#broken silver tree au

[modcroissant]

Heres more Shadowvanilla.

A few Hcs in the Broken Silver Tree Au:

Shadow Milk made the Animatronic of Truth just so his other self (aka the Animatronic of Deceit) can stop hogging Pure Vanilla

Pure Vanilla continues to wear the old bandages that is over his left eye, not because the injury hasn't healed but rather he's unsure how others would react. The only cookie he shows his eye to is Shadow Milk

Shadow Milk absolutely hate it when some pathetic excuse of a cookie is even 5 feet near Pure Vanilla, the only ones he makes exceptions to are the other beasts and the clowns in the Deceit Kingdom

Their staffs are fucking gay

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

PREY

PAIRING: Hunter!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Werewolf!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Intense gore, body horror, death, mutilation, weapons, firearms, knives, intended harm, violence, blood, descriptions of wounds, angst, fluff, protective!Simon, religious mentions, period time standards for men/women (1700s), etc.

A/N: The first of my reverse AUs is finally here! Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The tale of the Werewolf extends back to around 2100 BC. It was written in The Epic of Gilgamesh, scored into a clay tablet by hands long buried—a corpse forever still in the earth so deep, the bones have yet to be found by greedy eyes. Perhaps the oldest surviving story in human history, and there is still a passage that bleeds into stories hundreds of thousands of years later.

In such, Gilgamesh, a man on the search for immortality, rejects a woman for the reason of turning her previous husband into a wolf. 

“You have loved the shepherd of the flock; he made meal-cake for you day after day, he killed kids for your sake. You struck and turned him into a wolf, now his own herd-boys chase him away, his own hounds worry his flanks…”

And then, the tales spread, changed, through history and through spoken words of caution. Like water trickling from a well, down the shape of the wooden bucket delving deeper and deeper into a pit of age—of caution. 

“The Beast of Gévaudan. Man-eater.” Through France

“He has a wolf-head, you know? Tall thing—short brown hair all over him.” Through Scotland

“Beware the man that changes shape under the full moon.” England.

Now, in the late seventeenth century, it all comes to a head. Even the people in 2100 BC knew that someone who changes into a wolf, or some bastard-like imitation of one, was very much real; it is very much an affliction that overtakes sense and reason. A curse. 

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights. 

—

There’s blood on your hands again. 

Hunched over, your body quivers, and the bareness of your flesh in the moonlight is of little concern to you—trapped in a fetal position while the chilled wind howls.

Howls.

Howls.

“Get out of my head.” Your fingers grasp at your scalp, pulling; ripping. A sob jaggedly slashes your throat open. “Please,” you rattle in a fast breath, the grass snapping as you writhe. “Get out of my head.”

It had happened once more, and you can’t remember any of it. 

The forest is deathly still. No birds sing their songs—no breeze moves the long grass, patches trampled down around you as if a beast had staggered into the small clearing you’re lying in. Maybe it had. There are shadows that listen to your quiet panic, the low whines and gasping quivers of your throat; from behind the trees that speak in the way that only they could. The deep night creeps into you, and the moonlight bathing your flesh doesn’t push back the terror in your bloodstream. 

Your body burns like you’ve broken every bone twice over, and judging by the blood stuck in between every line and dip of your skin, to anyone walking past, the analogy could be very real. Fingers flexing and bending, you try to force out the venom inside of your head with desperation befitting a dying dog, spine visible out of the skin of your back as you sob all the harder. 

You tried to stop it—you had; you always do. But, just like every month when the full moon mocks you with its silver-hued face, it never works. 

It never works.

Your eyes stare at nothing as you lay here, in this place of grass, blood, and bile, of corruption as deep as a vile sin of flesh. It came over you like a wave, fingers trapping your throat and bearing it to the caress of fangs. There were different names for it here, miles from your village and the terrified eyes that search the tree line; names coming from the hunters and their black deeds. 

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

“I can’t take it anymore,” you shove the side of your head into the ground, pushing the torn earth away from the cuts of long claws. Tears flood the dirt until it’s wet and muddy, pushing the crimson stains on your skin away in long streaks. “It hurts, God, please, it hurts.”

The sound of your hysterics rises and falls in the stillness—the inactivity of fearful birds and beasts wondering if your fangs would rip from your gums and your claws would tear from your fingertips. Fur along your body the color of which leads to stories of their own spreading far and wide. 

The White Wolf. The Specter of St. Francis’ Village. A hound from Hell. 

More pale than snow, and sharper seen than a knife or