’s not clamped around the wolf’s paw. You wiggle your finger a little, testing the strength of the closed jaws of the trap. It doesn’t budge and you curse. 

Sweat beads on the back of your neck, freezing in the cool air. You lift your other hand, very carefully trying to find a good grip on either side of the jaws to pry them open. The movement jostles the trap a little, the wolf snarling in pain. You flinch and rip your hands away, looking at it. Gold eyes burn and the wolf huffs, as though telling you to be more careful.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I’m nervous and it’s hard to get a grip on it.” The wolf snorts. You glare at it. “I’m sorry, do you want to do this instead?” Your only answer is a rumble as it looks the other direction. “That’s what I thought.”

Sighing, you turn your attention back to the metal. Anyone a little stronger and older could probably pull it open. Seokjin for sure could - even Hoseok who is as old as you are, but plenty stronger. You try not to think about how weak you are, and instead wiggle your fingers through the gaps in the teeth.

The cool metal stings your hands. It’s not a great grip and your fingers are placed in bad positioning due to the teeth of the trap. Taking in a big breath, you try to pull the metal jaws apart. 

Nothing happens and you let your breath out, panting lightly as you stop trying to pull. The wolf flicks its tale but makes no other sound. With the way you’re gripping the jaws, you realize that pulling it apart is going to be difficult. It would rely on your forearms to peel the metal jaws backward… But if you were to push down and push apart, you could use your body weight as an extra boost. It would be pushing the jaws apart from above instead of trying to pry them apart with sheer strength.

Leaning high on your knees, you position yourself straight over the trap, your weight settling in on your forearms. You take another deep breath and this time when you pull, you push your weight down on the trap. For a second, it seems like it’s not going to give. You hiss through your teeth, muscles clenching, fingers burning as your skin presses against the metal as hard as you can stand it.

Then, the jaw opens a little. You grind your teeth harder, the ache in your arms growing as you push as hard as you can. Your forearms are trembling. You feel the vein throbbing in your neck and forehead. Just when you think you’re going to fail, the jaws give way again. You growl, feeling a surge of energy go through you at the small victory and you shove your body weight down on it hard. The springs creak a little and open more.

Little by little, the trap opens up. Your vision pulses red as you pant, strength waning. And then it’s like you hit the let-off point of the contraption, pushing it enough that the rest of the way it just falls open. You let go of the trap and the wolf yanks its leg from it. It now lies open and bloody as you collapse on the ground next to it, breathing hard, breath misting the air. 

Your heart beats in your ears, pulse thrumming in your neck wildly. For a second, you forget all about the wolf. You laugh up to the dark trees, a giddy feeling shooting through you. You did it, even though you didn’t think you would be able to. 

A dark presence alerts you. Slowly, you turn your head to face the wolf. It’s standing almost above you, looking more imposing than it did before. You swallow hard, mouth going dry as it blinks down at you. It favors the injured leg, but stands nonetheless, watching you. 

“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, limbs trembling not only with exhaustion but fear. 

The wolf doesn’t kill you at all. Instead, it leans its head down and presses its cold, wet nose to your arm. You flinch, squeezing your eyes shut for a minute. Then the beast chuffs, making you peak at it. When you meet its gold eyes, you get the sense it is vaguely amused.

“Oh,” you breathe, relief sagging your aching body. “Cool. You’re not going to kill me.”

Standing, you realize that the wolf is still taller than you. You tilt your head upward, staring. There’s no way this is a normal creature, but you don’t know what else it could possibly be. You recall the legends of werewolves and dire wolves told by the men of your town, but you’re unsure if those are real. 

“Let’s take care of this,” you mutter, grabbing a branch and jamming it into the pressure plate of the trap. It snaps shut with a loud clang, snapping the branch, but otherwise ineffective now that it’s re-sprung. The wolf flinches and whines at the sound, no doubt remembering the feeling of the instrument on its leg. “Sorry.” 

Silence stretches out over the woods, the night growing deeper and cooler. You shiver, rubbing your hands up and down your arms as you turn to the wolf, which watches you keenly. 

“Will you be okay?” the question comes out as a whisper. The wolf huffs and steps forward, pressing its snout to your head. It’s cold and wet, making you shiver as it snuffs against your skin. “Good. I um - should start climbing this hill.”

It swivels its head and turns, waiting. You grin, realizing it will accompany you back up, at least. Though injured, the wolf is able to walk with three legs, the wounded leg lifted off the ground. Its gait is awkward and hobbled, but the two of you make it up the hill together, your breathing labored. 

At the top, moonlight shines through the trees and you both pause. A series of howls goes up in the night, startling you. The wolf looks up, ears twitching as it tilts its head, listening. Slowly, it turns to look at you, gold eyes sparkling. 

“I guess you have to go, huh?” it bows its head once. “Stay safe, okay?” 

The wolf steps forward. Presses its muzzle into your temple and huffs, making you grin. You smell pine and bergamot, pleasant and calming. “Yeah, you’re welcome.” 

Slowly, the wolf clambours off, vanishing into the dark woods, leaving you to hurry home yourself. 

-

“Wear this at all times for protection, especially in the forest,” you murmur, holding the neatly scrawled note. You frown and look down at the fine cloak folded on the dresser. It had appeared overnight as if by magic, a funny feeling flipping your stomach. “Where did you come from?”

The cloak, of course, has no answer. You lift your hand to feel it, breathing out a dreamy sigh. The inside is lined with soft bear fur. Outside is some of the finest cloth you’ve ever seen, gentle but sturdy to the touch and dyed the most delicious shade of scarlet. 

Carefully, you lift the cloak. It’s a little big for your size, but not unwearable. You slip it over your sleeping gown, loving the way the material ripples like blood over your shoulders, the fur lining keeping you warm. It smells like pine and bergamot, making you pause. 

Certainly, a wolf did not bring you a cloak. Still, the timing is quite odd. You don’t know who else could possibly make a cloak so fine in the village, and the smell… you shake your head. A wolf did not bring you a cloak, but it did seem perhaps you had a secret admirer. 

-

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER

“Boo!” You scream and drop the collection of logs in your hands, whirling around. Hoseok bursts into laughter, doubling over as he slaps his hands against his knees, hot breath misting the air. “You should see your face!”

“You rotten bastard!” You growl, picking up a log and throwing it at him. It doesn’t hit him, but he jumps away from it anyway, careful not to let it drop on his toes. “That isn’t funny!”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not!” You crouch down and start picking up the timber. Hoseok at least has the decency to help you, starting with the log you threw at him. “There was another animal attack last night, in case you didn’t know.” 

That makes him pause. “There was?”

“Yes,” you hiss, snatching the last log and standing. “So stop lurking around corners and scaring me. It isn’t funny.” 

“Well, an animal isn’t going to attack you in the village. Unless you’re talking about Mingyu’s fiancee, anyway. That one is feral indeed.” 

You level Hoseok with a look and he gives you a grin. His nose and ears are red from the cold - and maybe a little guilt for scaring you - and he offers to take the timber from your arms. You let him, shoveling it over to him and marching around the front of your house. 

Wind howls between the houses, ripping at the ends of your red cloak. It catches your hood, throwing it up over your head as you shiver and tuck your hands into the fur lining. A shiver rattles up your spine as you kick the snow from your boots and rush inside, Hoseok quick on your heels. 

“So what happened?” Hoseok asks, following you to your room. 

“The Matheson Family,” you mumble. “They were attacked. San went down to collect new saddles his father ordered and found them slaughtered - their hounds too.” 

“They have hunting hounds - what the hell can kill those?”

“Perhaps it’s the wolves again. Dr. Kim was going with the city council to investigate.” 

Hoseok sighs. “The timing isn’t good. It’s about time the traders arrived. What if they bypass us entirely if the road is too dangerous?”

It’s a thought that has been plaguing everyone in the village. Because of the remote location on the north side of the woods, your small spec on the map relies on traders at the beginning of every winter for things that you’ll need to make it through: salt, extra grain and fruits, tools too advanced and large for the local smithy, repairs on houses and wagons. 

Arrival times of traders fluctuate every year. Sometimes there’s a cold snap, burying roads in heavy snow that are unnavigable. Other times, there is unrest in the woods when a rogue band of thieves gets the idea to rob travelers and hide in the woods until the city council sends a team of men to deal with it. 

Now, though, it’s getting into the late period of their arrival. The entire village holds its breath waiting for them, people looking out the open gates down the snowy road hoping to see a courier come ahead to announce the arrival of wagons and troupes of people. 

“Do you really think it’s wolves?” Hoseok asks. “I don’t think I’ve heard of wolf attacks like this since…” 

Hoseok winces. “It’s fine,” you assure him with a smile. “It’s not like I remember that time, much less remember my dad.” 

It’s true. Early memories of your childhood are murky at best. You remember being happy and loving your dad. You remember a period of fear and general uneasiness in the town, wolf attacks rampant and frequent. There had been plenty of men and women who died during that period, including your father.

That was a long time ago, though. For the most part, life in your small village is uninteresting. Some winters are harder than others, like the current season, but you’ve always managed to get by. 

“Do you remember much of that time period?” you ask him quietly. 

“Not really. Just that everyone was afraid. It was a really harsh winter and it drove wolves down from the mountains. I remember it being strange.”

“Strange how?” 

You chew your lip and shake your head, trying to encapsulate the thread of memory you have. Of feeling the tremor of fear in the air, the cold feeling of dread… like something violent was in the village. Something wrong.

“I don’t know. I was so young.”

“Hmm.” 

The talk of wolves makes you think about your wolf. Your lips curve at the memory of how gentle the wolf was, the somber eyes, and the smell of pine and bergamot. 

It would be a lie to say you had not gone out to the woods several times since that night to try and find the beast again. You haven’t seen him since, but you’ve always had a feeling he’s there somewhere. Watching. Waiting. 

“Either way,” Hoseok sighs. “Dad seems worried this winter will be like that time. He’s been doing a lot of will and testament papers at the office. He works late every night and is gone early in the morning.” 

“Really?”

“Want to hear what Mr. Hillshire is leaving for his kids?” Hoseok leans forward, conspiratorial. “You won’t believe it.” 

-

The bell over the door rings as someone enters the salon of Dr. Kim’s veterinary practice, drawing your attention. You straighten when you see San walk in.

“Hi, San,” you greet. “Here to pick up Maple?” 

“Yeah, is that alright? Mom is busy at the shop.” 

“Of course.” You wipe your sweaty hands on your skirts and gesture behind you with your thumb. “I’ll go fetch her. Dr. Kim is on an errand but she’s ready to go.” 

The back of the building with the kennels is quiet. The Choi family cat and two other sleeping dogs are the only occupants of the practice, making it an easy day. Maple is dozing in her kennel, chirping in protest when you open the cage and scoop her into a carrier. She’s a lazy thing, a calico with pretty eyes and a newly stitched ear. 

Carefully you carry her up front. San is standing patiently in the lobby, hands behind his back as he looks around nervously. You raise your brows as you come around the counter, handing over the carrier. “Everything okay?”

“Hmm?”

“You look nervous. It’s just me and the Lowells’ hounds back here.” 

“Oh, yes.” His ears blush pink as he accepts the carrier and steps back. “Just a nervous energy in general. I have been since um…”

Oh. You had forgotten that it was San who discovered the Matheson family disemboweled by some kind of animal. The constable had thought that maybe it was a pack of wolves but was concerned by how big the claw marks and destruction were. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt.

“For what?”

“That you had to see that, I guess? It must have been terrifying.”

“A little,” he admits, looking at his shoes. “I walked the path to the Mathesons all the time. I don’t ever recall seeing something that could… do that.”

“Was it that awful?” 

He nods. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, I go on hunting parties. We’ve seen the leftovers from bears and wolves. This was something worse. It felt like…” He shakes his head and looks up at you. “It felt angry.”

“Angry?”

“Yeah. I know that doesn’t make sense. It was probably just a beast coming down from the mountain because it was starving. You know how harsh winters are.” 

You hum in agreement. 

San dismisses himself, thanking you again for helping with the family cat and throwing a wave over his shoulder. You return it half-heartedly, already distracted with thoughts of what the animal attacks could mean.

You think about your wolf and how kind and intelligent it was. You don’t remember ever feeling a sense of impending doom like you do now, a heaviness to the air as you stand idly behind the counter. 

Dr. Kim's return startles you at the counter. You press your hands flat against the top of the desk, leaning up on your tiptoes as you see his son Seokjin enter behind him. Your heart flutters a little at the sight, still overwhelmed by his handsome face. 

Seokjin is tall and broad, with dark hair and a beautiful face. His sharp eyes find you and he gives you a half smile, though there seems to be something on his mind as he follows his father into the backroom, Dr. Kim barely saying hello as he goes, his brows furrowed in deep thought.

The two of them disappear and you watch the door swing shut behind them. Curious, you trail around the counter and softly walk over to the door, pulling it open a smidge.

It’s difficult to pick up on their words, but you can hear Dr. Kim’s timbre speaking in low tones from somewhere in the backroom. You hold your breath and wedge the door open a little more, pressing your ear toward the gap between the frame and the door. 

“... again. They’re going to want to start hunting parties again soon.”

“So what do we do?”

Silence. Then, “Send a message….”

“... brought it on themselves… it’s time to make things right.” 

Behind you, the bell rings at the door. You gasp, letting go of the door to the back room and spin around, heart hammering in your chest. Hoseok stands at the door, raising his brows in question. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand, suddenly angry that he’s startled you and ruined your sleuthing.

“I promised your mom I would walk home with you at the end of your shift, remember? Dangerous out there.” 

You blink and look out the window, realizing that the heavy gray of evening is setting over the road. You hadn’t realized it was so late. 

Nodding, you grab your cloak in a hurry. You pop your head into the back room, both Seokjin and Dr. Kim looking at you as you do. “I’m leaving for the evening, sir. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, thank you for watching the place while I was gone. Tomorrow we have to make a house call to the Marrow farm. Lame horse.”

Seokjin frowns. “Do you think that is wise?” Dr. Kim looks at his son under heavy brows. “With the current conditions.” 

“We’ll be fine.” Something passes between them, son and father locked in a heated gaze. You stand there awkwardly, glancing between the two.

Seokjin breaks his stare from his father and flashes you a grin. “You have someone to walk you home?”

“Yeah, Hoseok is here.” You hug the cloak tighter to your chest and Seokjin’s eyes drop to it. An unreadable expression passes his face before he nods. “Have a good evening!”

“You too.”

Leaving them behind, you head to where Hoseok waits for you, examining drawings of animal skeletons and anatomy. You pull your cloak on, feeling safe and warm under the red material. Hoseok looks up at you, thrusting his thumb at one of the drawings of a horse. “I don’t look like that, right?” 

-

The red cloak tied around you wicks the sweat from the back of your neck. Your fingers work quickly as you tie it, knowing you’re already late to meeting Dr. Kim. Thankfully, you don’t make a habit of being late and you’re sure he won’t mind too much.

Strange dreams had plagued you all night. Images of wolves, blood and mist. Echoes of howling, screaming and thunder. Now as you hurry out of your home and into the wicked wind of winter, you cannot shake a sense of premonition.

Dr. Kim is already on the doorstep when you arrive at the veterinary office, a heavy coat on his shoulders and a bag of tools in his hand. He nods when he sees you and comes down the steps, turning toward the south exit of the village. 

Neither of you speak. Beyond the fact that you don’t think you’d be able to hear Dr. Kim over the howling wind, it doesn’t feel like the kind of trip that requires speaking. The evergreens on either side of the road loom over you, bows heavy with snow. Every so often, a branch cracks with the weight of frozen icicles, making you flinch with the sound.

It feels like you’re being watched. Every so often, you swivel your head this way and that, glancing at the trees. The trunks are too close together and the branches to tangle to see beyond them on either side of the road. Still, your skin tingles from something beyond the cold, you just don’t know what. 

The Marrow farm is only a little over a mile from the main village, but the snow covered roads make it slow going. As you near the edge of where their acres begin, your boots are already heavy with melted slush and your calves and thighs burn from dragging your feet through the path. 

Perhaps it was not a good day to do a house call. 

Passing white-covered gates, you’re thankful that at least the wind has died down as the morning turns into midday. The sun is hidden by clouds, but there is a hint of warmth in the air. The Marrow farm is made up of three buildings: the small house in front, the large barn to the back left where they keep their animals, and a giant silo for grains. 

As you near the house, a loud banging reaches you. Both you and Dr. Kim pause, listening as the sound carries on the wind. It doesn’t sound like hammering, but rather like a door slamming over and over again. 

“Barn door?” you suggest, looking up at Dr. Kim. His dark eyes look at the house, expression grim. “But why would they let it slam relentlessly?” 

“Keep your wits about you,” he murmurs, ignoring your question. “Go to the main house. I’ll go round to the barn. Perhaps they’ve forgotten the appointment.”

No smoke comes from the chimney. No snow is cleared from the footpath to the door. The shutters are closed, which makes sense to keep the cold out. As you approach the steps leading up to the porch, you note that none of the hounds are baying. The Marrow’s have several bloodhounds, all of which keep noisy providence around the threshold of the door. 

Spine tingling, you lift your hand and knock. There’s no answer. You strain your ears, leaning forward for any hint that the Marrow’s or one of their two sons are coming to the door. Not even the dogs alert them of your presence. 

You think about San finding the Mathesons butchered and your stomach drops. You knock again, knuckles stinging with cold as they rap harshly against the wooden door. Tucking your hand back into your cloak, you wait. 

Nothing comes. 

Taking a deep breath, you reach for the door and twist the handle. It opens easily, swinging inward to a cold, empty home. Inside, the air is still and dead. Behind you, the breeze brushes the edges of your cloak and the hood on your head. 

Silence hangs. Licking your lips, you lift a foot. It hands over the threshold, fear making you pause. There is nothing inside the home, and yet you find that you’re utterly terrified of stepping inside. Your stomach knots and for a few moments, you just stand there with your foot in the air, staring with unseeing eyes into the dark interior. 

You step into the room and pause. Nothing happens. The air inside the home is stale, like the doors and windows have not been opened for a few days. The cold is bone deep, clinging to the undisturbed air. You scan the room for any sign of life, but see nothing that stirs. 

Everything looks lived in. There are knitted blankets tossed across the backs of old arm chairs, boots by the door, unlaced and soft with age. Mugs have been turned upside down and placed on a towel near the basin for drying, and there are dice on the kitchen table. 

Navigating slowly, you move to the hall with bedrooms. Doors hang open, revealing unmade beds and clothes on the floor. Here too, the air feels undisturbed. You hear the breeze outside and the soft creak of the house, but nothing else makes a sound, save for the loud beating of your own heart. 

Shivering, you make your way to the front of the home. Something foul hangs in the air and you want to be rid of the feeling, quickening your steps to leave through the front door and-

Fear stabs deep into your stomach when you see the wolf standing in the doorway. It stands half in the home, half out, only the front two paws over the threshold. The beast barely fits in the door frame, wide as two men standing side by side and tall as a horse. 

You don’t move. It stares at you with bright, burning eyes. Its fur is dark, though there is a jagged ring of light fur around the right, front paw. You swear you smell pine and bergamot. Something nudges at the back of your mind as the two of you stand off - and it clicks into place.

“You,” you breathe. “You’re the wolf I helped!” 

For a moment, the bright yellow eyes stare at you. They’re unreadable, and yet… emotive. Intelligent. Understanding. The wolf dips its snout in a nod. 

“What are you doing here? Where are the Marrows?” 

The wolf’s ears flicker. Slowly, it backs out of the house. Throwing caution to the wind, you rush after him, nearly tripping over a wolfskin rug in the home.

Outside, the wolf stands below the porch. You step on the porch and pull up short, heart racing as you see the pack of wolves standing in front of the home.

The wolves are a variety of colors and sizes. You dare not move your head, but you scan them with your eyes, drinking in the different creatures. The only thing that they have in common is that they are freakishly large. 

Your wolf - for in your mind he’s yours - stands in front of you. He growls, hair on his spine raising as he regards the other wolves. There’s a silent standoff of sorts, the wolf you saved facing the others. You cannot understand their body language, but the air seems charged. 

The smell of smoke is in the air. You don’t dare look for the source, too afraid to do anything to disrupt the standoff. Breathing in deeply, you think you smell cedar. Oil. Something else that you can’t identify. 

Footsteps crunch the snow. You whip your head to the side, a warning on your tongue as Dr. Kim rounds the house, a haunted expression on his face. He stops abruptly, looking at the display in front of him behind frosted glasses. He says nothing - does nothing but glance between you, the wolf in front of you, and the others. 

Finally, one of the other wolves chuffs and shakes, dispelling snow. It has an all white coat and intense, dark eyes that look at you with… annoyance, if wolves can look annoyed. It turns to leave and the others follow - all five of them - as the white wolf leads them at a loping trot toward the silo and the woods beyond.

Your wolf turns to peer at you, ears flicking before it breaks off into a run, trailing after its pack to leave you and Dr. Kim standing in silence, watching them go. 

Slowly, you turn to Dr. Kim. He scrutinizes you, eyes squinted. “Where did you get that cloak?” 

You look down at the rich, red cloth. “I… well it just appeared, one day when I was younger. I don’t know.”

He regards you suspiciously. “I see. Come. We must leave right away.”

Dr. Kim begins walking at a fast pace back toward town, clutching his tool case. “Wait! Where are the Morrows?” 

Instead of answering, Dr. Kim continues on. You scramble after him, careful not to slip on the icy stairs. The wind picks up and you smell a fire again, making you turn back as you try to catch up. You almost stumble over your feet, eyebrows shooting up as you see orange flames consuming the barn. 

“Dr. Kim!”

Again, he says nothing. You stop and stare, watching as the fire eats away at the barn. The smoke burns black. Fueled by oil, you think. Looking over your shoulder, you watch Dr. Kim’s retreating back and wonder what exactly it is that he’s done. 

“Did you set that fire?” you demand, chasing him. He gives you a withering look. “What is going on?”

“Speak nothing of this,” he snaps. “We arrived here to make a housecall and discovered that the barn was on fire. We suspect that Mr. Marrow was burning to melt the snow around the barn and that the barn caught. The Marrow family died inside trying to put out the fire.”

“But the wolves-”

“Do not mention the wolves, girl.”

“Did they kill the Marrows?” His jaw works but he doesn’t answer. “Did they kill the Mathesons?” 

“This village has a complicated history,” he says finally. He pulls his coat tighter. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to stay out of it. Say nothing of the wolves and stay away from them. You’ll make it through winter.”

-

Two weeks pass, the secret heavy on your tongue. You work with Dr. Kim as though nothing happened, and when people ask about the Marrow farm, you recite vague details. You don’t know why you do it but… the image of the wolf - your wolf - floats in your mind each time you spit out the lie. 

Thoughts plague you as Hoseok lounges on the porch of the office that belongs to Hoseok’s father, who acts as the town’s scribe and legal affairs recorder. A sudden warm day has brought everyone outdoors, lounging on their porches and trying to take advantage of the melting snow around the buildings. The streets are muddy and murky as kids run by, feet splashing. 

A group of men prowl around the outskirts of the village. Sun shines through the slats of the overhang in front of the inn, warming where you lean on the porch railing. Hoseok rattles on about gossip he’s heard from his mother’s tea parties and his father’s work on will and testaments with the growing fear of death in the village. 

“Plagues, serial killings, blood feuds and animal attacks,” Hoseok sighs, staring up at the ceiling where he lies. “Good for father’s business. Bad for my cramping hand trying to help him.” 

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally, thoughts lost as you stare out into the street with unseeing eyes.

Shouts make you flinch. You stand rod straight, gripping the railing as you look for the source of the disruption. Hoseok stands up immediately, joining you at the railing as the pair of you lean to look toward the entrance to the town. 

At first, you think that it’s about another wolf attack. People rush into the street, looking toward the commotion. Then you see it. Gleeful cheers spring up to the buildings closest to the town’s entrance as the first few traders enter the road. Your heart soars when you see donkeys pulling a cart behind them, followed by more people carrying packs and towing small carts. 

“The traders!” You breathe, feeling a sigh of relief sweep through you. “They’ve made it!” 

Excitement ripples through the village. People come flocking from the buildings to welcome cart after cart full of people. Some traders tow full carriages with riders at the front, the shutters on their carriages tied shut, hiding their wares inside. 

Hoseok lounges back down, letting out a sigh of relief. You feel the same, leaning on the railing again to watch as the carts are towed down the road, pulling down different streets to set up shop and find accommodations. 

Most of the traders look vaguely familiar to you - you see the Robin’s with their cloth cart and Morty with his towering carriage of unusual wares and charms. The Yang twins set off small, popping fireworks from the back of their cart, making the children squeal. 

Something catches your eye. “There are more traders than usual,” you tell Hoseok, frowning as your eyes settle on the large men who walk among the carts, all of whom wear weapons belts and look from side to side as they walk. “I think they’re warriors, Hoseok.”

“Warriors?” he laughs. “Strange.”

“No really, there are several men with blades at the hip and bows on the back. They look… guarded.”

He tilts his head, eyeing where your eyes flit from person to person. “Perhaps the road is as hard as we suspected this year.” 

You hum in agreement, watching as the caravans stop and unload, the muddy streets filling with people and chatter and bubbling with excitement. It feels like the bubble of anxiety looming over the town has popped - at least temporarily - relieving the pressure that had been building with every passing day. 

Leaning against the rail, you’re content to observe. All manner of people and things are pulled from carts. Vendors start setting up right away, people forming lines for ingredients, cloth, and wares. The largest line of all is for weapons and metal tools, Old Man Heo barely has time to park his cart before the men of the village ask how much for iron arrowheads and blades. 

A shiver goes through you as your eyes sweep back toward the town entrance where more people pour in. Fewer caravans come through - now it’s just people with pack mules or bags over their shoulders. 

The hairs on your arm stand up when you see him. Wind lifts the edge of your cloak, making it flutter around you. You watch as he walks down the main street with the other travelers, eyes flicking around as he drinks in the buildings and the crowd of villagers coming to welcome the traders. 

As though he senses your staring, his head snaps to you. You feel frozen to the spot, your fingers tightening on the rail as you meet his eyes. They’re unfathomably dark and yet… a tingle of familiarity slithers up your spine. 

He stares at you in turn. You’re sure he’s looking at you, paused near the cart he stands next to, dark gaze focused on where you stand on the porch. 

You’ve never seen him.  You’re sure of it. You’d remember a handsome face like that anywhere. His long, dark hair is pushed back from his face, revealing a sharp jawline, a strong nose, and intense eyes. His lips are red from the cold - pretty against tan skin.

He’s tall. Taller than most men in the village and broad, with strong shoulders and thick arms, though it’s hard to tell underneath his tunic. Like the other hardy men accompanying traders, he has a weapons belt snug around his waist and the bulk of his frame implies that he knows how to use them. 

The man doesn’t break eye contact. His mouth begins to tilt in what you think might be the start of a smile when Hoseok sits up abruptly, startling you. You break eye contact, looking at Hoseok who bites into an apple, offering you one. 

“You frightened me,” you snap, a little irritated at being distracted. When you glance back up at the man, his attention is elsewhere. 

“What were you staring at anyway?” he asks, crunching bits of apple. 

“Nothing,” you murmur, eyes on the flexing back of the man as he helps unload a wagon near the inn. Something niggles at the back of your mind. I know you. “Nothing at all.” 

“Want to visit the vendors later when they’re all set up? I would love to get some spiced wine and listen to Marla’s stories tonight.”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. “Let’s do just that.” 

-

Every minute that passes by feels like an eternity. Incurable energy simmers under the surface as you wait for the day to fade to evening. You clean the entire house, you collect wood from outside, you dress and then change into something else, and you ultimately end up pacing back and forth in your room while you wait for Hoseok to arrive. 

Your thoughts are consumed by the mystery man you had seen earlier. His handsome face swims in your memory. The clear image of his face is accompanied by some feeling you cannot identify, something that almost feels like nostalgia. How can you feel nostalgia for someone you don’t know? 

Hoseok finally arrives, letting himself into your house cheerily. The brief respite from winter is already bleeding away, the wind carrying a painful promise as it lifts your hood outside. The traders, it seems, arrived at the perfect time, the cloudy sky promising snow in the morning once more. 

Energy sizzles in the air. It’s as though the momentary fear of the wolf attacks is momentarily forgotten with the arrival of the vendors and travelers. The noise echoes from every street, torches, and fires lighting up the alleyways and down as people hang lamps in the windows and carts string up tea lights. 

Though you’re nervous, you are temporarily distracted as Hoseok pulls you through a tangle of carts toward Sal’s Sweets. Your stomach grumbles when you catch the scent of melting sugar and sweet confections, joining the line at Hoseok’s side to pick up hot, sticky sweets. 

With hot, sweet rolls drizzled in honey in hand, you and Hoseok explore the vendor carts. It is an explosion of color and lights, glittering jewelry hanging from displays, hot meats sizzling in pants over fires, the flash of powder and light as the Yang twins set off more fireworks, and the smell of spices as you pass by herb carts and tents. 

Everywhere you go, you see the men from before, looming near carts with weapons and steely expressions. But not even the eerie sight of them can bring down the spirits of the villagers, kids running with new kites and jars full of fireflies. 

As you stand in line with Hoseok who wants new inkwells, you listen to passing chatter. From what you gather, it was a hard trip this way on the caravans this year. The winter was just as harsh on the road as it was in the village, and the traders' voices become quiet when they talk about thieves and monsters in the woods.

You exchange a glance with Hoseok and he nods. Wolves. 

Wordlessly, you wait as Hoseok points out the inks that he wants. You begin to crane your neck, looking for the familiar stranger that you had seen before. The square is crowded and packed tight with people, making it nearly impossible to make out much beyond a few feet in front of you.

You spot Dr. Kim walking next to Seokjin, both of their heads bowed as they speak to one another. You narrow your eyes, remembering the way Dr. Kim had silenced you at the Marrow farm. You watch them as they head toward the road that the veterinary practice is on, pausing as a man pushes off the wall to join them.

It’s him you realize. You recognize the broad shoulders and the dark hair as he turns his back to you, walking with the Kims down the road. You don’t even have to think twice.

“Hey,” you tug Hoseok’s sleeve. “I’m going to go see Dr. Kim about something really quick. I’ll meet you at the inn?”

“Sure.” He frowns. “Is it safe to go alone?”

“With all of these people?” You’re already backing away and shrugging. “Definitely.” 

Without waiting for Hoseok to respond, you turn on your heel and rush into the crowd. The bodies of people immediately swallow you. The sound and sights and smells become a blur as you push through the crowd, shouldering people aside. You get some nasty looks from the force at which you move, but they immediately forget you as more people press in.

Less people pass you by as you walk up the street, pulling your cloak in tight. The lights in front of the building are off. You creep up the stairs and try the handle, finding it locked. It doesn’t matter, you sneak around the back of the building to the rear entrance and press your ear to the door. When you hear nothing, you try the handle and it twists.

Victorious, you open the door and slide through. The hallway is narrow with four doors on the right leading to examination rooms and two doors on the left. The first door leads to the kennel area where you hear voices. The second leads to the front lobby and desk.

The front lobby is the safest option, lest you get caught eavesdropping in the hallway when they leave. Carefully, you creep by the door, holding your breath and praying the floor doesn’t creak. Your heart pounds as you inch past the door, hearing deep voices on the other side as you go by. 

Clearing the door, you hurry into the lobby and to the door behind the desk that leads to the kennels. Crouching down low to hide yourself from anyone walking by the windows, you carefully pull the door open, unwilling to open it any further than the width of your index finger. Pressing your ear to the open gap, you listen.

“We talked about discretion,” Dr. Kim says, his voice frustrated. “This isn’t discretion. This is harassment and fear-mongering.”

“I told you,” a deep, smooth voice answers. You assume it must belong to the stranger and you shiver, eyes fluttering as the sound of it washes over you. “It isn’t my decision to make. I do not lead. Yoongi made it very clear how he wishes to proceed.” 

“Yoongi is a lunatic.”

“He’s the alpha.”

You frown. Alpha? You’re familiar with the concept of alphas in packs of dogs and herding animals, but you don’t know what that has to do with people or who Yoongi is. 

“The hunts will begin tomorrow.”

You think Dr. Kim means the hunting for the wolves. It makes sense now that the traders are in town and they can stock up on weapons. 

“As is the way of things,” the stranger answers with a sigh. “You know why Yoongi has chosen this path.”

“Is revenge worth it?”

“Perhaps your kind do not understand.” The stranger’s voice hardens. You wonder what he means by your kind. “You have one foot in the forest, one in the village.” 

“We understand, but we’re also not reckless.” Charged quiet hangs in the air. You hold your breath, your heart thundering in your chest, waiting for the sound of footsteps at the end of a conversation. “Why are you here, Namjoon? You came alone.”

Namjoon. The name washes over you, a warm feeling like the first spray of summer rain. It must be the stranger's name. 

Namjoon answers, “There is… a protected here. But I still fear for them. Yoongi and the others are angry - I wish to further keep them from harm.”

A frown twists your mouth. This Namjoon is here to protect someone from Yoongi. You wonder what this has to do with Dr. Kim. Could… Perhaps someone is using the wolves as tools? You’ve certainly seen a hunter train wolves or wolfhounds before, though it’s a dangerous business. 

Dr. Kim sighs. “That is the only saving grace of you being here, I’m afraid. Seokjin and I cannot help you. Not without exposing ourselves. I’ve already done what I can.”

“You have my greatest thanks for that. You and yours will always be safe. And not just because of your blood.”

Shuffling makes you lean away from the door immediately. You slowly drop it back in place before crawling over to the desk and hiding under it, straining your hearing as the footsteps go into the back hall and out of the back door. You remain there long after you hear the back door shut, waiting just in case they’re still outside.

When you’re sure they’ve gone, you crawl out from underneath the desk and hurry into the hall and out the back door. The alley is empty when you stick your head out, sagging with relief. You hurry out and close the door behind you, spinning around and-

“You know, most people who don’t want to be seen don’t sneak around in a red cloak.”

The man - Namjoon - looms over you, looking down at you with an amused expression. Your scream is cut off when he winces and cups your mouth with his hand. “Well don’t scream! You’ll summon Giho and Seokjin back this way. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Namjoon waits for a moment, your chest heaving as you nod, signifying that you won’t scream for help. Maybe it’s silly, but you trust him not to hurt you. At the least, he is there to protect someone in the village, so he doesn’t seem like he’s there for nefarious reasons.

When he drops his hands, you press yourself against the door, trying to put a little distance between you. Namjoon’s presence is demanding, a tickle prickling at the base of your spine as you look up at him, mystified. 

He’s so beautiful. Up close, you can make out his features far better than earlier that day. His eyes are dark and framed by beautiful, silken lashes. His nose is broad and his jaw is sharp. A dimple appears when he gives you a lopsided grin, dark eyes sizing you up.

The same sense of familiarity from earlier comes back to you, and though you’ve never seen his face before, you swear you know him. Warmth radiates from him, the delicate smell of pine and bergamot reaching you. He feels like… yours. Like some part of him completes you. It is the strangest feeling. 

“You okay, Red?” he asks, tone earnest. You furrow your brows at the term and he grins - genuine and warm. “Your cloak. It’s a very bright red. Pretty, though.”

“Thank you?”

He raises a brow. “Are you asking me?”

“I’m… you’re awfully close.”

Namjoon takes a few steps back from you. You suddenly regret saying something as his warmth vanishes, replaced by the cool wind. “Sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Why didn’t you alert Dr. Kim if you knew I was snooping.”

“You don’t seem to be a threat. Plus, he’s a bit of a grouch. It didn’t seem worth it to hear him chastise a pretty girl.”

You flush. “How do you know the Kims?”

“Family friends.” 

“What were you all talking about?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Just because I’m not chastising you for listening to our private conversation doesn’t mean I’m going to divulge the details of said private conversation.”

You divert your gaze, feeling flushed. He has a point, but if he’s put out by your line of questioning or your eavesdropping, he doesn’t show it. “Come on,” Namjoon says. “Let’s go back to the square. I need a drink and it’s dangerous to walk around right now.”

“Because of the wolves?”

He stares at you. “Because it’s dark and there are a bunch of strangers in your town, and you’re a woman alone. In the dark.”

“You’re a stranger in my town.”

His grin spreads and his dimple deepens. Your stomach flutters. You’re not unaffected by him, a little dizzy and nervous when he sticks out a hand. “Namjoon. I’m a part of the Kim family.”

“Like… Dr. Kim?” you ask, reaching out your hand and giving him your name.

“We’re related, in a way. Pretty name. I think I’ll stick with Red, though.”

Namjoon takes off walking. For a second, you just stand and stare at him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t look back. You lick your lips, heart pounding. You cannot shake the sense of something peculiar about him, something familiar. He’s a Kim - perhaps you know him.

Determined to find out, you take off after him, scurrying to catch up. You fall into step with him and look up to find him smirking down at you before focusing back on the growing noise and lights of the main square. 

“Have you been here before?” you ask, watching him from the corner of your eye. He shakes his head and you frown. “I feel like I know you.”

“Perhaps I have one of those faces?”

“No, I’d remember a face like yours.”

Namjoon turns to you, arching a brow. “A face like mine, huh?” 

Multiple fire pits dot the streets, groups of people clustered around them to keep warm as the chill seeps back into the village. The inn is bustling with people, the door propped open with a chair as people walk in and out with platters of food and tankards in hand. Multiple villagers have pulled out tables and chairs from their homes, setting them up in the street. 

It feels good. The air hums with euphoria and the promise of better days ahead, like suddenly there are not several families mourning their loved ones. The atmosphere reminds you of a festival, and you suppose it kind of is a festival. 

The smell of burning fat and ale hits your nose as you walk into the inn. Voices roar over one another and the workers are busy behind the bar. A fireplace crackles in the far corner where you spot Hoseok guarding an extra chair. 

“I fear this is where we part ways,” Namjoon announces over the din of voices. “Try not to do any more eavesdropping tonight.” You hesitate, wanting to protest. There are a million burning questions you have for him. He must see it in your face, because he smiles and says, “We’ll run into one another again. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

You were actually, and you know he knows by his smirk. “Goodnight, Red.”

You watch Namjoon go. He moves toward where the innkeeper stands at a podium looking over reservations, blending into the crowd. Just before he reaches the podium he glances over his shoulder at you, catching you watching. He shoots you a grin and you scowl, pivoting on your heel to charge toward Hoseok. 

Hoseok raises his eyebrows when he sees you storm over to him and yank the chair out from the table, sitting down in a huff. Without a word, you snatch his tankard of ale and take several, cold gulps before setting it on the table, letting it wash through you. 

“Who was that you came in with? And then stormed over here after speaking to?”

“Some relative of the Kims,” you mutter. “I find him very… frustrating.”

“He’s very handsome.”

You glare at Hoseok and see the beginning of a wicked smile. “And frustrating.” 

He lifts his cup, shrugging. “Cheers to being frustrating.”

-

A scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You lurch up from bed, head spinning as you try to gather your wits about you. Blankets tangle your limbs as you try to peel them from sweaty skin. Another scream makes you stumble out of bed, the world tilting on its axis as your body tries to catch up with your sudden lucidity. 

In the main room of your home, your mother is stumbling through the kitchen too, lighting a candle and grabbing a holder. You feel relief as you realize the screaming isn’t coming from your home, but your neighbor’s.

Together, you and your mother rush out into the cold in nightgowns, not bothering with shoes or coats. The cold is bitter, immediately stinging your skin as the Liang family joins you in running to the Hutch family home where it sounds like Mrs. Hutch is screaming like a wild animal in her house. 

“It’s Leanne,” your mother breathes, words turning to steam in the air. 

“Come on,” you urge, pulling your mother as you go, driven by the shrieks.

The front door hangs open as Mr. Liang enters the home first, an ax in hand. It occurs to you that neither you nor your mother have weapons, but Mrs. Hutch has always been kind to your mother, making the both of you charge into the darkness of her home empty-handed.

A metallic tang hits you immediately. You recoil, recognizing the stench of blood immediately. Villagers spill into the home behind you, alerted to the wailing coming from the bedroom. With torches and candles in hand, you spot the red on the dark wood floor in the hallway. 

Mr. Liang stands in the doorway of the bedroom, staring with a haunted gaze at what he sees there. Your mother pushes through the people in the home to look over his shoulder, her hand flying to her mouth as she gasps. 

“Oh Leanne,” she murmurs in horror, shoving by Mr. Liang.

You don’t go to the room. The smell and the weeping coming from the bedroom give you an inkling of what lay inside. You stand in the living room as people fill the hall, gasping and murmuring. Someone shouts to wake the constable. 

“Why?” Mrs. Hutch screams in her room, the despair in her voice rattling your bones. “Why?”

“His throat has been cut,” someone murmurs from the hall. “Murdered in bed.” 

Murdered? That throws you for a loop. You had assumed somehow it was an animal attack but… you shiver. Murder is different. 

Mr. Liang begins shooing people out of the house. You slink out into the cold and hurry to your own home, bare feet freezing in the cold, wet earth. Your mother stays with Mrs. Hutch, leaving you alone.

The dark presses in on you, every creak of a floorboard making you jump. The shadows seem menacing now and you’re quick to find and light a candle, orange light flooding the home. 

Cloth and candle in hand, you return to your room to wipe the cold mud from your feet, skin still burning from the frigid air. Voices carry in from outside, the entire town waking and gathering as the shock of murder ripples through the streets, a stone in a pond.

With sleep nowhere near possible for the remainder of the night, you get dressed. You pull on thick woolen pants, a tunic, and multiple socks, sticking your feet in your boots. Your cloak goes next, fastening it around your throat as you look out your bedroom window. 

Your home sits at an angle in a row of houses that circle the village like a ring. You can see the wall of the home next to you, and a sliver of the backyard as well. It’s that tiny space in the backyard that catches your eye, watching as someone moves from the edge of the home out of sight. 

Heart in your throat, you grab a candle and run outside. The crowd in front of the Hutch’s has grown, but you ignore them, skirting around your house to the alleyway between you and your neighbor. Nothing catches your eye as you run to the backyard, swiveling as you search in the darkness for the shadow you saw. 

The wind howls, drowning out the voices in the street. The treeline behind the houses is dark. You squint your eyes and lift the candle in your hand, the flame barely flickering as the wind makes the trees sway. There is nothing in the darkness and you begin to turn when you see a shadow in the tree line. 

It’s barely there - perhaps a trick of the light, even. You take a step forward, boots crunching in the snow. A gust of wind makes your cloak snap at your ankles, candle going out and leaving you without a source of light. You had not realized how dark it was without it, the shadow vanishing from your line of sight. 

Fear nestles in the pit of your stomach. Your breath gets stuck in your lungs as your limbs lock, realizing how stupid it was to come outside if there was a killer among the trees. Soft snow crunches somewhere close to you. You squeeze your eyes shut, tucking your chin to your chest as panic makes you shut down, unable to move and-

“Red.”

Namjoon’s voice makes you spin around. He holds a torch level with his head, the flame casting an eerie glow on his face. For a moment, he looks lupine and terrifying, your heart nearly stuttering to a halt. 

Then his face twists in concern. “What are you doing out here alone?”

“What are you doing?”

“Dr. Kim sent me over to check on you. No one answered the door so I came around back.”

“Why?”

Namjoon seems confused. “Why did I come around back or why did he send me?”

“Both.”

“I could see the light of your candle and because a murder has just happened.”

You relax a little at the logic in his answer. Snow begins to fall from the sky. You look up at the moonless black,  thick clouds floating as the bits of snow drift on the breeze. You shiver and look back to the trees, seeing nothing but tightly packed pines. Still, there is an instinctual sense of trepidation that sits heavy in your gut.

“Come on,” Namjoon says gently. “Let’s go inside. I’ll wait with you until your mother comes home.” 

Reluctantly, you follow Namjoon. Eyeing him, you realize he is dressed differently than previously that night. Now, he’s in black breeches and a black linen shirt. The weapons belt is gone and he’s without a coat. 

You frown. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“I run warm.”

It’s the only answer that he gives you as you walk back into the street which is filled with people and torches. In the distance, you hear the baying of hounds. It chills you, goosebumps exploding up and down your arms as you watch a cluster of firelights gather far off down the road. 

“The constable is leading a manhunt. They’ll come to question us too.” 

Wordlessly you gesture for Namjoon to join you inside of your home. He closes the door firmly behind you and strides to the fireplace, using the torch to coax the simmering logs to a full flame. Cedar pops as he adds the torch to the fire, orange embers drifting up the chimney. 

Rubbing your hands together, you offer him tea and he accepts with a soft smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes as he looks around the only place you’ve ever called home. Suddenly shy of your less-than-luxurious surroundings, you clear your throat and gesture to one of the mismatched armchairs by the fire as you grab a kettle.

Namjoon hardly fits in the chair. You press your lips to keep from laughing, which feels inappropriate with a man dead just a few yards away. With careful hands, you hang the kettle next to the fire, the flame close enough to heat the water as you scurry back to the kitchen and fill tea bags with herbs. 

“What kind of tea do you like?”

“Yarrow, if you have it.”

“I do.” You grab the jar, popping the top. “Are you in great pain, Mr. Kim?”

“Call me Namjoon. Mr. Kim feels far too formal.”

“Well, we are strangers, after all.”

Namjoon certainly doesn’t feel like a stranger. You cast him a sidelong glance as you say it, looking for his reaction. He turns his head from the fire, meeting your gaze head-on. His lips curve in a secret smile, making your nerves dance.

“I suppose that’s true.”

Is it? You wonder. You’re not so sure. 

Instead of asking him, you bring the mugs with bags of tea over to where he sits, handing him one. Steam rises from the spout of the teapot. With a thick towel, you lift it off of the hanger. Namjoon holds out his cup and lets you pour carefully into his mug, the smell of yarrow and mint wafting toward you. After pouring your own cup, you set the kettle down and sit across from him.

Your cold hands leech the warmth from the mug. You settle comfortably in the chair, relaxing and inhaling the chamomile in your cup. After a few moments of silence, you realize how comfortable and safe you feel with Namjoon, though you’ve only known him for a few short hours. 

“Why have you come to the village?” 

Namjoon watches the fire as he answers, “You were eavesdropping at the veterinary office. I’m sure you heard me.” You look down at your steaming cup and Namjoon chuckles, raspy and deep. It’s a nice sound.

“You said there was a ‘protected’ here. And something about a Yoongi.”

Namjoon’s face darkens at the mention of Yoongi. You chew on your lip, worried you’ve pushed him too far before you’ve even started to ask him real questions. His jaw works as he contemplates what you’ve said, sipping the tea a little. 

“A protected just means someone under protection by my family,” Namjoon says finally. “My extended family is… large. We are a very close group and we consider those in our community blood.”

“It is… not always like that here.”

“Your mother assists Mrs. Hutch, though. That seems like family, in a way.”

“Mrs. Hutch is kind. Not everyone is.” 

Namjoon nods. “It is not like that where I am from. We bear the sins of our neighbors and we share the responsibility of keeping everyone safe.”

“That must be nice.” You sip your tea and scald your tongue, hissing and setting the cup down. Namjoon leans forward as though to help you, alarm on his face. “Tea is too hot. I don’t know how you drink it.”

He smiles and shrugs. “I run warm.” 

“So you said. How are you related to Dr. Kim?” 

“He’s my uncle. He’s my father’s brother. His wife was best friends with my mom.” 

“Oh.” You blink in surprise. “She passed away when I was very young. She… died the same winter as my father.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Namjoon frowns and cocks his head. “What did your father do?” 

“He was a hunter.”

One of the logs pops in the fireplace, making you flinch. You give a nervous laugh and glance at Namjoon, who has gone stone-still. The firelight dances on his face as he peers at you. Your smile falters a little at the gravity you find there. 

“He only hunted fowl and deer,” you find yourself explaining. You don’t know why you say it, only that suddenly that feels important. “He didn’t like to hunt bigger game or predators. Mother says that he believed they were best left alone and that a true hunter knows his betters when he sees them.”

Namjoon hums. “Smart man.”

“I don’t know. He died in an animal attack when I was very young.” 

“You must resent the woods.”

“Not at all. I think…” You bite your bottom lip, trying to find the right words. “I think that he wouldn’t blame the animals. The woods are their home. My mother says he was always very adamant about that. They don’t usually attack villagers, though.”

“Usually?”

“There are animal attacks happening. I’m sure Dr. Kim told you…?”

“Ah, yes. You think they’re without reason?”

“Perhaps hunger? I don’t know. It does not happen often.” 

“Wolves are not known to hunt people.” Namjoon’s fingers drum against his mug, a steady tap. He seems thoughtful as he regards you. “They’re intelligent creatures and their packs are important to them. They take the threat to their land and their family seriously.” 

“Like your family?”

He laughs. “Like my family.” Namjoon sips his tea again. “This land used to belong to several packs of wolves, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yes, until settlers drove them out. Not that long ago there were hunting parties for sport. They slaughtered entire packs, destroying bloodlines and nearly wiping out the wolves here entirely.”

“I always found that incredibly sad.”

“Why is that?”

“They’re incredibly important to the ecosystem here. And I guess I always agreed with my dad. I don’t remember him much, but I like to remember that he was good at heart.”

Namjoon hums but says nothing else. You sit in silence for a while, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Namjoon’s presence is steady, keeping out the cold and the fear just beyond the door. You wonder how he does that by just sitting in a chair, or how it feels so natural. 

Outside, the world begins to turn gray. You yawn as exhaustion begins to set in and you feel yourself sagging. Eyes burning, you rub them with the back of your hands, blinking a few times to fight the explosion of colors in your vision. 

“You can sleep,” Namjoon says softly from where he sits. You glance at him. “You can trust me.”

A hint of pine and bergamot drift toward you, making you drowsy. Namjoon grabs a blanket from the back of his chair and stands up, bringing it to you. He takes your mug and you watch him with sleepy, round eyes as he places the blanket over you.

“Sleep.” His voice is soft, distant. “I will be here.”

Your eyes flutter shut and you drift to sleep, remembering the warm sound of his voice. It… reminds you of your wolf.

-

Gentle voices pull you from the clutches of sleep. You wake slowly, a cramp in your neck making you reluctant to get up. You smell the fire and the hint of pine and bergamot. You hear a low, raspy voice that you instantly recognize as Namjoon. 

How swiftly I know his voice, you think. 

“You must wake her,” a male voice says. You recognize it as Dr. Kim. “The constable is coming for questioning.”

“She’s already awake,” Namjoon answers, a smile in his voice. Your eyes snap open at being caught, meeting his dark gaze as he smirks from near your door. “See?”

You scowl at him. How did he know that? Sitting up and stretching, you appraise the two men lurking near your door. “Is my mother still with Mrs. Hutch?”

Dr. Kim nods and steps swiftly into the room around Namjoon. Namjoon reaches out a hand, catching Dr. Kim with his arm and stopping him from entering the room properly. You watch in puzzlement as there’s a silent exchange between the two of them, Namjoon’s face dark as Dr. Kim raises a brow. 

Then, Namjoon lets him go. You cock your head to the side, wondering what that’s about. Ignoring Namjoon, Dr. Kim approaches and says, “The constable will be here shortly. Say nothing about the farm.”

The farm. The memory of the wolves brings a chill to your arm, the smell of smoke and burning oil. The confusion and Dr. Kim’s refusal to answer your questions. 

“What is going on?” you demand, eyes flickering from Dr. Kim to Namjoon. “Animal attacks, murders, you covering up something at the barn. I’m being lied to.” 

“Say nothing about the farm,” Dr. Kim says again, voice firm. Namjoon makes a noise that startles you. It’s almost like a growl, your eyes going wide as he glares at Dr. Kim. “I told you this village has a complicated history. I’m looking after your safety.” 

Heavy footsteps sound on the porch. There’s a loud knock on the door, the constable announcing his presence on the other side. Namjoon opens the door for him, standing back to let him in. The constable looks him up and down with confusion before looking at you, a question in his eyes.

“They came to check on me,” you offer. The constable has known you since you were a child, it’s no wonder he’s confused at the presence of a stranger in your home. “How can I help you, constable?”

“I’d like you to answer a few questions about last night. Mr. Liang confirmed you were one of the first people to Hutch’s last night.”

Dr. Kim walks to your kitchen and busies himself making tea. Namjoon moves to sit in the chair across from you, his warm presence from the night before replaced with something mildly threatening. You cut him a look but his dark eyes are focused on the constable as though he’s a threat. 

The questions are easy enough. When did you wake up? Did you notice anyone around your home when you came home? Did you notice anyone outside? When did you come home? 

You leave out running into Namjoon behind your home. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to not draw attention to him. You also leave out the strange incident at the farm, glancing sideways at Dr. Kim when he brings you lemon tea. 

When the constable is finished, he eyes Dr. Kim. “Be at the station at four,” he instructs. “We’re splitting hunting parties. One to look for the culprit, the other to get rid of the damn wolves.” 

“The wolves were there first, you know?” Namjoon speaks up, looking at you and not the constable. “Have you ever tried figuring out what they want?”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Please ignore my nephew, constable. He likes to insert himself in conversations he doesn’t belong in. Come, let’s look over the hounds before you send them out tonight.”

Together, the constable and Dr. Kim shuffle out. Before he shuts the door, Dr. Kim levels the pair of you with a heavy gaze. You don’t know what that gaze means, but you know that something is going on in this village and that he and Namjoon seem to have some idea about it.

As soon as the door shuts, you turn to Namjoon and demand, “What is going on?”

He sighs. “Would you listen if I just said to wait it out?”

“Do you know who murdered Mr. Hatch?” 

Namjoon hesitates and shakes his head. You narrow your eyes, unbelieving. “I really don’t know who did, Red.”

“Why are you really here? Why all the secrets?” 

“I told you, my family protects those who belong to their community.”

“What did you mean about asking what the wolves want?” 

“I told you last night. There were wolves long before this village existed. Seems to me that if the wolves are suddenly killing the townspeople, perhaps it’s because they want their land back. Or maybe they’re angry from years of being hunted.”

That shuts you up. You can’t argue with that, exactly. But… “Are you saying that the wolves are capable of revenge?”

Namjoon stands and gestures to your cloak. “How often do you wear that?”

“Every day. It’s… sentimental to me.”

His eyes lighten and he offers a half smile. “Good. Red is a lucky color.”

“Where are you going?”

He opens the door, cold wind hissing past the opening. “Your mom is coming. I’ll see you later, Red.”

Without another word, Namjoon slips through the door and shuts it firmly behind him. You stare after him, openmouthed and confused. As promised, you hear your mother come up the steps, light feet scuffing before she quickly lets herself in, shutting the door firmly behind her.

You offer to make your mother breakfast, happy to help as she dozes in the chair. It isn’t until later that you wonder how Namjoon had heard her coming at all.

-

Little Lucy Larkin

In a little wood

Little Lucy Larkin

Up to no good

Little Lucy Larkin

In her little hood

Little Lucy Larkin

Ware of the woods!

Little Lucy Larkin

Stole a little bread

Little Lucy Larkin

In the woods of dread

Little Lucy Larkin

Is a little thief

Little Lucy Larkin

Die by wolf’s teeth

A sense of unease slithers up your spine as you pull your cloak closer. The voice of the children playing the Little Lucy Game echoes down the street and you pause to watch as the little boy playing Lucy steals the rock from the middle of the circle and the little boy playing the wolf gets up to chase him. 

The other kids scream and giggle as the boys give chase, the sound of their laughter eerie in the cold gray of twilight. Shaking it off, you turn and duck your head as you walk up the steps to the Tall Tales Inn. 

Warmth and the scent of food greet you. It’s a thinner crowd than the day before but still more people than you’re used to without the traders in town. There is a clear divide in the dining room with traders on one side and townsfolk on the other, the murder quick to make the locals distrust the new people in their streets.

Tense conversations hum in the gold light. You navigate around tables until you find Hoseok sitting with Seokjin. The sight of Seokjin gives you pause. He seems to sense your presence, glancing up and meeting your questioning stare. He gives no reaction, though, turning his attention back to Hoseok who is murmuring quietly.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Jin,” you say by way of greeting. Hoseok gives you a look at your clipped tone. You ignore it, sitting down and leveling the older man with a stare, his father’s mysteriousness weighing on you. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He narrows his eyes a fraction. “Just enjoying the company of friends.”

“Shouldn’t you be helping the constable?”

“I’m on the late-night shift.” 

Grinding your teeth, you sit roughly. Hoseok just watches you, brows raised. You say nothing as you order a drink and a meal, picking at the splinters of the tabletop, eyeing Seokjin. If he’s put out by your rudeness he doesn’t show it, drinking heartily from his tankard and watching you with dark, even eyes. 

You know Seokjin knows whatever it is his father and Namjoon have been talking about. You yourself have not been able to work out what’s going on in the village, but you’re sure the Kims know. And if Dr. Kim asked you to lie to the constable… well perhaps Seokjin is leading him astray as well.

Hoseok pipes up, steering the conversation everywhere he can to avoid the tension building between you and Seokjin and the topics of murders. You participate as little as possible, mind trying to put together the puzzle pieces of the blooming mystery in your home. 

An uncomfortable thought starts to take root in your mind. Is it possible that the Kim family is behind the murders? Dr. Kim has plenty of weapons at his disposal, and they had been talking about revenge, and Dr. Kim had covered up what happened at the Marrow’s farm… but what did that have to do with wolves?

You’re not sure. But you do know that the Kims are purposefully hiding things, that there is a murderer somewhere in the town or near it, and that there is a sense of doom that you cannot shake, a dark itch like stinging nettle in your bones. 

Seokjin excuses himself to take an afternoon nap before his hunting party heads out for the evening. Your eyes track him as he goes. Seokjin certainly doesn’t seem evil, but there’s no telling what’s behind his pretty face. 

“What is wrong with you?” Hoseok asks, leaning over the table and whispering harshly. “You’re behaving rather odd.”

“Something is going on.”

“Yes, your attitude.”

You turn and glare at him. “No, Hobi. Something is going on with the Kim family. I don’t know how to explain it.” You grip your cup tighter. “But I intend to figure it out.” 

Hoseok questions you about what that means. You keep your answers vague, not wanting to rope him into your plan. Too often as children did you lure Hoseok into trouble, and with how dangerous night is becoming in your town, you know it’s a bad idea to endanger him too.

T sun sets over the village. You stand at your bedroom window, watching through the frosty window as the sun turns the sky into a smear of blood. The clouds have cleared away just for this sanguine sunset. It makes your stomach turn, a sense of foreboding heavy in the air.

Still, it doesn’t deter you. Red fades to gray-blue and gray-blue fades to black. Wind rattles the glass in the window pane. Turning from the window, you find your thickest pair of pants and fur-lined tunic. The fabric feels scratchy on your skin.

Dressed, you look at your red cloak folded on the bed. Any other night you would take it with you. It has become your safety net, something that keeps you warm and keeps you safe. You cannot recall a day you haven’t worn it since it mysteriously showed up thirteen years ago, but tonight, you need obscurity.

Instead, you reach for an old, thick cloak that used to belong to your father. It's dark brown and worn at the edges, a little too big for you as the hem brushes the ground. It will serve its purpose in keeping you hidden in the dark of the woods, though. 

All you grab is a hunting knife that you don’t know how to use, a wax candle, and a solid piece of flint and sharp rock to light it with. The candle and flint are for emergencies only. You hope it won’t be so dark that you cannot see, but you’re unsure what the clouds are going to do.

Outside, the wind is sharp. Your nostrils burn as you breathe it in and duck away behind your house. No new snow has fallen during the day, which is a good thing. You don’t have to worry about dragging your boots and tiring your calves. It also helps that the sky is clear tonight, the moon a sliver of sharp light. 

Baying hounds echo through the village and the forest as the hunting dogs lead the men into the woods. You’re quick on your feet, dashing into the woods and heading north. You don’t want to run right into the hunting party, but you do want to find their burning torches and keep them in your line of sight.

They are easy to find, hovering like orange fireflies in the distance. Careful to make your way in the dark, you follow them. Your breath mists in front of you, hands shaking more from the adrenaline than the cold. 

The torches spread out. You chew on your lip, unsure which group would belong to Seokjin. You take a gamble, heading after the group closest to you. 

Everything feels too loud. Each snap of a branch under your foot and crunch of dry leaves feels like it’s going to give you away. Still, you’re good at sneaking for the most part, having spent plenty of time skulking through the village to take nightly strolls in the woods.

Voices carry to you. Through a system of running a few steps forward and dodging behind a tree, you manage to follow the men at a distance. You think that you hear the constable’s voice, which is a good sign. If he’s around, perhaps Seokjin is too.

The deeper you go into the forest, the colder it gets. The ground beneath your feet slopes. The evergreens are packed tighter here, needles tickling your hands as you keep your hands held out from your sides as you slide downward.

This is near where I saved that wolf, you think. 

It’s true. You recognize the slope of the land and the general area. You cannot tell if it’s exactly where you met the wolf, but it’s close enough that your senses tingle and your eyes sweep the land, expecting something to happen.

A sense of foreboding trails you as the men move deeper into the wood. You turn around and look for the other torches and see nothing but a dark, compact forest. Your stomach flips uncomfortably but you continue, unsure now if it’s safer to turn back or to keep going. 

Ahead, the group of men decide to take a break. The hounds sniff the area around them, pulling at the leashes as they go. Crouching low, you watch as the hounds go in circles, following the scent of something that seems to confuse them. 

The men take long droughts of water, making you wish you’d thought of that. Mouth dry and hands cold, you huddle against a tree, bark digging into your back. 

A few minutes pace by. You close your eyes, resting your head against the tree, breathing cold air in deeply. You don’t know what you expect the group to lead you to, only that you-

Something snaps behind you. Your eyes fly open and your limbs lock. Heart beating like a steady drum, you hold your breath and strain your eyes. For a moment, there’s nothing but the dim voices of the men taking a break. You think it’s nothing until you hear something again, a gentle susurration of leaves. 

One of the hounds lifts its head, ears twitching. Your eyes scan the surrounding area back and forth, searching for what you know is there. 

It happens so fast that you don’t even see the wolves enter the ring of torchlight until they’re there, snarls rattling the trees. You clamp your hands over your mouth to mute your gasp as the sounds of screams and tearing flesh explode in the night. Hounds screech, their growls savage and choked as the wolves descend. 

You don’t know how many there are. Torch lights go down and drown you in darkness. Squeezing your eyes shut, you curl in on yourself, panting through your hands as the sounds echo in your ears. A new fear has stabbed its way between your ribs, making it hard to breathe. 

Time moves slowly. Or quickly. You cannot tell which. One moment the sounds of a nightmare turned real are just a few hundred yards away. The next, an eerie silence blankets the dark forest. 

You don’t want to open your eyes, but you have to. Very slowly, you crack an eye open. At first, there’s nothing. Your vision swims with flashing colors, your eyes trying to adjust. Then, there is the vague outline of trees. Ahead of you, where the men had been, lay shadowed piles. 

Shaking, you glance around. You see nothing - hear nothing. You stand slowly. Each inch you gain feels like you’re being too loud. Sweat gathers on the back of your neck. The cool air makes it feel like an icy finger brushing down your nape. 

When you’re sure that there’s nothing else around, you take a step toward where the attack happened. Leaves crunch beneath your feet. You stop breathing, waiting for signs of anything. Nothing happens and you let out a trembling breath, taking one more step. Again, you wait to see if your footfalls will trigger something. 

You repeat this to the edge of the slaughter - for that’s what it is. A slaughter. Bile rises in your throat as you reach the first body and stamped-out torch. The constable and his hound lay in tatters, only recognizable by the batch on his cloak. 

It is carnage. You don’t dare breathe through your nose for fear of breathing in the scent of death, circling the scene with weak knees, hand pressed to your mouth to keep in the whimpers. You see the faces of men you’ve known since you were a child. Ripped, bloodied, gored. 

Finally, you lean over and empty the contents of your stomach. It burns on the way up, choking you. Pressing a hand against a tree, you breathe raggedly. The adrenaline coursing through you makes you twitchy and unstable, each nerve feeling like it’s on fire. 

Leaves crunch a few feet away. Your head snaps in and you zero in on the source of the noise, mouth hanging open when you see Seokjin standing amongst the trees. He stares at you, frown on his face. 

“Who are you?” he asks, voice gentle. You realize he can’t see your face under the cowl of your hood and you’re not in your traditional red. He sighs. “Doesn’t matter.” 

You hear shuffling behind him before you see a white wolf. The white wolf from the Marrow farm. There are others, then. You don’t know how you missed them, the darkness of their fur blending in with the darkness around them.

The white one is spotted in red, muzzle matted, teeth slicked. Your stomach lurches. It isn’t hard to guess where it’s from. You take a step back and the wolf growls, lips pulled back. You freeze, looking amongst the pack of wolves that fan out around Seokjin, desperately looking for your wolf with the kind, intelligent eyes. 

You do not find him there. 

With a growl, the white wolf steps forward. Your instincts kick in and you turn and run, letting out a wild shriek as you do so. If Seokjin recognizes your voice when you scream, you cannot tell. The wolves are after you and you’re barreling through the trees with no hope of outrunning them, especially uphill.

A wolf nips at your ankle and you scream, tripping over your feet in your terror and going down hard. You’re jarred as you hit the ground, bones rattling as pain shoots up your limbs from the impact. Before you can scramble, there are teeth around your ankle, not biting down hard enough to snap, but hard enough to drag.

Your scream is wretched even to your ears. It is a curdling, nightmarish sound. You feel the scrape of leaves and sticks against your skin, cloak picking up dirt and twigs as you go. Your nails dig into the ground but the soil is frozen solid, fingers scraping bluntly against it. 

With a surge of self-preservation, you kick your free leg backward as hard as you can. You hit the wolf in the muzzle, making it cry, and let go of your foot. You manage to crawl to your knees, slipping in the foliage as you try to stand before it’s tearing at your cloak, determined to drag you one way or another. 

Sliding again as it drags you by the cloak, you try to undo the ties at your throat with shaking fingers. It comes away and frees you from the hellish drag to your death. This time, you’re faster to your feet, turning and running in the opposite direction. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you want to get away. 

Your foot slides on the incline and with a shout you go down. This time, your head hits the ground hard. Your ears ring and your vision pulses. Blinking, you roll over and stare up at the canopy of dark trees. The world spins dangerously and you feel nausea churn deep in your stomach.

“Yoongi!” you hear the deep voice but it sounds warbled like you’re hearing it through water. Your head lolls to the side, the ringing in your ears still going as you see feet pass you. “Enough!”

Your field of vision narrows to a sharp point, edges pulling with black. You realize you’re about to pass out, oddly just thankful that you’re already on the ground. Just as your world begins to face, the face of the person in front of you appears.

Namjoon. 

-

“Hey,” a gentle voice calls to you. There are soft hands on your head, brushing against your forehead. It smells like pine and bergamot as you snuggle into them. “I hate to wake you, but you need to wake up every few hours.”

The memory of the wolves comes to you. Your eyes snap open and you blink a few times before your vision adjusts to see Namjoon leaning over you. Cringing away from him, you press yourself into a warm, soft mattress that isn’t your own.

“Easy,” he cautions, holding his hands up. “You smacked your head very hard. I think you have a concussion.” 

“Where am I?” 

The room isn’t so much a room as it is a shack. There is a single fireplace in the far corner, a pile of logs, and the bed that you’re in. Despite the tiny space, it looks well-built and it’s warm, your heart slowing down as Namjoon leans to sit further from you and give you your space.

“Random shack in the woods near your village. I think it used to be a hunter’s stead for the winter.” He jerks his thumb toward the fireplace. “Hasn’t been used in a while. The wood has rotted.” 

“Seokjin - you - what is going on?” 

Emotions spill out of you like a broken dam. You don’t know which to acknowledge first: anger, fear, curiosity, gratitude. 

Namjoon’s sigh is heavy. He visibly looks wearing, running a hand through his hair. You wonder how soft his hair is, followed immediately by feeling ridiculous for the timing of said thought. 

“Just…” he winces. “Try to lean back and take it easy, I’m worried about how hard you hit your head. I promise I have no intentions of hurting you or letting anyone hurt me.”

“You called that white wolf Yoongi. Who is Yoongi? Why was Seokjin in the woods - those people - they’re dead.”

He nods slowly. “They are.” 

You lean back carefully. The bed is comfortable and Namjoon keeps his distance, worried eyes on you. “I will try to explain the best I can. It will require a little bit of faith that I’m not lying to you and that I’m not insulting your intelligence by telling you things that will sound insane.” 

“Like what?”

“Like werewolves exist.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t laugh, crack a grin, or do anything to make you believe he’s joking. Your first instinct is to blow him off. Werewolves were a tale for children and a way to help the children of the village cope during periods of wolf violence. 

Thus far, all Namjoon has done is protect you. Strange as it seems, you know that fact to be true. He didn’t tell Dr. Jim you were eavesdropping, he kept you company after Mr. Hatch’s murder, and he stopped the wolves from taking you.

Namjoon is… there is something between you. You know it.

Hesitantly, you say, “Alright. Werewolves exist. Keep going.”

He is visibly relieved that you’re not questioning or berating him. You don’t exactly believe him yet, but you want to hear his story. 

“There were communities of werewolves who lived here long before humans did. When people migrated to this area, they drove them out and forced those communities to become smaller and smaller. When the werewolves asked for their land back or to share resources, they were hunted and slaughtered.” 

Namjoon’s throat bobs and emotions flicker across his face. His features settle on pain, and you stop yourself from reaching out to take his hand. “What you vaguely remember as wolf attacks and wolf hunts as a child was those families being exterminated. There are a few families in the village who remember that werewolves exist. They took it upon themselves to remove the problem forever.”

This village has a complicated history. 

Dr. Kim’s words float through your mind as you chew on what Namjoon has told you. He lets the information settle, giving you a few moments to think. You don’t recall anyone seriously ever talking about werewolves but… 

“They’re angry,” you murmur, remembering how San described the massacre at the Mathesons. “The wolves now - those aren’t wolves. They’re werewolves who are getting revenge. You spoke of revenge with Dr. Kim. Is that why the animal attacks have been happening?”

Namjoon nods grimly. “There is a very small concentration of people in the village who keep the secret about the massacres and the knowledge of werewolves. Those families have been… targeted recently. They still hunt werewolves when they can.”

“Who is Yoongi?”

“Ah,” he lets out a humorless laugh. “He leads the last remaining community of werewolves. His family was murdered by your constable when he was a child.” You blanch. “Yoongi is angry, vengeful, and very influential. When he was voted pack alpha, he decided to eliminate the last remaining threats.” 

“He’s the white wolf.” Namjoon raises his brows but nods. You think that makes sense, remembering the white wolf at the Marrow farm and the one who dragged you in the forest. “Why was Seokjin there? Did he lead the constable to-”

Namjoon hesitates and nods. “The Kim family are wolf friends. It’s largely the reason Dr. Kim is a veterinarian. They’re what we call one foot in the forest. There were two others in your village that were wolf friends. Your neighbor was one.”

You twist your fingers in the blanket. “Did Yoongi-”

“No. I believe he was murdered by one of the men who knows what Yoongi and his people are.” 

“So that’s why Seokjin led them to Yoongi?” Namjoon gives a curt nod. “This is…. A lot to take in.” 

“It is. Sleep a little more and we’ll talk about it more when you wake up. Your head is already swimming enough, yeah?”

Namjoon’s grin is gentle and you shoot one back. “Do you promise to tell me why you’re really here? And why it feels like I know you?”

“Of course. Sleep, Red.”

-

Namjoon wakes you again a few hours later. This time, it’s with water. It’s cool and fresh, soothing your aching head and waking up your sleepy senses. He lets you drain the entire thing, sitting thoughtfully at the end of your bed. 

This time, you feel more alert. Sitting up carefully, you cross your legs and examine him. He’s dressed in simple clothes and a jacket, the fireplace throwing an orange glow on his face. Again, you’re struck with how much you could swear you know him, like his eyes are something you know and love. 

He waits for you to get settled, placing your hands in your lap. You fiddle with the edge of your tunic, drinking him in. Strong shoulders, rough hands, tawny skin. Your heart does a flip before you shove away thoughts of how pretty he is to think about what he’s told you so far.

“I have questions.”

He smiles and it’s as warm as the fire behind him. “Of course you do.”

“Did the werewolves kill my father?”

You get the tough one out of the way first. It was a thought you had just before you slept, wondering if your father had been someone who helped the constable murder Yoongi’s family. Though you have decided to dislike the white wolf very strongly, you can’t help but pity him.

“No,” Namjoon says vehemently. “After you told me about your father, I did some asking around. He was a wolf friend. That’s why he didn’t hunt big game, Red. He knew about us.” 

A tight feeling works its way up your throat. The relief and anger you feel is a double-edged sword, happy that he didn’t contribute to the displacement Namjoon is speaking of and angry that you know with every bone in your body that he was murdered. The instinct speaks to you the same way it tells you that you know Namjoon. 

You look up at him sharply, realizing something. “What do you mean ‘he knew about us’? Us?” 

Namjoon’s eyes are dark. He regards you intensely, making you shiver. Slowly, Namjoon begins to roll one of his sleeves. Your eyes drop to his hand as he does, long fingers meticulous. He bares his skin and holds his hand out to you, displaying the jagged, white scar that lopes around his wrist. 

Without thinking twice, you reach out to him, pulling his hand toward you. His skin is warm, sending a tingle through your fingertips. His palm is large and rough, your fingers delicate as you flip it to face the ceiling, eyes glued to the scarring around his wrist.

You move your fingers over his palm gently, scraping the calluses as you go. He lets you do what you want, touch stopping at his wrist bone before glancing up at him. His eyes are impossibly dark and he nods, urging you forward. 

The scarring is rough. Thick, ropey lines encircle his wrist like his hand was ravished by teeth. It makes you faintly think of Yoongi’s teeth around your ankle or -

“You,” you breathe, eyes meeting his. They are the same warm, intelligent, and welcoming eyes of the wolf you’d saved all those years ago. The wolf who had stood between you and the others at the Marrow farm. The wolf you dream about every night. “I saved you?”

His throat bobs. “You did.”

“I… that’s why it feels like I know you.” Your fingers trace his scar, almost fondly. Namjoon’s eyes flutter. “I do know you. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He smirks. “‘Hi, my name is Namjoon and I can turn into a wolf whenever I want and you saved me a few years ago and I’ve been thinking about you ever since’ is not exactly a great opening.” 

“Better than ‘you know most people who don’t want to be seen don’t wear a red cloak’.” He scrunches his nose. Cute. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s alright. I’ll talk if you’re willing to listen?”

You nod, not letting go of his hand. Now that you know who and what he is, any residual fear is gone. You scoot toward him, wanting to be closer. “I want to know.”

“Giho is my uncle like I said. He’s not a werewolf, though. That trait passed through my mom’s side of the family. Still, he was family and he knew about the werewolves that my father married into. He's a wolf friend and does what he can to help us, including making house calls and stealing us goods in harsh winters.”

“Huh. I always just thought he was a quiet, grumpy vet.”

“He is very much that, but he has also been a lifeline. He helps Yoongi far more than he should. It puts him in danger. His wife was killed for being a wolf friend. Giho was left alone simply because he is useful to the village.” Your fingers squeeze his hand at the hurt in his voice. “That night you found me… I was pretty young then. Fourteen, to be exact. I was nosing around the village that everyone was so afraid of and never saw the trap. I cannot emphasize how much you saved my life.” 

“It seemed like the right thing to do. I was afraid but you were… hurt. And your eyes were so kind. I don’t regret it.”

“What a relief.” You smile, genuinely happy. “I was worried you might after finding out my family were sort of… killing people.”

“When you put it that way,” you wince. “But I do believe you. That humans drove you out. That people are hurting you and your people. You don’t deserve it and I… don’t think I am in a position to offer moral arguments to what you’re doing.”

“I knew I liked you.”

“You barely know me.”

Namjoon turns his hand and catches yours, lacing your fingers. Your heart skitters as he pulls you a little close and leans, eyes narrowed playfully. “Hmm, sorry. I wasn’t really allowed to come hang out around your town, Little Red.” 

“Why did you finally come? Is it to help Yoongi?”

He shakes his head. “I only have one goal.”

“Which is?”

“To keep you safe.” That quiets you. Namjoon doesn’t meet your eyes when he continues, “You showed me such kindness, I just wanted to repay you. I liked to keep an eye on you when I could, always from a safe distance. You might not know me, but I grew up knowing you.”

Your mouth goes dry at his words. For someone who poses such a threat, Namjoon is gentle. Soft. Kind. You swallow past the lump in your throat. “Did you give me the red cloak?” 

“Yeah. It was to mark you as a friend. We give them to those who are under our protection.” He narrows his eyes. “Which is why Yoongi swears he didn’t know it was you in the woods tonight. Seokjin’s eyesight is too piss poor to realize it was you. Idiots.”

“Well if you know about me, tell me about you. What’s your favorite color? What do you like to eat? What's your favorite thing about being a wolf?”

So Namjoon does tell you. You both end up sitting on the bed next to one another, arms touching as he traces the lines on your palm. Your backs are pressed against the wall, feet dangling off the edge of his bed as he tells you about his childhood. 

It is fascinating hearing about the dynamics of his community but it’s also sad. Hearing how they live in fear, hearing how so many of the people he knows are gone. Realizing that the things he tells you match up with things you realize about your own community. 

Sadness sinks to the bottom of your gut like a rock. It isn’t pity that you feel, but something far more profound. It’s regret that you didn’t know any better. Frustration that he has suffered. A radical feeling of anger and desire for justice knowing you lived in comfort while Namjoon and his family suffered. 

There are good parts, too. Namjoon recalls happy moments and blushes when he recalls seeing you a few times. It doesn’t feel weird or strange, knowing someone was looking out for you. It feels comforting, like old friends catching up. 

Namjoon’s eyes sparkle as he tells you about his favorite books. You don’t know when you stop listening to him and start staring, but it’s inevitable. You love the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, dimple making an appearance as he recalls a story about putting Yoongi in the dirt with his brother, Taehyung’s help. You love the way he gestures wildly with his hands, every word evocative and enthusiastic. 

He’s the kind of person you would have been friends with had he grown up with you. And maybe a little more, you think, watching Namjoon watch you. His gaze is even and heated, making you squirm. His mouth twitches and you’re so sure that he knows he makes you nervous.

“I never thanked you,” you mention. He hums in question, letting you go back to tracing his scare delicately. He twitches and you grin. Good. “For saving me from the jaws of Yoongi.”

“Ah, that. I think he knew it was you. There’s a reason he dragged you instead of killing you on the spot.”

“Huh. Well, that’s very rude.”

“He’s good at that.”

“You sound fond, still.”

He nods. “I love Yoongi. Is my brother, in a way.”

“Well still. Thank you.” 

You look up at Namjoon. You’re sitting so close, shoulders pressed against one another. He smells like pine and bergamot, your favorite scent. It’s heady, awakening a foreign ache in you. Your heart speeds up as you lean into him just a little more, watching him through your lashes.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he rumbles, voice deep. 

Your toes curl. “Like what?” 

“LIke you wanna do more than just thank me.”

“Maybe I do.”

“I know.” 

Ah. You start to pull away and turn your head, realizing that he’s not interested, but Namjoon catches your chin with his other hand, tilting you back toward him. Your heart stalls when he looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “I’ve known you for all my life. Not how I wanted, but I’ve known you nonetheless. But you haven’t had the chance to know me.”

“I want to. I feel like I have known you. Like I knew you were always there.”

“Is this what you want?”

This. Namjoon. Whatever is crackling between you. The thing that has sparked since the moment he caught you eavesdropping. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t have to make sense. 

Namjoon makes sense though. The way his gaze softens when he sees you. The way he looms on the edge of your life, a silent protector. The way he could do so much damage but is soft instead. The way everything about him feels like the sun on a summer day, like a field of wildflowers in spring.

He must sense you tipping over the edge. His grip on your chin becomes firm and he tilts your face toward him, leaning down to press his warm, full mouth against yours. The effect is instantaneous. You melt into him, sighing as a feeling of belonging slots into place.

The kiss is chaste. Namjoon pulls away and your lashes flutter. You hadn’t even realized your eyes closed. His gaze is dark and half-lidded, his face close enough that you feel his breath. His lips have stoked a fire in you and you want more, you want to spill out the years of longing for something you didn’t know was there, for the sudden confirmation that he’d been there all along.

Surging forward, you press your lips to his again. This time, it’s searing, your mouth fierce as you push up off of the bed. Namjoon falls in your rhythm easily, hand leaving your chin to grab you by the waist and pull you into his lap.

Knees slotted on either side of him, you pour everything you have into the kiss. Your fingers card through his thick hair, silky strands sliding between them like you knew they would. His lips are soft on yours, mouth warm as you break the seal of the kiss with your tongue.

Namjoon lets out deep, throaty sounds. It coaxes the flame inside of you to a roar, tongue tangling with his. It’s wet and messy and a little impractical but you don’t feel embarrassed or nervous. It’s Namjoon. It feels like home. 

Pleasure tingles down your spine. Namjoon grips your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. It feels hot and your skin is burning up, static trapped between your chests where they’re pressed together. Your hips twitch, tentatively seeking friction in his lap. Namjoon responds immediately, pulling your hips toward him and letting you roll. 

Your mouths part but Namjoon doesn’t stop kissing you. You pant while he presses his mouth to your chin and jawline, tongue tough against the softness of your skin. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growls. You tilt your head back, letting him pepper your throat. “You have no idea.”

“I always felt like something was missing. I think it was you.”

Namjoon moans at your admission. The heat between your legs is almost painful. One of Namjoon’s hands goes from your waist to between your legs, cupping you. You gasp back bowing as he presses firmly, deft fingers providing mind-numbing pleasure.

“That feels good.” You fist the collar of his shirt and squeeze your eyes. You feel tense, color exploding behind your closed lids. “Don’t stop.”

“Whatever you want,” he whispers. He pulls you in close, fingers curling. Your hips buck and you realize it isn't enough. You need the barrier of clothes gone. You want it more than anything. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Yes.”

You do know. It’s second nature. You knew even that day in the street when you’d first seen him. Just like Namjoon knows what you want and need, land leaving the apex of your thighs to help you off his lap and onto the bed under him. 

There’s a confidence in his movements that makes the room spin. Long forgotten are the wolf attacks and Yoongi’s teeth around your ankle. Here, it’s only the rasp of your pants against your skin as Namjoon pulls them down. It’s only the heat of his skis as you yank on his tunic, desperate to feel him.

Namjoon does run hot. His skin is burning up as your hands explore his firm chest. He captures your lips again, sucking your bottom lip in his mouth as he spreads your legs open with a knee. You shake under his touch, equal parts eager and stimulated. 

He’s so, so gentle as he caresses your inner thigh. When he brings his fingers to your sticky center, you let out a pitiful whine. Namjoon pauses, fingers pressed to your swollen kiss as he laughs and breaks the kiss, forehead pressed against yours.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you pout, leaning your head up to bite his chin. “It feels good.”

He gives you a quick kiss. Once. Twice. “Good. I want to make you feel good.” 

Namjoon circles his middle finger lazily around your clit. Your feet press into the bed, hips pulling up off the sheets. It feels amazing, pleasure sparking in your stomach. “That,” you gasp. “I like that.” 

He dips his head down, attaching his mouth to your neck as he teases your cunt. You don’t have to say anything else, Namjoon’s inquisitive fingers learning what makes you squirm and sigh. You’re a mess beneath him, chest heavy, beats of sweat making your shirt cling to you.

You claw at it, pulling it away from you. Namjoon leans up and lets you take it off, eyes dipping as he smiles appreciatively. He combines the efforts of his fingers with his mouth, bending low to catch a pert nipple with his teeth.

“Shit!” you squeak, making him chuckle again.

His fingers circle your clenching hole, pussy leaking onto his fingers. He presses a finger in and you let out a long, quiet whine. The feeling of his finger pressing against your walls is perfect, your cunt clenching as he shallowing thrusts the finger.

Everything he does is perfect. He sucks at your nipple hungrily as he fingers you slowly, making sure to press up inside your cunt in a way that has you seeing stars. Your fingers tangle in his hair, unable to think about anything except his teeth scraping your sensitive bud and your pussy clenching around his finger.

Namjoon is attentive. The heel of his hand presses to your clit and he eases another finger in, slower than the last. He looks up at you, mouth slick with spit to watch your mouth fall open. You nod, urging him further, sound stuck in your throat. 

The wet squelch between your legs as he fucks you with his fingers is obscene. You like it though, driven by the fact that it’s Namjoon doing it. Namjoon who you saved. Namjoon who watched over you. 

You open your eyes and look up at him, cradling his face in your hands. His forehead is damp with sweat from the heat building in the little shack. His skin is flushed and his hair hangs in his face. You pull at his bottom lip with your thumb and he gazes at you, hungry and wild, pupils blown.

Greedy, you pull him to you. The kiss is more teeth than lips, the two of you panting. Your leg hooks around his waist and you nibble his bottom lip, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, an orgasm starting its ascent. 

“I want you,” you breathe against his mouth. Your lips are sore from arduous kissing. “Please.”

He kisses you. “Okay.”

It’s that simple. You ask for it and he gives it to you.

Namjoon retracts his fingers from your cunt. You feel the sudden loss, fidgeting as you wait. He makes quick work of his pants, kneeling on the bed and bringing his hands covered in your juice to pump his cock. You feel your eyes bulge at his thick length. 

He notices and grins, slowing his movements. You watch as his hand smears precum down his shaft, twisting lightly as he gets to the top, his thumb brushing over his dark tip. “You can take it,” he pants, grinning wolfishly. “I know you can.”

Instead of answering, you nod, lifting your hips eagerly. He hums, pleased as he lets go, cock bobbing heavily while he shuffles over and leans over you. He places his hands on either side of your head, arms flexing as he holds his weight to bend down and steal a quick kiss. 

You kiss back feverishly, one hand traveling between your sweaty bodies to grip his length, trying to stroke him the way he did. He sighs, breaking the kiss and dropping his forehead against your chin as a shiver ripples through him. You smile, continuing to pump him.

“Want to be inside,” he mumbles, barely coherent. 

You open yourself up more, gently guiding the blunt crown of his cock toward your trembling entrance. You hold your breath as his hips follow your hand, breaching your ring of tight muscles and pushing in. 

Immediately your muscles spasm and resist, overwhelmed by Namjoon’s girth. You blow out a long breath as he enters you so, so slowly. It’s heaven and it’s hell, it’s pleasure and it’s pain. Namjoon presses his mouth to you, tongue distracting you as he bottoms out, stuffing you full.

Nothing has ever compared to how stretched you are. He doesn’t move, letting your cunt twitch around him. He holds himself up with one hand, the other brushing up and down your side, squeezing bits of flesh comfortingly as you try to still your beating heart under him.

The pain fades. You get greedy, wiggling your hips back and forth experimentally to feel the way Namjoon’s cock rubs against your walls. He blows out air sharply, a half laugh before his hand drops down to your hip, pushing you down into the bed with his weight as he slides backward.

“Ohhhh,” you sigh, head lolling to the side. The pressure of Namjoon pressing you down as he sets a slow pace of fucking into you is just right. You close your eyes, letting him set a slow pace in silence. “Yeah.” 

Namjoon’s breath is unsteady. Every little sound he makes sets you on fire. You’re pliant beneath him as he picks up his speed, properly fucking into you. One of your hands reaches up to grab his bicep, nails digging in, the other shooting to his hand on your hip, squeezing his wrist. 

Everything feels right. Connected. Overheated. The air is so thick you think you might suffocate, sheets sticking to your balmy skin, toes curling as Namjoon’s cock hits that spot inside of you that drives you mad. 

Nothing but this matters. Nothing but knowing your wolf isn’t really a wolf at all, and that he’s been there all along. Just like you’d hoped. 

“Fuck,” Namjoon pants. “I never dreamed I’d have you.”

“I dreamed of you,” you gasp on a particularly hard thrust, your nails dragging down his arm. “I just didn’t know it.”

His mouth crashes to yours. “Mine,” he growls. “My savior, mine to protect.” 

Your orgasm spins like an out-of-control spool of thread, winding tighter and tighter. Namjoon can tell, chasing your orgasm with reckless abandon, throwing his gentle movements out the window and fucking you hard into the bed. 

The sounds and words coming out of your mouth are useless babble, your thoughts turning murky as that spool tightens so much inside of you that it bursts, unspooling and spilling out of you around Namjoon’s cock. 

You can’t even breathe as you come, feet kicking, nails digging into his skin, teeth clenched. Your heart beats in your ears, the only thing you can hear for a few seconds as you spasm, eyes clenched shut. You are vaguely aware of Namjoon coming shortly after you, your name ripping through clenched teeth as he does. 

There are a few minutes of nothing punctuated by your stilted breathing and rapid pulse. Finally, you blink, stars swimming in your eyes as you look at Namjoon, who hangs his head on your chest. You reach a hand up and run your fingers through his sweaty hair.

Your wolf. Somehow you’d always known it. Even when you thought you were crazy. 

Gently, Namjoon pulls out of you, fluid spilling between your legs. You don’t care, limbs too heavy to move. Your skin is still burning up from exertion and you roll your head to the side to watch Namjoon as he lays next to you, pulling you toward him. 

For a little while, it’s quiet. You listen to the beating of his heart, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. You’re content just to lay there feeling whole just for once. 

After a while, Namjoon sighs. “You have to go back eventually.”

“We.”

“Hmm?”

“We have to go back.”

Namjoon pulls away and frowns at your tone, eyes reading your face. Your mouth is set in a firm line and you look at him with all seriousness. “We’re not letting them get away with what the humans did to you and your family.”

“You want to help?”

“Yes.” You pause. “I think it’s what my father would have wanted. It’s what I want. Even if Yoongi bit me.”

“Yoongi will never bite you again,” he vows fiercely. Then, a little more gently, “But he… would be glad to hear your sympathetic stance. I’m glad to hear it, Red.”

“Good.” You snuggle closer. “You’re mine to protect too. And I will make them pay.”

For Namjoon. For your father. You’ll paint the village red. 

[stephensmithuk]

The Valley of Fear: Darkness

Here are some examples of tweed suits:

These suits were commonplace at the time as outerwear as they coped well with the British climate; remember this is January and it can be quite cold even though snow is pretty uncommon these days in Southern England.

Police tape did not come around until the 1960s. Until then, crime scene security involved police officers standing guard, a rather hard task in the countryside.

A mare is a female horse.

The Pennsylvania Small Arm Company is fictitious. T

he main firearms company out of the Keystone State today is the Kahr Firearms Group, who moved there from New York in 2014 when the latter state tightened up its firearms laws. It having bought up the Auto-Ordnance Company and Magnum Research, it is the company that sells the Desert Eagle for those who want oversized handguns and also semi-automatic versions of the Thompsons submachine gun, including the 50-round magazines. Individuals cannot purchase weapons from them directly though; you have to go through an authorised firearms dealer. They do not do shotguns, sawed-off or otherwise.

Aberdonian refers to Aberdeen, one of Scotland's eight cities. It is known as the Granite City due to the use of it there during the Victorian era and is the hometown of Annie Lennox.

A rampant lion or lion rampant is a heraldic lion standing upright with its paws raised:

They are common on coats of arms. As the symbol of the Kingdom of Scotland, they feature more than once on both the UK and Scottish royal coat of arms, including one wearing the Tudor and Scottish Crowns respectively:

It is possible to drown in an inch of water, but that generally requires losing consciousness first.

Anyway, blotting paper was widely used at the time:

Some information on splay foot can be found here:

There have been voluntary bike registration schemes set up in various countries to assist in theft recovery:

There is no requirement to pay road tax on pedal bikes - unlike motorbikes. However, taking them on holiday to France could lead to issues with Customs; it still can in some cases since Brexit.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

These are the BSD ocs I drew a while back in these posts here, here, and here. I'm finally going to introduce them - they are both named for famous haiku poets (two of the 4 Ts!).

Takajo Mitsuhashi

Ability: Fern Hell/Shida Jigoku - A passive ability with an active component. Passively, she has a connection to what may or may not be a kind of life force - she can sense the presence of every individual, making her near impossible to sneak up on. Throttling the connection between person and life force either denotes a strange effect on their ability, or can shut down their life functions and kill them.

Age: 17

Birth Date: January 24th

Height: 162 cm

Weight: 116 lb

Blood Type: AB

Likes: Abstract art, meditation, cicadas

Dislikes: Restrictions, too much noise

Additional notes: Unused to feeling strong emotions, but is far from expressionless in intonation - she tends to be polite yet laid back and mildly cocky, especially when poking holes at authority/She was formerly an assassin/She also has the capacity to barely feel any pain and keep moving, even from deep injuries. This is not an ability. It's implied she trained to be able to do this./Becomes fascinated by Yosano and regularly observes her and her choices/Cannot understand why Takako doesn't think she's cool and then feels frustrated that this upsets her.

Takako Hashimoto

Ability: The Red Thread/Beniito - Allows the creation of a thin red thread, which, when connected with an object or person, acts as a rope to allow her to pull objects closer or drag them. Connections to people sometimes involve her gaining flashes of their emotional state and core desires.

Age: 16

Birth Date: January 15th

Height: 166 cm

Weight: 130 lb

Blood Type: B

Likes: Snow, yubari melon, dancing

Dislikes: Loneliness, feeling left behind

Additional notes: Born to comfortable wealth but has since given that up for unknown reasons/Sociable and empathetic but rarely talks about herself/Has an unfortunate tendency to throw herself into danger without thinking it through, much to Takajo's frustration/Tends to fangirl over people she thinks are cool, like Agent Hisajo/Thinks Takajo is one of the coolest people she's met but pretends she doesn't think so out of embarrassment of admitting that. This leads to childish spats.

They are part of a story involving Takajo attempting to find a powerful ability user-made artifact. Takako is the only one who can locate it, and therefore, they strike a deal to work together. They conflict with an offshoot of the Special Division, which essentially blackmails the girls into helping them find it and store it securely - but both girls are in agreement that the artifact needs to be destroyed (the one thing they do reliably agree on).

Though at first they are only working together out of a shared goal, they eventually come to care about one another deeply.

...ok. Running off now byeee

[rathayibacter]

ratings of friday the 13ths

Friday, October 13th: 13/10 perfection. no notes. not only is it the spooky day in the spooky month, its mirrored with Halloween's October 31st.

Friday, November 13th: 9/10 pretty great! its two weeks post-Halloween and then this guy shows up and it's like a little spooky booster shot to help you through.

Friday, December 13th: 6/10 alright, the long nights are pretty creepy so that's cool, but Christmas' bright lights and candy canes hold fast against the dark, and nobody finds Krampus scary anymore.

Friday, January 13th: 8/10 now we're talking! all the Christmas trees are rotting in the streets and there's nothing left to do but shiver in your home and hope nothing's waiting for you in the snow.

Friday, February 13th: 10/10 perfect time to ask your sleep paralysis demon to be your Valentine

Friday, March 13th: 7/10 pretty good, unremarkable but not unwelcome. nice change of pace from all the not much you're probably doing in March.

Friday, April 13th: hom

Friday, May 13th: 3/10 despite my best efforts i cannot find anything remotely scary about the month of May. May's a delightful little month and that really works against it here.

Friday, June 13th: 8/10 the possibilities of summer lay before you, and here comes a lovely visitor from autumn to see you off. watch horror movies in your friend's basement and fall asleep on the couch.

Friday, July 13th: 8/10 creeps up on you, especially if you're a kid with no concept of time over the summer. one day it's BBQ cookouts and going to the pool, the next there's Creatures

Friday, August 13th: 10/10 the trees buzz, the sky is golden, summer finally gives up its hottest days. during the day you'll laugh it off, but when night comes at last it'll slip through your open window and crawl into your dreams. fall is coming, and winter after, and when the sun turns its back on you and the winds grow cruel, there'll be nothing left to protect you.

Friday, September 13th: 2/10 you really couldnt have held out a little longer? come on. get serious man

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Sussex Divorce Rumors

Well, we seem to be on #divorcewatch with Radar Online’s scoop that Harry and Meghan are “taking a break.” (Y’all remember who else said they were “on a break” before they broke up? Harry’s favorite TV show, and I’m pretty sure Meghan enjoys it too because I feel like we’ve read about it in her PR. I bet we can look forward to similar shenanigans in the PR war.)

(If you’re not familiar, on FRIENDS, Ross and Rachel decided to “take a break.” Rachel thought that to mean they were together but not going out. Ross thought it meant they had broken up so Ross dated someone else. Rachel found out Ross was dating and she flipped out, there was a big fight and it was a recurring theme throughout the rest of the series. I bet we’ll see similar accusations in War of the Sussexes.)

Anyway, I thought I would repost a wrap-up I did a few months ago of all the divorce rumors I’ve been tracking. See the original post here. (The original post also included divorce rumors about all the royals.) These rumors are through February 2023. I’ll update with rumors from March to the present soon.

The list is below the jump.

Sussexes to divorce before first anniversary. (Betting odds, May 2018)

Sussexes to divorce before third anniversary. (Betting odds, May 2018)

Sussexes to divorce before fifth anniversary. (Betting odds, May 2018)

The Sussex divorce will take place in wintertime, when it is snowing outside. Meghan will shock everyone with the announcement. Harry will be caught totally off-guard. (2019)

Megxit because Meghan threatened to leave and divorce Harry if he didn’t support her. (January 2020)

Harry’s diplomatic immunity as a Counselor of State will force California to send their divorce proceedings to London. Any of California’s laws dictating divorce proceedings or custody will not be applicable. (April 2021)

Harry to file for divorce or leave Meghan if his Counselor of State status is revoked because it conveys a certain diplomatic immunity that would invoke the State Department to move divorce proceedings to London. (April 2021)

Lili is a save-the-marriage baby. (June 2021)

Sussexes are secretly divorced. (November 2021)

Harry will return to the UK/BRF on the original half-in/half-out scheme after the divorce. (March 2022)

Harry left Meghan and bought an apartment in Turtle Bay, NYC, near the UN. He lives there full-time. (March 2022)

Secret Sussex visit to Windsor to initiate divorce proceedings. (April 2022)

Harry and/or the BRF to get full custody of the children after the divorce. (May 2022)

Harry will remarry and adopt more children after leaving Meghan. (May 2022)

Meghan to have a third marriage to a Saudi/Middle Eastern businessman and live quietly in the UK with shared custody of Archie and Lili after the divorce. No more children for her. (May 2022)

Harry and Meghan to divorce in 2025. (May 2022)

If Meghan leaves Harry and initiates the divorce, she will use Diana’s divorce timeline. (June 2022)

Harry will give up titles received for the wedding before the divorce so Meghan cannot use the titles post-divorce. (June 2022)

Harry will leave Meghan and blame it on a mental health crisis. (June 2022)

Meghan will leave Harry and blame it on his insulting/attacking the US Constitution. She will use the divorce announcement/timing to announce political candidacy or other political aspirations. (July 2022)

Meghan to appear on the cover of US Vogue as a condition of the divorce settlement. (August 2022)

Meghan will sell her private journals from royal days for profit after the divorce. (August 2022)

Meghan has moved out of Montecito and into the Beverly Hills Hotel to be with her new boyfriend. (August 2022)

Meghan’s new boyfriend is wealthy, connected, and white. (August 2022)

Meghan does not want custody of the children but will fight for it in the divorce. (August 2022)

Meghan moved back into the Montecito Mansion to create the illusion of a single mom with a playboy husband, who only has her mother for support, for her divorce narrative. (August 2022)

Meghan will work with Sunshine Sachs to tear Harry down the moment the Sussex divorce is public. (August 2022)

Meghan and Harry separated, on the way to a 2023 divorce. Harry travels frequently to the UK when it’s not his time with the children to re-establish domicile for custody fight. (August 2022)

Charles to accept Harry back into the firm as a full-time working royal after the divorce. (September 2022)

Meghan threatened to leave Harry if she was uninvited or sidelined during the Queen’s funeral. That’s why he was demanding she travel to Balmoral with him. (September 2022)

Sussex divorce to be handled in England. Meghan will be represented by a bulldog American lawyer. It will be similar to the Paul McCartney/Heather Mills divorce - as acrimoniously and with Meghan doing some kind of stunt that backfires. (September 2022)

Harry to leave Meghan by the end of 2022 in response to his stripped status at The Queen’s funeral. (September 2022)

Harry to get full physical and legal custody of the children in the divorce and live in Frogmore Cottage with them. (September 2022)

Harry to leave Meghan between October 15, 2022, - November 14, 2022. (September 2022)

Meghan’s threat in The Cut about not signing NDAs and having journals was a threat to Harry to stop him from leaving her, not the BRF. (September 2022)

Meghan to publish her own memoir about Harry post-divorce. (September 2022)

Sussexes had a private meeting with Charles while in London for Queen’s funeral to negotiate terms of the divorce, including timing and announcement. (September 2022)

Harry to physically, mentally, and publicly leave Meghan to return to the BRF by October 31, 2022. (September 2022)

Meghan will give an exclusive Oprah-like interview but not to Oprah, in which she pops off about “her truth” and how the BRF mistreated her during the jubilee, The Queen’s funeral, and Charles’s coronation. This will cause Harry to leave her. (September 2022)

Charles will not accept Harry back into the firm at all after a divorce. (September 2022)

Sussexes to divorce after Netflix and PRH book obligations end. (September 2022)

Meghan is cheating with a married man and wants to leave Harry for him but the new partner has said he doesn’t want a future with Meghan and it’s just a fun affair for him. (October 2022)

Sussexes to divorce by March 2023. (October 2022)

Sussexes have begun divorce proceedings and have formally separated. (October 2022)

If Harry returns to the UK without Meghan and divorces her, then Charles will pay back the remainder of the PRH book advances and sort out financial/legal troubles with Netflix. (October 2022)

A Sussex scandal will precede Harry’s divorce announcement. Both the scandal and the announcement will catch Meghan off-guard. (October 2022)

Harry and Meghan are separated. Harry will spend Christmas at Sandringham with the BRF. (October 2022)

Meghan to launch a PR war against Harry for leaving her at Christmastime. (October 2022)

Meghan and Harry have been separated since August 2021; Harry lives in San Francisco. (October 2022)

Harry left Meghan and lives with Eugenie in Portugal. (November 2022)

Harry went into involuntary rehab after a drug- and alcohol-fueled fight with Meghan following The Queen’s funeral and his public “demotion.” Courts forced them to separate and they are not allowed to live together. Charles will pay Meghan a huge settlement when they finally divorce to keep the court details sealed/private. (November 2022)

Sussex divorce announcement on or by December 17, 2022.

Sussex divorce announcement on or by January 23, 2023.

Charles/the BRF will influence Harry’s terms of the divorce settlement: they will allow Harry to return and have his IPP/security detail back, but he will not be a working royal and kept out of the public eye under very strict parameters. Meghan’s access to the BRF will be cut off and any attempt at a compromise that sees her coming back to London or attending royal events will kick Harry out of both the firm and Britain, and the BRF will take custody of the children. (November 2022)

Sussex divorce by March 2023. (November 2022)

Divorce/separation negotiations are going poorly and Meghan is lashing out via Kerry Kennedy’s criticism and the Kennedy Do-Good award. (November 2022)

Pictures of Archie on a Zoom call were leaked with Meghan’s authorization and indicate that she and Harry are separated, because Harry is the only one who demands and expects the children’s privacy. (November 2022)

Meghan has tapes, audio and video, of Harry being wildly drunk and/or abusive, which will come out in the divorce. Divorce will be acrimonious and messy like the Heard/Depp divorce. (December 2022)

Harry suspending his press lawsuits signals that the divorce is imminent and he is moving back to London. (December 2022)

Harry and Meghan to divorce when the money runs out and they cannot make profitable multi-million dollar deals anymore. (December 2022)

Meghan to leave and divorce Harry when America turns on her. (December 2022)

Sussex divorce announcement to come on the eve of Charles’s coronation, overshadowing the weekend. (December 2022)

The BRF intends to prove/accuse Harry and Meghan as unfit parents to take custody of the children during divorce proceedings. (December 2022)

Doria will testify on Meghan’s behalf about the children’s custody during divorce proceedings to help Meghan win custody; however, the court will question Doria’s absence from Meghan’s childhood and uncover something that will undermine her credibility, which tanks Meghan’s case for custody. (December 2022)

Meghan to leave Harry and use Spare as evidence/justification. (January 2023)

Meghan to file for divorce citing irreconcilable differences. (January 2023)

Sussex divorce to be epic, on par with War of the Wales. (January 2023)

Sussex divorce to begin after Harry’s book tour obligations end. (January 2023)

Harry has a pre-separation agreement in place with Meghan that protects him from all business arrangements and debts made during the marriage in return for silence on certain topics. (January 2023)

Meghan to announce the divorce after William and Kate announce a fourth pregnancy or birth of a fourth child. (January 2023)

Sussex divorce announcement between February 19, 2023, - March 21, 2023. (January 2023)

Sussex divorce to take place in California so Meghan can keep primary custody of the children and earn monthly alimony/child support from the BRF. (January 2023)

Meghan has created an extravagant life in Montecito so when she divorces Harry, she can argue to the court that the children have an exceptional standard of living, which the court will require Harry/the BRF to maintain with alimony/child support payments equivalent to current standard. (January 2023)

Meghan and/or the BRF to use Harry’s admissions of drug and alcohol abuse in Spare and the promo tour against him during the divorce and custody proceedings. (January 2023)

Harry to be placed under a 5150/conservatorship due to his addiction and other issues by the BRF or Meghan in divorce proceedings to show he is unfit for custody. (January 2023)

Sussex terms of divorce to include an agreement that anything of Diana’s (including trust money and jewelry) will automatically go towards the children and cannot be used or accessed by Meghan. (January 2023)

Harry’s dirt from California will start leaking in March as a precursor to the divorce. Meghan will be the one leaking and use it as threats to get what she wants. (January 2023)

Harry to have a catfish scandal on Instagram after divorcing Meghan. (January 2023)

Charles will give Meghan $50 million and generous child support to divorce Harry and return him to London. (January 2023)

Dirt on Meghan’s use of surrogates will be revealed during divorce proceedings. (January 2023)

Charles to be implicated in the cover-up of the Sussexes’ use of a surrogate and he will abdicate or be forced to step back in the fallout. (January 2023)

Sussex divorce in November 2023 (January 2023)

Meghan’s “revenge dress” moment will be related to the Hollywood awards season. (January 2023)

Meghan has a sex tape on the dark web, which will be published/leaked to the “regular” web during the divorce. (January 2023)

Harry will remarry in 2030 - 2031. Meghan will be a non-issue and won’t bother with his new wife. (January 2023)

Security camera footage of Meghan mistreating Charlotte exists and will be leaked during divorce proceedings, causing her to lose custody. (January 2023)

Meghan and Harry have been separated since late 2022. (January 2023)

Sussex divorce between June 2023 and September 2023. (February 2023)

Meghan and Harry are currently legally separated and “will they/won’t they” about the coronation is to keep news of the separation from going public. (February 2023)

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— in which Vlad Dracula and a childhood acquaintance reunite after years, and both assess one another anew through the perspective of adulthood.

words: 5,252 words

warnings: implications of a love triangle, mentions of concubinage and extramarital relationships, (very) mild suggestive language and innuendos

a/n: Somehow, I have always felt in my writing bones that the beginnings of Vlad’s story with Cătălina should begin in Moldavia. I see Vlad’s years at the Moldavian court as one of his happiest moments in Voievod. Is it 100% plausible? Maaaybe not completely but it could not be any other way. Cătălina has a crucial place in his life… and here is how it all begins. I hope you enjoy the ride together with them! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

January 1950, Curtea Domnească, Suceava, Moldavia

The sheep wool draped over his shoulders offers warmth but no relief. Beneath him, the stone steps bite with cold — they had to sweep away the thick layer of snow so they could sit on them. The tension in his muscles comes from elsewhere. Rest has become foreign to him, though his body pleads for it. Dark shadows have settled beneath his eyes, almost black now, sharp against his pale, bone-white face. Exhaustion weighs heavy, and still, he cannot let go.

Though his uncle became voivode in autumn, they arrived at the court only two weeks ago — messages between Suceava and the Porte crawl at a torturous pace. When the messenger delivered Bogdan’s offer to him which stated that he was welcome to live at the Moldavian court if he pleased, Vlad had little time to drag his feet. But to go to Moldavia seemed a great risk. His uncle turned away from the Poles and now leaned on Hungarian support. Hunyadi might be eager to assist him for now, but his tune could change the moment he learned that the Moldavian voivode gave shelter to the young man whose head he wanted on a silver platter. To come here could have meant an instant execution. Family ties? They rarely matter, even less in royal families. Family is always the first scapegoat sacrificed on the path to power. His nephew’s death could help Bogdan secure a comfortable future.

But to come here seemed a better choice than staying in Edirne, even despite the risks. To move forward is to push through. And so he gathered the few belongings he had and set off for Suceava with his companion. The thick December snow turned the typically month-long journey into a much longer toil; having to bypass Wallachia entirely stretched the odyssey even further. Long days in the saddle or rough nights in shoddy inns in Dobruja nonetheless seemed a more preferable option than ending up dragged to Târgovişte and butchered on the doorstep of the palace like a stray dog.

Both men were received with warmth Vlad had not experienced in years. Bogdan has repeatedly reassured him that he will see to it that no harm comes to them, yet Vlad cannot shake off the state of alarm. One can feign affection with ease, perhaps even better than other emotions. And so instead of letting sleep overpower him in the comfort of the warm bed, his body stays alert. Every sound beyond the bolted door jolts him awake at night. He keeps a dagger beneath the pillow, ready, as if sleep itself is a danger he cannot afford to trust.

The same cannot be said of his companion. After that tumultuous year, Dracea has found Suceava to be the ideal place for repose. As Vlad walks past his chamber at the first light of dawn every morning, the heavy snores rumble from behind the closed door, deep and unbroken.

And, of course, there is that woman.

She is the reason why they are freezing on the stone steps instead of lounging by the fire in the hall. The cook gave them both this year’s walnuts wrapped in two cloth bundles, and Vlad was already turning towards the grand entrance that would take him to the hall when Dracea heard her voice — just a faint sound from outside — and bolted out of the gate. He has been mesmerised by her since the first moment he was introduced to her, longing to spend every second near her presence. Dracea’s eyes have been searching for her everywhere.

Vlad followed his footsteps without hesitation, watching his friend’s obsession with amused detachment. He could not help himself. Curiosity pulls him in like a moth to a flame and demands satisfaction. He has been observing this infatuation with fascination that has little to do with her and more with the simple notion of what a woman’s allure can turn a man into. There is certain bemusement in it, he thinks, that a single glance — barely a tilt of her chin, the flicker of a smile — can unravel a man so completely. She has reduced Dracea to a trembling boy and hypnotised him into thinking he is the one in control.

Dracea fights this battle with honour. His gaze never falters, never hesitates, never gives the poor soul rest — there is no respite in love, no pause for the weary. She moves and he follows, without question, without breath. If she graces him with a smile, his becomes all the wider. If she seems to be in need of a helping hand, he is ready to move the mountains for her. During a shared meal in the hall, amidst the murmur of voices and the clink of metal against wood, he leans back with satisfaction whenever her eyes find him. In that glance, the world collapses and folds inwards, existing only in the space of their unspoken words. An unabashed, mischievous wink earns him her laughter — soft, fleeting yet eternal. That is how wars are won.

He does not give her rest even now. His eyes anchor themselves to her form as her fingers caress the fabric the merchant displays to her. The delicate touch of wool against the soft skin he longs to touch, the whispered shift of fibres between her hands, hold his attention in a grip stronger than any grasp could. She pulls her woollen cloak tighter around her shoulders, and when she laughs, her cheeks flushed from the cold tighten in amusement. She is hardly the only living being standing in the courtyard — Ștefan’s elder sister Maria might be older than them but is enchanting nonetheless — but none of that matters to Dracea. The world around him dissolves, vanishes, and all that remains is her, untouchable yet infinitely near, caught in the invisible tether of his focus.

Cătălina. The name rolls around in his mind like a secret meant to be whispered in the darkness of a night. Sharp yet soft, delicate but never fragile. Că-tă-li-na. Că-tă-li-na. He says it in his mind, again and again, testing its weight as if by repeating it he might unravel the mystery of her, might understand how the smoothness of the syllables could match the depth in her eyes, the curve of her smile. It does not belong to her but becomes her, and with each thought of it, he is more certain that no other name would ever do.

How can something so simple hold so much power over him?

The sound of a rasping breath pulls him out of his reverie. A sweetness still lingers on his tongue when he recognises that sound — laughter, choked and restrained, desperately held in the throat. He turns to Vlad and lets the world of whiteness and empty walnut shells come into focus. The man sits there, his mouth stuffed with the nuts and cheeks puffed out in unspoken jest. He tips the cloth, and the walnuts tumble free and fall into the folds of the sheep skin laid across his knees. Then he dangles the cloth before Dracea’s face.

“A kerchief, my lord?”

“Wha— Why?”

“You are starting to slobber all over your knees.”

The laughter intensifies and swells around him, but Dracea pays it no mind. He flicks his wrist in a dismissal, and the cloth slips through Vlad’s fingers as he yanks it out of his hand. His eyes settle once more on that divine thing before him.

“You must be the only man alive immune to her charms,” Dracea shakes his head in disappointment, then points at her with an arm outstretched in indignation. “Take a good, long look at her and tell me it stirs nothing within you!”

“I am aware of her looks. You forget that I have known her since childhood.”

“I hardly doubt she looked like this. So ripe, so…”

Vlad wants to argue that countless other girls are ready to catch the wandering gaze of their starving eyes. He holds his tongue instead and looks at her, feeling a flicker of memory appear in front of him like the dust of a long-gone afternoon. She is not a girl anymore. The childish softness in her face is gone, stripped away by time. She is a woman now, not very tall but with a graceful posture befitting her class, hardly waifish, instead well-built — slim, with strength in her body indicating that she remains physically active. He recalls that she is a decent rider, at least from what he noticed during the sparse and short moments when their paths crossed in childhood. His eyes sweep over her features. Dark eyes, neither too large nor too small, a narrow nose, full lips. Her hair flows down her back in a river of dark chestnut waves, surprisingly not tamed in a braid, and the cool winter sun paints the tresses with a faint reddish tinge characteristic of her family. It almost reaches her waist, almost touches, but does not quite.

“There is more to life than beautiful women,” Vlad says at last, palms open in front of him.

“That is not what you said last night in the arms of the carpenter’s daughter.”

A walnut shell strikes Dracea’s temple with a thud, then clatters down the steps and rolls away. “At the very least, I keep my dalliances far from our host’s threshold.”

“As do I! Yet this one… this one may well be worth a sin or two.”

Dracea lets the words fall, expecting the familiar grin, the quick flash of approval in Vlad’s eyes — a sign of shared understanding, the unspoken camaraderie of men who dance on the edge of fate. Fortune favours the bold, he thinks to himself, and the Dragon’s son is never one to leave boldness unanswered, always quick to recognise it and enjoy it in others as if it were his own. But now, the silence stretches. Instead, there is only the crunch, soft but decisive, of the walnut splitting under Vlad’s thumbs. Not a word. Not a glance.

Dracea’s tongue curls, his remark now a hollow thing. Fortune favours the bold, yes — but it has its moods, and today, it is nowhere to be found.

The walnut shell drops to the ground.

“Exile need not mean we live as monks,” he tries again, and that is when the shadow of a grin pulls at Vlad’s lips.

“I would be the last man to pretend otherwise.”

“So?”

Vlad inhales, the crisp air sharp in his chest, while moss-green eyes trace the skies that sag under the weight of impending snow. Dracea can warm his bed with whomever he pleases. That much does not stir him. But that Muntenian woman, sharp-eyed and unbending, is not some tavern girl. Ruining a lady-in-waiting’s reputation is a game only fools play, and a single indiscretion could snap the trust their uncle has placed in them like a brittle twig. There is a reason why any non-committal adventures are kept strictly outside the palace’s gates. And then, there is always the chance of the unexpected, and to tether oneself to anything more than a fleeting passion when tomorrow, they might not even be in the same land… He knows better than to believe in anything as fragile as permanence in a place where nothing is ever promised, least of all tomorrow. Serious commitments are a luxury, and luxuries require stability. Vlad smirks at the thought — stability is the one thing they lack.

This might grow into a distraction that could taint all of his obligations.

But then again, he is not in a place to forbid such private matters. When Vlad had to flee, he did tell Dracea that he could not demand his companion as his ruler but could only ask it of him as his friend. Dracea is risking his life, not for the country or the crown but for the man — not out of obligation, but of his own volition. Besides, the lady-in-waiting hardly seems like a fragile damsel, and if she is anything like his sister to whom she once used to be close… God help the man foolish enough to think her weak.

A touch of something — is it concession? — graces Vlad’s lips as his fingers gather the last of the scattered nuts. He takes the white cloth from Dracea’s outstretched hand and wraps them into it again. Who is he to guard another man’s life when it is only his to live? To each man his own.

“So… Be discreet. Do nothing reckless. Beyond that, I care not for the rest. That is all I ask of you, Dracea.”

Lost in thought, he does not realise that his eyes stray from his friend and, as if pulled by an invisible thread, land upon her. It is fleeting, a moment that could dissolve in the air, but Dracea notices. He sees the pause, the way Vlad’s gaze betrays him just enough. A small victory, perhaps, but one that sparks a knowing smirk on his lips.

And so he presses further. “Like a rose in full bloom, is she not?”

He rises swiftly, fingers brushing the dust from the wool that clings to his legs. His hand, deliberate and firm, falls on Dracea’s shoulder.

“Mind the thorns. Roses are laced with them,” he says at last and disappears through the gate and into the palace’s corridors.

Dracea glances at her once more, the sharp pull of longing rising from his chest as if it could lacerate the air between them. He has already already made his choice, perhaps long before he knew.

This one might be worth piercing his fingers for.

three days later, Curtea Domnească, Suceava, Moldavia

Cătălina can recall the first sentiment she has ever felt for Dracul’s son with striking clarity — a creeping, uneasy shadow of envy. More than a decade ago, she was an observer in her own quiet solitude. She remembers looking at him in the same manner as she is now, through the grand window of the Voivodal Palace in deep contemplation, back hunched forward, chin cradled in the hollow of her small palms, dark eyes burning through his figure. Her body repeats the posture as if it were branded into her bones.

They were only children then, and she envied the lightness with which he sprinted through the path among his mother’s beloved rose bushes, cheeks puffed out and red with exertion. She always saw him in a frantic blur of motion, never still enough for her to catch more than a glimpse, a mass of black curls bobbing around his face. Cătălina was granted this freedom only within the sanctity of her own home. Beyond its confines, it was forbidden. She would swiftly face chastisement otherwise, made to remember who she was — or rather, what she could never be. A flicker of her tongue, a pink dart that vanished as quickly as it appeared, was a secret rebellion she allowed herself when no one was watching. Such a fate would never befall him. What was deemed naughtiness in her was celebrated in him. He could run as swiftly as he wished to, climb cherry trees as high as the boughs would permit, spit the crimson-stained pits upon the earth. It appeared as if the world had already bent its knee to him, a six-year-old boy.

The circumstances have changed significantly since then.

The world shifted and slipped into new hands. She now resides in a different Voivodal Palace — amidst a different court, under the rule of a different voivode, in a different land. The girl of six is long gone and left behind, buried beneath whatever remains of her childhood home, replaced by a woman on the cusp of eighteen. The sting of envy has disappeared together with that small girl.

She feels something different now. Curiosity, perhaps. Certainly sorrow — for what is lost, for what was taken from them, for those who would never return.

She has barely seen him since he arrived at Voivode Bogdan’s gates, but from the little she has noticed, she can already sense it. Life has hardened him and shifted something in him. He had to bury that boy who once scrambled up cherry trees as if he owned the sky, too.

“There you are, Cătălina!” she hears a voice behind her back and, as if by command, she snaps upright, her back straight and body rigid with that automatic obedience. Her hands, so quick to gesture, to grasp, now hang by her sides. “I have searched for you everywhere! Mother speaks of nothing but the engagement, I could bear it no—”

Maria stops mid-sentence, her voice swallowed by the quiet tension as she comes to stand beside Cătălina. Her gaze drifts to the window, large blue eyes settling not on the blond-haired youth outside, her brother Ștefan — shirt loose and sword in hands, all sinew and readiness — but on the unspoken subject of Cătălina’s attention.

Ștefan, for all his taut energy, could not be the man she was watching.

The man’s raven curls glisten with sweat, and the linen of his shirt clings to his back, every contour alive, the tension radiating from his form. But it is not infatuation that crosses her companion’s face. Cătălina’s gaze is not soft, nor does it linger with that longing Maria has come to recognise in so many women in his presence.

“Bogdan has instantly warmed up to him. He says he reminds him of his sister very much,” Maria’s voice softens, almost slipping into a whisper as if the words could barely hold themselves together.

She watches Cătălina’s lips curve into a smile filled with fondness. “Doamna Vasilisa was indeed a force to be reckoned with.”

Her mind floods with memories of the Moldavian princess, her hair the colour of honey sculpted into a tight bun atop her head. The strands, thick with waves, were always held by dozens of thin, gleaming pins and tucked beneath a veil of lace so delicate it looked like air. To the outside world, she was elegance incarnate, poised, a devoted wife to their beloved voivode, a loving mother to their children. She was the figure whispered about with admiration in the corners of markets, the dream mothers harboured for their daughters. A model of grace and temperance. The wife every man envied. But Cătălina remembered a different version of the graceful noblewoman, too. Behind the closed doors of the palace, Vasilisa unravelled into a sprightly soul full of vigour, always so quick with her wit, her words slicing through the air with the sharpness of steel. Vlad and his sister Alexandra bear their father’s face most strongly, but it is their mother’s fire that dances behind their eyes, her resilience burning beneath the surface.

The tender smile freezes on her lips in further remembrance. Life was rarely kind to Vasilisa.

She wrestles with her past like a ghost clinging to her skin, heavier than it should be, more real than she can bear. The memory resists her, coiled around her thoughts, but Cătălina forces her focus forward, settling her eyes on Maria. A deep silence blankets them both, a quiet that only makes the young woman’s nerves more visible. There’s a tremor in her stance, a subtle bow to her shoulders as if the weight of invisible hands presses down, bending her towards some unnamed fear. The crease between her pale brows is faint, but Cătălina catches the restless twisting of the rings, the way Maria’s fingers worry at her wrists, pale against the dim light.

She may be here to play the part of distraction, to ease the tension with soft laughter and lighter airs, but fondness, in its delicate intimacy, makes pretences an unbearable weight. She would rather silence the empty gestures of her role than betray this quiet bond. Damn him. The thought flares, sharp and brief, as her back turns to the window. The two figures outside, blurred by the clash of swords and steel ringing against steel, become distant, irrelevant. She loops her arm around Maria’s and pulls her away, guiding her through the winding corridors, where the dimness stretches over them like shadows.

“Have you had the chance to see him yet?” Cătălina speaks softly through the strain, drawing Maria out of her nervous daze.

Maria’s eyes flash with surprise, startled by the directness. She hesitates, then shakes her head, a sigh escaping like a confession. “No. I tried to catch a glimpse, but Mother would have none of it. I was left with Bogdan while she was giving her approval to this… man.”

“So you will have to wait until the engagement festivities begin?”

“Yes.” The word lands heavy, dragging Maria’s gaze to the ground. “What a surprise that shall be,” she teeters on the edge of bitter resignation. “Yet, I cannot say whether it will be a welcome one.”

Cătălina’s hand rests gently over Maria’s trembling fingers in a gesture meant to console, but even she knows — deep down — that any attempts come thin. Hollow. “He might be a good man,” she offers and flinches at the sound of her own voice, at the smallness of that desperate hope.

As if that could mean much in a woman’s world…

“He might be…” Maria repeats, the words dissolving as her hands fly up full of frustration. “I know— I know that Sorea endured her own engagement two years ago. And Isaia is a kind husband to her, and a generous brother-in-law to me. Mother’s judgment was right then, so why should I question her now? But, Cătălina, I do not even know this man’s face! His name, his family — that is all I have. What if I do not like him, what if—”

Her words falter as she falls into Cătălina’s arms, seeking refuge from the storm of doubt swirling inside her.

“I am certain that you will find many opportunities to spend time at court, with your family,” Cătălina says, threading the tension with care. “The voivode is fond of you all, and your husband… well, he can hardly refuse when the voivode asks for your presence, can he?”

But the answer comes not in words — just the muffled sound of stifled tears, breath trapped in the tight press of Maria’s body against hers. Then the break, the sudden release. Maria pulls away, her hand brushing at eyes that are too red, too swollen to hide the tremor in her laughter. It breaks, like glass splitting.

“Bogdan has always treated us like his own children. Sometimes more kindly than our own father ever did.” The acknowledgement feels sharp and bitter, and she regrets saying it even as it leaves her mouth. She bites down on her lip, stifling the slip of honesty — but she has no reason to with Cătălina. Never with her. She pushes forward instead. “I sometimes wonder if Mother truly sees the privilege she holds. How many women can say that? That a man had to ask her permission — her permission, not the father’s — to marry her daughter. Șendrea went to her. Bogdan did not interfere, not once. What woman here can claim such freedom?”

Cătălina reflects on her words in silence. Being a royal concubine carries its own weight of trials and tribulations. Power and autonomy can be such fragile things, gone as quickly as they appear, and at times, they cut deeper than they shine. The comfortable existence hangs by a thread, liable to disappear at a moment’s notice. So much depends on the will of the voivode, and not all treat their mistresses with Bogdan’s love and generosity. Some consider their concubines true partners — confidants in life and governance, a voice of conscience, a source of laughter and comfort. For others, a mistress is nothing more than a body to conquer and discard at whim.

Men are takers, always. The difference lies not in the taking but in the subtlety or brutality with which they claim what they believe is theirs. This insight, however, Cătălina chooses to keep to herself for now.

Her role, after all, is to entertain. And entertain she shall. As they descend the stone steps and traverse the courtyard — snow crunching underfoot, whispers of their skirts tracing the path behind them — the sound of steel and grunts drifts towards them. Her eyes fall upon the scene unfolding in the distance, and the two men still locked in combat momentarily seize her attention. A sharp and reckless thought sparks in her mind. She chews the inside of her lip. The risk of overstepping and offending the young woman beside her briefly lingers. She weighs Maria, her delicate posture concealing an appetite for audacity, the woman’s fingers twitching with the restrained energy of a bird too long in a cage. If there is one thing she has learned in this household, it is that Maria thrives on the whispered words that slip between the cracks of propriety that Cătălina dares to share, lips brushing an ear in youthful conspiracy.

And so, she takes the risk.

“Well…” she murmurs. “Should the engagement fail for any reason…”

She lets the words trail, her eyes gliding to the dark-haired man who flings Ștefan to the ground with a practised sweep. A sly grin tugs at her lips as she nudges Maria’s hip. Instead of speaking further, Cătălina jerks her head towards the laughing Wallachian who is now helping Maria’s brother to his feet. For a second, the fair-haired woman feigns indignation and even places a jewelled hand to her lips, but the twinkle in her blue eyes betrays her. Soon enough, bright and carefree laughter escapes her. It hangs in the air around them, vibrant as a ripple on the surface of still water.

“He is Ștefan’s cousin!”

“But not yours.”

“And much younger than me.”

“Four years. Just like the voivode and your mother.”

Maria brushes the idea aside with a flick of her wrist. “That man undoubtedly finds his thrills elsewhere. Besides… No man of sound mind would wish to face Bogdan’s anger. Neither would I.”

The two women exchange soft, knowing laughter, but Maria slows her pace, eventually stopping by one of the stone pillars. She leans against it, careful to keep them hidden from the view of the cousins. She takes the opportunity to look more closely at the foreigner Bogdan has taken under his wing, at the ripple of vitality coursing through his every movement. There is an energy in him that, though contained after the exercise, still threatens to spill out at any moment.

“He is quite an enigmatic man. So… I struggle to find the word—”

“Exotic?” Cătălina offers, and Maria nods her head with quiet satisfaction.

“Yes. Very. Certainly not like a Turk, yet quite different from other Muntenians.” She leans closer to her companion and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as though the young man donning his doublet might somehow overhear the exchange. “Some of the ladies say he seems foreign enough to keep you guessing but familiar enough to keep you comfortable.”

Cătălina raises an eyebrow, but the curve of her lips betrays her mischief. “Is that what those God-fearing women whisper about into their goblets at dinner?”

“Oh, hush, you! Allow those poor souls a bit of innocent amusement.”

She cannot help the soft scoff that rises at the thought of innocence, but she swallows it down, biting her tongue with practised precision. Maria, mistaking the silence for uncertainty, presses on, her curiosity already pulling her past the point of no return. The next question spills from her lips before she can reconsider.

“Then how do you perceive him? What was he like?”

At the question, Cătălina pauses. No answer rises easily to her lips. Her childhood, after all, was a small world, one of girls from noble families and of walking hand-in-hand with his sister, Alexandra. They would spend hours together, secluded from the bustle of boys and their pursuits. His world was different, tethered to the saddle, to the hunt, to the future that awaited him in the court’s halls, whether as a voivode or a voice of reason to his elder brother, Mircea, the designated heir to their father’s throne. She doubts he even remembered her name when their paths crossed once more here, at the Moldavian court. His attention was on Dumitru, her elder brother, who used to be Mircea’s closest friend. They embraced immediately, the weight of years dissolving in the clasp of their arms around each other’s shoulders. Reintroducing her, she recalls, was an afterthought to Dumitru — just another formality.

Yet one thing stirs now, vivid in her memory.

Etiquette. Presentation. He has always been impeccable in those, of course — none of the siblings could ever escape their mother’s iron-handed teachings. But beneath it all, he was the rebel. Always the rebel. He was never one to bend to the weight of other people’s judgment; he relied on his own reason to guide him. While Alexandra was always the one to ask many questions, he was the one who questioned everything. If he disliked someone, it was not necessarily cruelty that came through, but a relentless defiance. He could become a particularly painful splinter beneath their nail. He never bullied or lowered himself to pettiness; he was raised with too much pride for that. But when he felt strongly about something, he would never bite his tongue or hold back his aggravation.

A rebel, yes. But always with reason. She doubts that much has changed since then.

She hums in contemplation before deciding on her next remark. “Individualistic.”

“Come now, Cătălina. You are choosing your words too carefully!”

She throws her hands in the air. “But I hardly know him! We were both children when I last saw him. All that time can change a person beyond recognition. He is a grown man now.”

Time — and years spent as a hostage among the Turks, she thinks to herself, burying the thought deep. No one but he knows what that life cost him, what it shaped. He might flaunt his knowledge of their arts, language, and customs like a polished shield, but he keeps any personal accounts closely guarded. And that is not her story to tell.

“A handsome grown man, might I add.”

She does not rise to the bait. Her eyes dart back to him again instead. Without meaning to, she wrinkles her nose. “He is a pretender to the throne.”

“Well? That is not a physical impairment.”

A voice pierces the air, calling Cătălina’s name. It shatters the fragile bubble of carelessness that envelops them. Lifting her gaze, she spots Oltea leaning out of one of the grand windows, her hand beckoning her to join her upstairs.

In a fleeting moment, she manages to whisper a hasty farewell to her companion, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before turning toward the staircase and finding Maria’s mother. “No, but it is best to steer away from him. A lot of trouble.”

“Oh, but you have just proposed him to me!”

She swivels her head to meet Maria's gaze again, laughter bubbling up from her core, rising in intensity. It dances in the air and rings out across the courtyard, drawing the attention of every soul present — including Vlad. His eyes flicker with both intrigue and surprise at such unrestrained mirth, so delightfully undignified for a lady.

“Haven’t you learned by now that you should never take my advice lightly, my lady?”

My journey with Voievod delves deep into the borders of historical fiction that tend to blur and overlap. As with many such stories, some moments draw closer to what we can trust from the past, others are swept into the currents of imagination and reshape reality to craft a captivating narrative. This series leans heavily on the latter. We know little of Vlad’s time in Moldavia and, besides that, many of the characters I introduce through this series are mentioned in Vlad’s life as traces only, as scattered names and fleeting roles that barely hint at the lives behind them. These are the fragments I have chosen to piece and tie together so that I could breathe life into forgotten figures and stitch together these whispers of history into a life-like and rich world. Do not take this series as a dependable biography because it is purely a work of imagination of yours truly — nonetheless, I do hope you will enjoy this journey and see how, where, and why an important part of Vlad’s life begins.

I am also beyond thrilled to finally introduce Cătălina, a character who has grown incredibly dear and significant to me over time. Her story began with two simple mentions in Vlad’s biography: Dracula’s concubine. The mother of his son. A short while ago, I learned her real name (long after I settled on Cătălina, and her name has not yet been officially revealed to the wider public, hence why I have chosen to keep the fictional name). Still, we do not know anything about her. We do not know what she was like, where she came from, how her paths with Vlad crossed. The lack of information made me think about what kind of story it could be. Who is this woman the Dragon’s son loves so dearly? I initially started to build a character that would have natural chemistry with this man — I dissected his personality and shaped another being that would match it. His conscience, his anchor, his sanctuary. Eventually, Cătălina has decided to free herself from any mould I put her in and become her own person. She has become a woman of flesh and bones, with her own dreams and aspirations, with her own fears and battles. She has become the main protagonist of her own story which does not always remain stuck to Vlad’s but stands meaningful on its own — and I cannot wait to delve deeper into it in the future.

That she has become her own person feels very fitting. What other woman could become Vlad’s love of his life than a woman who hungers for freedom with the same intensity he does? He will fall madly in love with her. I already have. I hope you do, too.

This chapter of the series also keeps referencing the Moldavian royal family, particularly the parents and half-siblings of Ștefan cel Mare, Vlad’s cousin and the future voivode of Moldavia. The family dynamics are very intriguing and reveal more about Moldavian (but also Wallachian) society as it was — while showing that not every European region lived in such a stifled and constricted environment as people always believe when they hear about the Middle Ages.

The information we have about Ștefan’s mother Oltea (or Maria Oltea) is quite insufficient. Some sources indicate that she was born around 1405 into a Moldavian noble family and that her family might have come from the region of Țara de Jos (literally “Lower Country”) of Moldavia, specifically the village of Borzeşti (which is also mentioned in Ștefan cel Mare’s biography as his place of birth). It is also speculated that Bogdan met Oltea during a diplomatic trip to Wallachia, but I have decided to work with the first version as it makes more sense in the context of the story and generally seems like a more plausible version given that Ștefan’s ties to Borzeşti are historically documented. After Bogdan’s death, she became a nun and adopted the name Maria. She died on November 4, 1464, and was buried at the Probota Monastery in Dolhasca (near Suceava).

Before Oltea met Bogdan, she was married, probably to a boyar from the Bacău area. From this marriage came five children, all Ștefan’s half-siblings — brothers Ioachim, Ion, and Cârstea, and sisters Maria and Sorea. It seems that her five children remained on her family’s estates in Borzeşti even during her relationship with Bogdan. I have decided to twist this fact a little so that I could make the plot for Cătălina’s story work better, nonetheless, even in my version, the family goes through its trials and tribulations. More about that will be revealed in future chapters.

We know that Oltea was Bogdan’s concubine because she never used the title Doamna which could only be used when the woman was the Voivode’s (i.e. Domn’s) lawful spouse. The title does not even appear on her tombstone which simply states “the servant of God, Oltea, the mother of Io Ştefan Voievod”. The most interesting fact about their relationship is that this article mentions that “they planned their marriage, which should have taken place around 1440” and that “their marriage was not formalised, or at least not recognised”. What caught my attention is the explicit use of the word “căsătoria” which, in Romanian, does not mean any abstract union but actual matrimony. This could mean that Bogdan actively tried to marry Oltea despite her social background — the formalisation of their matrimony either could not be carried out or they just went ahead and did it for themselves to simply feel more united as a couple. Either way, it provides an interesting perspective on Bogdan’s character, one that I look forward to exploring a little more in future. It also creates a nice parallel for Vlad and Cătălina’s relationship. :)

Ștefan was a child born out of (official) wedlock. We do not know the exact date of his birth — estimations vary between the years 1433 and 1437. I have decided to choose the middle ground and settle on the year 1435 which still makes sense for the timeline of Oltea’s life while making him a bit older and closer to his cousin’s age when Vlad comes to Moldavia. Ștefan was the only child Oltea had with Bogdan. He spent his childhood growing up at his mother’s family estate in Borzeşti, then moved with his father to the capital of Suceava when Bogdan became the voivode in 1449. There, Ștefan instantly assumed the role of co-ruler alongside his father.

[sollyinpurplepants]

Raritan preview

I have had this story on the back burner, so it is time to write! I also want to try and write the canon au again, so I am setting this tale post Bigg Freeze!

It was the height of the Bigg Freeze, and it was difficult for everyone. The chilly weather limited the amount of work the Star Tugs and Z Stacks could do, so any work that could be found was extremely lucrative. Hercules was away on a contract for a construction company in the Florida Keys, and this put tremendous pressure on the remaining Star Tugs. Without their lead tug, they were struggling to compete with the Z Stacks for contracts. Captain Star noticed this, but there was little he could do.

A frigid January morning seemed to have changed Star and Marine's fortunes. Captain Star trudged through the snow and spied a few ships sailing into the Lower Bay, and smiled against his scarf. It was an odd request, but he hoped it would give some of the tugs a chance to move their rudders about. He stepped into a shed that served as his makeup office before opening the window. His tugs were starting to stir; it was six o'clock after all.

"Good morning Star Tugs!" Captain Star greeted, sounding unusually positive.

"Morning Captain." Ten Cents replied, wincing from the cold as he started his fire.

"Someone sounds brighter than usual." Top Hat grumbled, shaking some icicles that had built up along the brim of his hat. "Hopefully it'll be something good. This cold is going to make my monocle crack!"

"Lighten up Top Hat, I think we all need good news every now and then!" Sunshine remarked, getting a chuckle from Warrior.

Captain Star let out a snort and said with a bellow, "Alright, that's enough! I do have some good news, though I did have some concerns at first." He opened up his letter and read, "It's a contract from the Army. Commander Lloyd knows the general in charge of a construction project in the Lower Bay, and the general is offering a delivery contract."

Warrior gasped. "When did we start working for the Army?" He asked himself.

"An Army contract?" Big Mac was intrigued. "The Navy is one thing, but hoo boy. I swear the Army is a different beast altogether!"

Captain Star put a hand on his forehead. It seemed the cold weather had made his tugs snappier than usual. He shouted, "Hey now! The general also offered the contract to the Z Stacks, so we need to work as a team in order to get paid! Top Hat, Warrior, I need you to go to the depot and get the supplies."

Top Hat was startled. "Me? With Warrior!? The last thing I want is our delivery being sunk!" He spat.

Warrior snorted and steamed up to Top Hat. "Don't worry Top Hat, I think I know where we're going." He grinned, giving the railway tug a nudge. "What part of the Lower Bay is it, Sir?"

"Edison, a small town on the banks of the Raritan River." Captain Star answered. "The freeze affected rail traffic, but their river traffic is thankfully not as affected. I think."

"I think all my confidence has left." Top Hat grumbled, giving a glare to Warrior. "Come along, we cannot disappoint the general."

Elsewhere in the estuary, Zebedee and Zak were already at work. After Zorran and Zug's misadventure Up River, Captain Zero did not want any repeats. He reckoned that his number two and his number three were competent enough for Army work. Zebedee seemed distant, but Zak was confident.

"Cheer up Zeb, at least we don't have to deal with Zorran and Zero." Zak snorted, shaking some snow off of his wheelhouse. "Now get your engine runnin'! I overheard Star tellin' Top Hat and Warrior to go down to Edison as well."

"Lemme guess, ya wanna get a head start?" Zebedee asked. He knew fully well that Warrior was a clumsy tug, which would make the delivery complicated. "Welp, I better hope they know that river as much as I do. Now come on!"

The journey to the Lower Bay was surprisingly smooth, with Top Hat noticing that the the landscape was changing. Buildings quickly gave way to trees and rocks, a sure sign they were in the Lower end of New York. He spied a suspension bridge and asked, "Is this the way to Edison?"

"Yeah, it is!" A tramp steamer called, catching the two Star Tugs by surprise. The name "Mako" was painted on his dark blue hull, and icicles built up on his black knitted cap. "You guys lost? You definitely look like you aren't from here. If you want, I can show ya where to go!" 

Top Hat was unnerved by Mako's offer, but Warrior remained pleasant. "I think we know where to go Mako! Thank you, though!" He answered, leaving the tramp steamer behind. "Come on Top Hat."

A quarter mile behind, Zebedee and Zak spotted the tramper. "Blast! I was hoping that tramper would hold those idiots up!" Zak snapped.

"There has to be a reason for it." Zebedee grumbled. He noticed the tramper's hull and his skin started to break in sweat. "Somethin' about him doesn't feel right, but I don't know why."

[somedudenamedanthony]

Wanna hear a funny story about how I have some actual trauma that I closely associate with (not caused by) one of Lily Orchard's videos, if you wanna hear it?

I mostly like her stuff, but I cannot watch Snow White the same anymore ever.

Yeah, of course you do

TW for needles, blood, being in pain, panic attacks, asshole nurses, hospitals, and others, probably.

Background context:

Every year in January, I get blood tests done with the rest of my family. It's the first thing we do when the medical updates each year.

I am not afraid of needles, though I do feel pain easier than most, so I tend to like to keep distractions around me (ex: YouTube videos) to help me keep stone-faced as I don't like crying.

I'm like 98% sure I descovered Lily's videos sometime in mid 2022, and watched them after a month of Legend of Korra is Garbage and Here's Why being the first thing recommended to my on every other video I watched (I was going through a phase of getting back into Avatar after a small She-Ra buzz started fading and I needed something to distract myself from Arcane).

That same year in January was the third time I've ever had a bad experience with a needle in my life up to that point. The nurse was a young guy and didn't know what he was doing, and it left me in some pretty bad pain, that I struggled to shake off as hospitals already make me uncomfortable (liminal space looking ass alchahol scented white buildings), and it kinda cemented an idea that I didn't like them.

Now, I reacted to watching Lily's videos the same way I consume most new media that interests me. I go insane and watch the same shit over and over again, binging everything for like three months, then taking a step back to think about it and take the new media in healthily (damn you ADHD).

This lead to the 2023 blood tests, where I was seated in that stupid fucking hospital cuck chair, waiting for my dad and sibling (Arlo) to finish drawing blood so they could be in the room if something went wrong like it did the previous year (we asked for this, and the first red flag came when the nurse made a comment about me being scared of needles at my age. I wasn't yet, but it was some foreshadowing of her bitchyness I chose to ignore and now regret).

I figured to pass some anxiety, I'd watch one of the YouTube videos I downloaded for cases like this: Show White's in a minute video (along with the rest of the Disney ones in a playlist because they were my brain chew toy of the week).

My dad came in, we were still waiting for Arlo, but the nurse decided just having him there would be enough. I was hit with the sudden appearance of the needle, but kept my cool for a second, until I felt the nurse cutting open a different vein by grazing it and at this point I could feel the panic setting in. And also it FUCKING HURT. My arm was stapped to stop shaking and pop my veins, nurse tried again, and at this point I not only began crying, but Arlo finally came in, and saw I was getting aimlessly stabbed, and suggested I not be.

We took a break and I was layed down on the hospital bed to calm down while the nurse called over a second nurse to help. I paused the video and talked with Arlo a bit to chill, but then kept watching the video when the two nurses came back.

The first nurse made some minor (passive agresses) commentary about it while fondling my arm for a vein, not hearing anything Lily was talking about because I was watching it with wireless earphones in, asking if it was my favourite Disney movie (which it kinda was at the time) (I think ahe just hated how "childish" I was being by crying and thiughg the Disney stuff was part of that) (like I'm only a baby SOMETIMES asshole) but I explained I was watching a YouTube video. You know, talking to try to ignore the fact that I was getting tied to a bed bynthe second nurse at this point.

Then the fucking needle came out again after the small talk was over and I seemed calmer (read: I was not, I'm just good at bullshitting) and they apparently found a good spot.

So now, here I am, fifteen, strapped to a bed by two middle aged ladies who can't find my vein after they JUST HAD IT, complaining about me crying again and calling me a big baby, now trying to find a vein in my HAND (which became my main drawing area this year due to similar complications but with a much more skilled and actually nice nurse, and the back of my hand will continue to be my drawing area unless my wrist opens up a bit) and settled on drawing blood from the side of my wrist, all while Lily fucking Orchard is bitching about Snow White, and Arlo is trying to soothe me while glaring at our dad for doing nothing.

Anyways, I now have panic attacks at the mere mention of drawing blood (yesterday when I was in the ER because we couldn't get a doctor's appointment anywhere else and I am currently dealing with some stomach shit that makes me get heartburn so painful I vomited), and I can't watch her Snow White video (or even the original movie) anymore without becoming deeply uncomfortable and feeling the needles burn in my skin.

It's a shame, I really liked that movie :/

[catty-words]

@continuallyunexpected babygirl, i have too many thoughts on evermore (2020) to fit in my brain, but bless you for asking:

- enchanted by the way the album feels cohesive because of the way it’s fifteen songs reflecting on selves and people lost to time that all evoke wintry sparseness in both the music and lyrics

- relatedly, i got into this album at exactly the right time. it complements the liminal space feel of the week between christmas and new years and i was in exactly the right headspace to be utterly decimated by its interest in the feminine urge to callously move through time with little regard for the people who fall victim to you being so goddamn occupied with the narratives you’re constructing in your head

“willow”

- originally found the refrain of take my hand, wreck my plans, that’s my man annoying and undeserving of their hype but you know what? the rhythm of it wins i understand now that this is a brainworm from which i cannot escape

- i will Not come around on i come back stronger than a nineties trend though. i just won’t.

- verse three goes so fucking hard oh my godddd

- the underlying sultriness just works, man i dunno what to tell you except my hips love this song

“champagne problems”

- the diction of each repetition of champagne problems contains such an understated bitterness that is very sexy of the narrator considering she just left a dude mid-wedding, her being like ‘your problems are not that deep ok? grow up.’ is HOT. ruthless and HOT.

- and the flipping of the script to the narrator being the one who has not-so-deep problems they have to grow up about is just good writing. which is also hot.

“gold rush”

- this song often makes me think about you!! so, an honest answer to the question “what are your thoughts on evermore?” is “you, bestie” 😘

- the way this song is an Experience, though. like, the percussion and the bass et al make you feel your own anticipation-sick heartbeat and the lyrics of the chorus tumble down down down into the feeling they’re describing and “gold rush” is falling in love i will not elaborate further

“‘tis the damn season”

- in a bit of a love affair with this song right now it’s the latest to mash the 'think about d/b’ button in my brain and i’m feeling very

about it, y’know?

- ooohhoohoo the lyrics if i wanted to know who you were hanging with / while i was gone, i would have asked you / it’s the kind of cold fogs up windshield glass are a prime example of the wintry sparseness and the feminine urge to live up the ass of your own perspective and i feel very normal about them as a result!

- something about the instrumentation of the chorus makes me feel like i’m standing in the gently falling snow. which?? that’s witchcraft

“tolerate it”

- it’s a well-constructed story powerfully and emotionally evoked through music but my primary reaction to it is always something along the lines of: girl, get help fr fr

“no body, no crime”

- 👏 GASLIGHT 👏 GIRLBOSS 👏

- the way she thinks i did it, but she just can’t prove it hits!!! that’s it, that’s my whole thought!

- at first glance, it might seem that this self-contained murder ballad is a bit of a detour for the album, but i’d argue that the narrative is cold and brutal in such a way that fits right in. “champagne problems” and “‘tis the damn season” and “ivy” and especially “long story short” all feature narrators who are self-involved, painfully aware of that fact, and never stop themselves repeating their harmful patterns. gaslighting girlbosses the lot of them. 😍

“happiness”

- letting go of something that treated you well enough but you’ve outgrown, being wistful for change but also for the past... this song is so thematically on point i find myself needing to stare into the void about it

“dorothea”

- another wistful exploration of bygone relationships and whole eras of life. theme once again on point.

“coney island”

- i totally feel like i’m walking through an abandoned theme park in the dead of january listening to this song. i taste the ocean, or perhaps my own tears,,,

- obsessed with the lyric sorry for not making you my centerfold for the way it captures so succinctly the downfall of the romantic relationships on this album, makes my brain buzz

“ivy”

- this pop-country ballad simply is a jam

- why is the rhyme scheme of oh, goddamn / my pain fits in the palm of your freezin hand so fucking satisfying?? i wanna bite down on it

- also, the palm of your freezing hand image/sensation is so simple, yet i find it to be one of the most striking lyrical evocations of winter on the album

“cowboy like me”

- i really enjoy the way this one turns the ‘end of an era’ motif on its head. in most of the other songs on the album with similar interests - “champagne problems”, “tolerate it”, “happiness”, “coney island”, “marjorie” - a relationship is coming to an end and the narrator has to grapple with how that changes them. in “cowboy like me”, a relationship starting is the change that requires reflection on what’s being lost and i think that’s neat!

“long story short”

- this song offers a meta-perspective on the whole album and i have it between my teeth and i’m gonna grrhgrhhrhhhgrhhhgrhj

- the whole chorus fucking. it offers a birds-eye view of the cycle we’ve been seeing different facets of for eleven songs now!!

- relatedly, the line i always felt i must look better in the rear view shines a spotlight on why the speaker stays trapped in this particular cycle and i am unwell about it!!!

- looking at the song through this lens, the CHEEK of now i’m all about you!! (for how long, taylor? yeah, that’s what i thought, see you in the review, babe!!!)

- in any case, i find it delightful that even the album’s meta-narrative contains a flipped-script moment that’s powerful as all hell. long story short, i survived indeed!

“marjorie”

- it really gets to me that in the outpouring of the bridge, the speaker says i should’ve asked you questions / i should’ve asked you how to be in such a panic, yet the verses are proof that the speaker picked up on marjorie’s advice all the same!! heart-wrenching.

“closure”

- the lounge piano layered over the static gives the song a disjointedness that really works for me and somehow perfectly captures the chaotic emotional state of being suspended between letting something go (a relationship, a year of your life) and still being stuck with that something a little while longer. i.e. the perfect penultimate track to this album

- the petty delivery of it wasn’t right, the way it all went down / looks like you know that now delights and amuses

“evermore”

- album closers to sink into a fit of despair to!!! because this is the perfect album to sink into a fit of despair to and this closer is the perfect concluding statement for its album!!!!!

- truly, the way this song ends with the faintest whiff of rebirth yet is still melancholy the whole way through... name a better love letter to winter. you can’t do it. ❄️

[lukewarmkraftsingle]

hi can you elaborate on divorced au mp100. i saw your video and i just went fucking nuts sitting in bed. in my brain. i need to know is it /j or /srs i need to know. im really obsessed. i think it would be really good

[the post. for context]

8:44 AM

thanks for the question! i woke up the morning of January 1st, this lovely, beautiful morning, with some animal crossing song stuck in my head. i know it's from new leaf because it has the theme for that game in it, but i cannot for the life of me remember what track it was. it can't be any of the new year's ones, i know how the new year's ones sound. i have an excellent memory for music and not much else, you see. the song is in very vivid detail in my mind, but i just cannot put the face to the name. or whatever. i'm listening to the whole ost right now to see which one it is. but after my eyes were open and whatever, i opened my phone to see what time it was, about 8 am, which is fine. i didn't stay up until midnight last night anyway. i fell asleep much earlier, passed out sideways on my bed, until the fireworks they do nearby every year kicked up right at midnight and woke me up. but i did get back to sleep. had weird dreams.

back to this morning, then. after checking my messages and all, i opted to look at my tumblr, because why not, sure, i have been known to do that sometimes. i scroll through any new posts, then i see something in my inbox, i open this message, read it quickly, still only half awake, immediately started cackling. there is no better way to describe the sound i made.

the animal crossing ost is on the hourly music now. i know it's not any of that either. but i like the hourly music. i'll let some of em play out. whatever.

but this message intrigues me. i thought about it while i got out of bed and took a shower. the animal crossing song was still trucking along at this point. i cleared out my shower drain the other day, so it was nice and in full functioning order to start off the year. lovely. but i also washed my shower curtains and completely forgot to put them back, but it was too late by the time i realized that i needed to do that. i was already determined to go through with the shower. maybe this is some kind of metaphor. for the new year i mean. mayhaps i will have the strength to take on whatever sort of stress that the year will throw at me, as the shower drain did, but it will be done with a sort of messy transparency, as the shower curtain-less experience offered. maybe this is the only way we can properly take on our greatest challenges. insert reigen quote. whatever. the floor is dry now, it's fine.

anyway. i think i can offer you the initial discussion that led to me making that video. much like a weed-adjacent post i made a while back, this is a discussion between me and The wife. i will offer brief commentary and context as needed below each image. or as not needed. none of this commentary has been needed. i will keep up the trend.

i take a lot of screenshots when i'm going out and about on the internet. just of little things that i find entertaining. or intriguing. i find it to be a much more reliable method than just liking the post or putting it in twitter bookmarks or whatever. much less likely to get deleted, or buried, or whatever. said reigen folder does not really exist. i do have a collection of snippets of posts like that, but there is no dedicated folder. it's with all the other mob psycho ones. there are currently 150 screenshots in that folder. do with that information what you will. i may be interested in posting those reigen ones, though. i'll think about it.

oh. it's on the rainy versions now. i think i'll just skip over those ones. about the same, just less instruments. same for the snow ones. this playlist is thorough.

this is one of the major issues with the divorced au: is it a mischaracterization of reigen? there are concerns that no woman would ever want to be within twenty feet of him. gf has expressed such sentiments previously, and i am partially inclined to agree. but i cannot say much, as anyone can see my post history on here. and you can see my reigen profile picture in these messages. while my picture was not that exact reigen image in november of 2022, it was still a reigen image. i will provide below for full immersive experience.

i am not taking questions at this time. anyway. back to the important discussion.

this is the one part of the au that i provided myself at that time that is not included in the actual post, and the main catalyst of the divorce, perhaps. i have seen other proposals in the tags, yes, but i am refraining from bringing those up. this is the initial discussion, yes? i'm keeping it disconnected from anything outside of this initial conversation.

all of the creation of the picture in the video was done in paint, with it only being moved to photoshop later so i could better flip the image. this is relevant later. i feel the need to specify, i ultimately did not end up tracing a photo. much too difficult to do in paint, and it wouldn't provide a very good look for what i was going for anyway. i did, however, heavily reference another better stock photo i found. surely said photo is not very difficult to find, which is good, because i do not have it on hand either. sad!

and here is the reason why the drawing was turned into a video. for whatever reason, i was possessed to flip the small drawing of mob (psycho 100), and i discovered that it was, perhaps, the greatest activity i could have possibly chosen to partake in. it was mesmerizing. this message was sent after the video was made, but i feel as though it is much more clear than the message i sent before making the video, which was simply a crazed declaration of it "flip[ping] so good," followed by a complaint about the lack of a flip shortcut in paint. if anyone knows of a "flip selection" shortcut in paint, please let me know. i could not find one, even though i searched very carefully for one.

..

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Oh

ok

the animal crossing song was not the new year's one. it was the fireworks festival music. from new leaf.

listen to it. it's one of my favorites. i can't believe i forgot when it plays. very sorry! and to all of my one-earbud user friends out there, use both for this one. as you should for all animal crossing music. or turn your sound onto mono i don't know.

anyway. i suppose i should offer a brief summary of where we've gotten: reigen arataka, greatest psychic of the 21st century, had a wife at some point, and he no longer has a wife, due to a divorce, presumed at least a bit messy. questionably canon. it could certainly be inserted into canon fine enough. he is gay.

let's take some questions from the audience, then!

there are a couple of tags along these lines, i believe, but this provides a degree of severity to any sorts of divorce theorizing. it's a bit of a spectrum in my mind. i like the percentages. really meshes well with the rest of the series. 100% divorced. y'know?

not me creating lore for this. i think this one offers an interesting perspective on all of it. i suppose that my depiction does offer a sort of swapping of their usual dynamic. when i first saw these tags, it brought to mind an alternate approach to the usual depictions of the standard "age swap" au, in which i feel, in my heart, pushing 30 mob is at least 16% divorced. the dynamic in the video, when taken at face value i think, would be more descriptive of overly enthusiastic younger reigen and some degree of "divorced in vibes" mob. surely most are familiar with such au shenanigans, and surely you are too, dearest anonymous person, if you have read this far. you seem to have some interest in alternatives to canon. if not, it is certainly not hard to come across. i have no other constructive comments on age swapping. someone else go and do that. i don't know.

but i suppose i should be speaking with slightly more relevance. i do have some purpose in drawing them in this manner. i see the show as a bit more lighthearted, generally. this is absolutely not to downplay the themes it tackles. but the average episode is generally more playful. and with reigen often being the cause of that. uh. m. i feel like i was going somewhere with this. but uhh. such shenanigans in the drawing are for the purpose of exaggerating the uh. the abnormality. yeah. sure. definitely did it with Grand Purpose and not just because i thought the mob looked funny.

and now we come to some constructive criticism! i love receiving constructive criticism.

uh. yes. but this is divorced au. anything is possible. the fabric of reality is tearing apart as we speak.

and now, the question we've all been waiting for: who was he married to? there are certainly some possibilities. as i currently have none, i am turning to my notes again.

i believe this tag presents an interesting possibility. this is not a marriage of romance. i was not actually familiar with the term "lavender wedding," but i am certainly familiar with the concept. two people going into a heterosexual marriage to conceal their true attractions, yes? this does go against my suggestion that the divorce is caused because reigen is gay, but it does resolve the constructive criticism presented above. i find this concept incredibly entertaining the more i think about it, however. imagine being so desperate to try to conform to societal norms that you marry Reigen Arataka. imagine coming to find the concept of having to pretend to be in love with reigen so aggressively unappealing that you are willing to forgo the social acceptance you've gained for yourself and divorce him, which depending on what kinda situation you're in, that's no good either. and after all the work you've had to put in to pull this off. imagine. incredible. does he fight for it? does he go deeper into the act?? do you start getting convinced that he was straight and in love with you the entire time?? actually maybe not that far. whatever. entertaining concept. love that.

and now we get into something a little bit funky. !!!!!!!!!!! and this section is a tad bit spoilery if you haven't read the reigen manga yet this is your first and final warning !!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!! and also go read it it's not that long and. i think you should !!!!!!!

i'm not sure how that timeline would work. they knew each other before the manga? imagine the drama though. a whole new way to read the spinoff. reigen's ex-husband (wife???????) comes across his goofy little psychic business, and reigen immediately starts trying to one-up him with spiritual level bs. and both fake psychics, they're soulmates <3 until they got divorced. whatever.

OK I'M DONE WITH MINOR SPOILERS YOU CAN COME BACK NOW

and finally, i uh

uhh. um. well. i sure hope not.

but i suppose as the arbiter of mp100 divorced au, i should offer my own thoughts on who his ex-wife is. uh. i don't particularly have any. it could be literally anyone. maybe they don't even need to be named. but i suppose if someone really needs to be his ex-wife, it's whoever you think is funniest, dearest anonymous asker person. whoever you feel is his ex-wife in your heart. i am only here to present a handful of possibilities. the truth that you seek lies within you. as long as his ex-wife isn't me. god i hope it's not me.

i guess i could consult gf about this hold on

.

.

.

HHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i can't do this

you don't have to listen to them. ok. you don't. it's not true.

.

anyway. just a few things to tie this up nicely at the end.

much appreciation to everyone who put keysmashes in the tags. i am honored. and everyone else too! i like reading my notes. fun times. you're all cool. i tried to keep the tags i put here focused on the task at hand, but every tag has been thoroughly appreciated, do not worry.

i am also honored to present the award for Tag That Made Me Absolutely Lose It When I Read It to this one:

thank you for being significantly funnier than i could ever dream of being.

and finally, to send all of you off, one last thing tossed together and heavily inspired by a couple of the tags, which i am upset that i did not think of myself:

is this all /j? is this /srs? i want to say it's /j, but i've put too much time into this now. very sorry dearest anonymous person. you have sent me into a sort of crisis. i suppose i put too much effort into everything that should remain as 5 minutes max /j Content. well.

hope that answers your question!

4:20 PM

[gliderspeaceofmind]

dead poets society / 1989 - spoiler warning

i watched this for the first time january 2021, i had randomly picked up the dvd in a charity shop in a 3 for £1 deal - i have now watched it 5 more times, and that is only because i have been using an insane amount of physical restraint. to add more context i know own two copies of the dvd (one had bonus features), annotated the book (twice), have made six friends watch it and got a tattoo for it within two months of my first watch. i went in with no idea of what it was about and my god was that a mistake, nothing could have prepared me for the change between the joy and happiness and then the change to the absolute heartbreak and distress. while I credit inception (2010) as the film that really got me into film when I watched it in 2020 dead poets society is the film that truly made me passionate. the symbolism, the characters, the message - everything. my biggest issue? knox. the treatment from fans that cameron gets for reacting as a scared intimidated boy would when knox is right there will always baffle me - the change that the book made in *that* scene will also confuse me eternally.

my tattoo is the still of neil stood at the window. while i will always be grateful that my parents have always genuinely supported me in all my choices i have always and will always feel as though i am letting them down by wanting to go into a creative career, and neil's progression from fear to peace in acceptance is something that resonates with me. his final moments in which he comes to the conclusion that he cannot continue if not how he wants is one of the most heartbreakingly beautify moments. placing his crown back onto his head while he doesn't wear the clothes that had been left out for him by his mother, he is reclaiming his independence - announcing he has chosen his fate, living (or not) as who he wants. this motif is incredibly powerful to me, he isn't feeling weak in this moment, he is arguably the most confident he has been while around his father in a long time.

i can't ignore the suggestion that neil and todd were in love (because obviously) the suggestions were constant through out, from neil wanting to be an actor to "i'm being chased by walt whitman" which i think makes neil's final act even more devastating. ethan hawke's performance in the snow is so incredibly gut wrenching i'm not sure how people can watch it without crying.

this was the first thing in a while to really spark me enough to want to deep dive and i really am grateful it came to me when it did as i needed something to be passionate about and because of this film i now have that.

[pega-chan]

I posted 4,138 times in 2022

35 posts created (1%)

4,103 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@trans-asmodeus

@oceanic-panic-panic

@compassionatereminders

@homosexawol

I tagged 2,785 of my posts in 2022

Only 33% of my posts had no tags

#aromantic - 247 posts

#self-care tag - 186 posts

#barbie - 113 posts

#turning red - 84 posts

#amatopunk - 75 posts

#dog-eared - 75 posts

#aroallo - 66 posts

#queer - 60 posts

#fave - 56 posts

#aspec - 51 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#also my standards (not just for men but just in general for a partner) are pretty high and i feel like it'd be hard to find and filter thro

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

concept: river and amaya aren't actually romantically dating, they're qpps

THEY SO ARE, they give me the vibes, especially since their relationship doesn't seem to have the typical romantic milestones UGHHH QPR Amaya/River supermacy

7 notes - Posted January 5, 2022

#4

QOTD: do i have a preference for men/transmascs now or am i just a sucker for people with chunky hands and broad shoulders?

8 notes - Posted March 16, 2022

#3

i cannot WAIT until Brooklyn meets Trey

15 notes - Posted April 5, 2022

#2

Rizka Widjaya is such a typical indonesian name i can't. her surname's even spelled the old way (Ejaan Lama/Ejaan Van Ophuijsen). i'm obsessed

'Widjaya' is a Javanese name...NI ANAK ORANG JAWA

27 notes - Posted June 25, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

i related to Raven more as a kid first watching EAH, but now that i'm older, hoo boy is Apple surprisingly super relatable. aside from the obvious parental pressures, i can relate to being anxious of going through things without a set plan and especially Apple's struggles with leadership that she goes through in the EAH books. as someone who frequently takes up leadership positions, i find that Apple's leadership style is the same as mine: she keeps a cool head and a cheery personality for the people as well as uses words and confers with people to find a middle ground as opposed to using intimidation to assert dominance and control. like man, i can understand panicking when people look to you for answers but for once you don't have them even though usually you know what to say.

in Dragon Games in particular, i can definitely relate to the contrast in values between Apple and Snow; it's exactly the kind between me and my own mother. Snow cares more about keeping up appearances and the family reputation than actually serving the people with compassion, the way Apple does. credibility is important, but it shouldn't come at the cost of being dishonest to the people you're leading, imo. in her desperation to salvage her own destiny and the lives of those in Ever After, Apple might not have made the wisest choices or said the nicest things, but you can definitely understand where she's coming from. Apple is such a well-written character.

138 notes - Posted March 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[crazythatcounts]

My spouse and I had An Experience that illustrates this point so vividly that I feel I have to share: We like traveling, specifically in West Virginia. We're big cryptid people, so we drive up to Point Pleasant yearly and love to go site seeing. We also are big into The Adventure Zone, so when we discovered that the Green Bank Telescope was a Real Thing (TM) we decided we had to go. So, in the end of January, we drove up to that area of West Virginia; we finished Amnesty on the way in, so we were in a Big Mood and very excited to actually SEE the telescope.

There are a handful of things to know about this area, however. The Green Bank telescope sits right in the middle of what is known as the Radio Quiet Zone. Now, those familiar with Amnesty might have an inkling of what the area is, but unless you've been up that way, it is nearly impossible to fathom the complete disconnection that it wields. See, the Green Bank telescope looks into the sky and measures waves - radio waves. But its very large (400 ft dish!) and very sensitive, so it'll pick up just about anything that comes that way. This is why we have the radio quiet zone - the idea is, they limit the waves that go through the area, making it much easier to tell what is the stars and what is someone's phone. This means, however, that in that 1,300 square mile area, there is no: Wifi, cell data, or radio signals. This means that within this entire giant block of WV and VA, you have no reception or wifi. Within the town of Green Bank, they can't have microwaves. Their internet access is Ethernet only. The police had to get special permission to use the standard CRT radios for emergencies. The bus we rode up to see the damn dish had a Faraday cage for our phones.

I cannot describe to you how complete this isolation is. TAZ tried, but they, even, didn't quite get it.

We went. The weekend we went, it had snowed a little in Virginia, so there was about 6-12 inches in the Monongalia National Forest. We had fun; we treked, we age gorp as the sun went down, and we visited the telescope. Due to it being the middle of COVID, the science center wasn't open, so when we visited the telescope, we were alone. We were so alone that when we walked the 1.5 mile trek to the telescope itself, we saw probably 10 to 15 deer just... vibing.

I had turned my phone off and left it in the car. My spouse had turned their phone off, but kept it on their person, just in case. They'd downloaded the map we needed to use in Maps offline, because we knew we'd have no access to Live Maps and we weren't stupid. But when we got back to the car, and they turned their phone on, Maps, I think, required some kind of update. I don't remember exactly what it needed, but I remembered that it wouldn't work until we connected it to Wifi, which we couldn't do at all. So the map we'd saved? Inaccessible. Because we couldn't access Wifi on a whim.

There is nothing like trying to travel the back woods of WV, in the dark, snow on the ground, with no sense of where to go and no map to follow. There is nothing more isolating than the encroaching darkness and reflective white snow and the stillness of a winter evening. None of the gas stations carried maps, like physical maps, either. If it wasn't for the old southern man who pointed us towards Roanoke, I don't know what we would have done. We carry a physical map of WV in both of our cars now, just in case, but that doesn't matter. The point is that there was a chance we could have gotten seriously lost, seriously injured, or otherwise - all because we were expected to have access to Wifi 100% of the time.

smartphone storage plateauing in favor of just storing everything in the cloud is such dogshit. i should be able to have like a fucking terabyte of data on my phone at this point. i hate the fucking cloud

[wormandmarrow]

a soft and tender elation

prompt by kiki: write something happy.

Snow fall.

On Christmas Eve.

How unprecedented.

It was unusual for our town to get snow before January, but even then, it was usually just a pathetic lining of off-grey dust that mushed into the cracks of the cobblestone streets. As if everyone in the town had decided to smoke a pack of cigarettes and use the grout as an ash tray. It made me want to power wash the streets so they could return to their usual well maintained shine. And I detest manual labour.

And this town.

But this snow fall is different. It’s beautiful. It’s as if I can see every single snowflake, full and fluffy, drifting from the sky, dancing in laughter. They settle soft on the ground, before sinking, melting into each other as if they always knew they were always meant to be one. Blanketing the world in a soft and tender elation. Joy, quiet and still.

Brew was right. Of course, they were. I have never seen anything quite like it.

My phone lights up, vibration humming low and muffled, the routine loudness absorbed by my wood coffee table. As if it too does not wish to disturb that which has been quieted by the snow. Brew’s name lights up the screen, and my heart lifts.

“What would you say if I was outside?” They ask in lieu of a greeting. They very rarely say hello. Just jump right in as if we’ve always been mid conversation. It always feels like we are.

I lean back into the couch and smile. “I’d ask for how long, you peeping tom.”

“So, I shouldn’t use this shiny new key then?” A softness in their voice peaks through. A vulnerability in the corner of their laughing tone I wish to touch. I gave them the key last week, and it remained unused. I hadn’t wanted to push.

“I’d be sad if you didn’t.”

A nervous breath. I don’t know if it’s mine or theirs.

“See you in a sec.” The call ends.

The snow falls. I can’t believe Brew came all the way here in this weather. The latch clicks. But I suppose I knew they would. The door opens with a gentle comfort.

I walk over, picking up the cup of tea I had prepared for them just in case. “You were right about the snow. It’s beautiful.”

Brew greets me with a smile. Snow still clinging to their brown teddy hat and puffer jacket and eyelashes. “Want to go play in it?”

I want to be shocked, but I know that they mean it. They’re so earnest.

I avoid my usual instincts. I don’t check the time. I don’t think about the cold or the wet or my lack of snow boots or appropriate gear or any other reason to say no. Why would I want to say no?

I offer Brew the mug. “Peppermint. Warm up and prepare to lose this snowball fight.”

They wrap their brown fingers around the mug and laugh. “Thank you for tea baby, but I promise, I’m not gonna lose to a newbie.”

I roll my eyes playfully, and shove my feet into a pair of boots, my arms through my biggest jacket. I don’t have a pair of gloves, but when I turn back around Brew holds out a pair for me.  The ones they were wearing.

They’re warm around my fingers when I slide them on. I didn’t realize I was so cold. I want to give them back, to let them keep their warmth and sweetness, when I see another pair of glves sticking out of Brew’s bag. They want me to have the warm pair.

“It needs to be a fair match.” They say, misunderstanding my hesitation. Or understanding completely and not wanting to sit in it too long. I’m still learning the subtleties of their expression, their places where they are surprisingly shy. “I can’t have you getting frostbite and saying that’s why you lost.” They put the now empty mug down on the foyer table and reach into their bag. “Here.”

They pull out a fluffy blue scarf. “For you.” It’s beautiful. They step close to me, and I raise my chin slightly to meet their eyes. Deep, brown, and warm. I want to swim in them.

“May I?” they ask.

I nod, because for some reason my throat is dry, and I cannot trust myself to speak.

Brew wraps the scarf around my neck, their long fingers steady and warm. The scarf is so soft. Their face is so close. Carefully, they move any dreads stuck in the scarf, pulling them out one by one. Their fingers caressing my neck.

“Do you like it?” The softness is back, the vulnerability in the corner of their tone.

“I love it.” It doesn’t come out louder than a whisper.

A chuckle rumbles out their chest, quiet and barely there. “You didn’t even look.”

“I did!” Indignation whirls me to the mirror, but my reflection makes me pause. “It’s beautiful.” It really is. The light blue is vibrant against my dark skin tone, the gold bright and clear. And it is truly the softest material I have ever felt. But there is something else, something radiating out of me. A shine in my eye I haven’t seen in a very long time, an uptick to my lips, a glow to my skin. I almost look…happy.

I don’t know when I got so lucky. I really don’t. Which deity deemed me worthy of somebody like Brew, I do not know, but I am grateful. I am so, so grateful.

The snow keeps falling. We play in its ardent delight. And I know that even when it begins to melt. When white turns to ash and grey and grout. The beauty will remain. Because Brew is in my life. And they are right.

I didn’t even look.

[ravenloftian]

Ghostly Bard of Drakenheim: Ailard the Melodious

January 23, Y357 Game Session 6/28/2024

In Vallaki, Daciana manages to convince a farmer to part with his pack animal for an ungodly sum of gold and she purchases a mule she names "Sorry." Let us hope that Sorry doesn't meet the same sorry fate as "Eclipse."

After resupplying their rations, the party departs Vallaki once more and head out on the Old Svalich Road. An ice storm has coated the woods in crystalline splendor and the sun manages to peek through the gray clouds. Even the fog is not as thick as it usually is and the journey goes uneventfully.

At dusk they arrive in Drakenheim, a quaint, snow-covered village nestled within the dark, mist-shrouded lands of Barovia. The village is built around a central square, with a mix of wooden and stone buildings. Despite the foreboding atmosphere, the village exudes a rustic charm with its warmly lit windows and smoke curling from chimneys.

The group stables their horses in the stables of The Black Wolf Tavern and settle in for the night. The tavern is a two-story building with a thatched roof and a large stone fireplace. Inside, they are greeted by innkeeper Vaelora, a middle-aged and handsome woman who is glad for the company. The roast "meat" they discover is wolf meat cooked to perfection. Gray discovers that the locally wine is exceptional and buys several bottles.

During the meal, they are greeted by a an older balding man dressed in woolen priest robes bearing the symbol of the Morninglord. He introduces himself as Father Anton and bids them stop by the church before departing.

Later in the evening, Gray picks up his guitar and begins to play. During the song, he begins to hear a strange accompanying melody. Val and Cedric hear the music, along with many of the other patrons, but Daciana and Percival do not.

As Gray changes the tune, he realizes that the melody becomes concordant. And when he stops playing, the music continues–albeit in his head.

When questioned, Vaelora admits the music has been a problem for a while. Some have gone quite mad from it and wandered into the forest. The music has been going on for many years and no one knows its origin.

The party members who hear the music cannot stop hearing it and sleep becomes nigh impossible as it becomes louder and louder. Val and Cedric are so infuriated by the sound that they rush out in the middle of the night and enter the forest to try to "kill" the music.

Their confused companions follow.

Deep in the woods they come upon the source of the beautiful and haunting music.

The ghostly figure of Ailard the Melodious stands tall amidst the Circle of Stones, his ethereal form flickering with a ghostly light. His eyes, once filled with sorrow and longing, now blaze with a fierce determination as the paladins approach. He raises a spectral hand, silencing the rustling wind and whispering trees.

"Brave knights, heed my plea!" Ailard's voice echoes with a haunting melody, reverberating through the ancient stones. "You tread upon hallowed ground, where blood was spilled and dreams were shattered. I am Ailard the Melodious, bard of old, slain by treachery and deceit in this very circle."

He pauses, his eyes scanning the faces of the paladins, searching for understanding. "Long have I been bound to this place, a restless spirit seeking justice and peace. My murder was not an act of war or vengeance, but a cowardly strike born of jealousy and fear. I ask not for your pity, but for your aid."

Ailard's voice grows softer, tinged with a desperate hope. "Find the one who bears the blood of my killer. Right the wrong that was done. And complete the song that I could not. Only then will my soul find rest, and this place be free of its sorrow."

He lowers his hand, the light in his eyes dimming slightly. "Will you, noble warriors, take up this quest? Will you help a fallen bard find peace at last?"

After an exchange of words it becomes clear that swords will answer the plea and a battle ensues.

Daciana and Gray arrive to find Cedric, Percival, and Val engaged with the ghostly spectre. Daciana has heard of the bard before in long forgotten history books and attempts once more to reason with him. She learns of the terrible evils that someone named Gethen inflicted on him, sacrificing him and stealing his soul on the very spot they stand on.

But the dialog does not last long after Gray proceeds to taunt him and call him "stupid." The infuriated ghost focuses his anger on Gray leaving him stupefied with fear.

Moments later, it is all over as Val delivers the killing blow. The bard disappears as does the music, but has his haunting ended? Impossible to tell.

A mother and daughter have been drawn to the music and arrive at the clearing, terrified for their lives. The group escorts them back to Drakenheim along with Cedric who has severely maimed his sword arm from a bad swing.

In town, they go directly to the chapel and wake Father Anton. After much prayer and the laying of hands, Cedric's arm is restored, but not to its fullest. He will bear the scar for the rest of his days.

Priestess Daciana then tells what she recalls about Ailard the Melodious.

History of Ailard the Melodious

Ailard the Melodious was a celebrated bard from a time long before the current age, renowned for his exceptional talent in music and storytelling. Born in a small village near the ancient city of Carrowkeep, Ailard was gifted with an extraordinary voice and an innate ability to weave tales that captivated all who heard them.

Ailard's early life was marked by poverty, but his natural gifts soon attracted the attention of a traveling minstrel, who took him under his wing. Under the minstrel's guidance, Ailard honed his skills, learning the secrets of music, poetry, and performance. By the age of fifteen, Ailard had already composed numerous songs that became popular across the region.

As Ailard matured, his fame grew. He traveled from village to village, castle to castle, earning the patronage of nobles and kings. His performances were not merely entertainment; they were experiences that left audiences spellbound. His most famous work, "The Ballad of the Lost King," told the tale of a noble ruler's tragic fall and ultimate redemption, a song that resonated deeply with listeners.

Despite his success, Ailard's life was not without its challenges. His fame attracted jealousy and envy, particularly from a rival bard named Gethan. Gethan, consumed by spite, plotted against Ailard, seeking to end his rival's career and life.

The climax of this rivalry occurred at the Circle of Stones, an ancient and mystical site believed to hold great power. Ailard was invited to perform a special concert there, an honor that Gethan could not bear. On the night of the performance, Gethan ambushed Ailard, striking him down in cold blood. The murder was swift and brutal, ending the life of the beloved bard.

In the years following his death, Ailard's spirit remained bound to the Circle of Stones, unable to find peace. His unfinished work and the injustice of his murder tethered his soul to the mortal realm. Over time, legends grew around the haunted circle, with many claiming to hear the sorrowful strains of Ailard's final song on moonlit nights.

XP for this session is 600. Ailard appears to have been vanquished, but only time will tell.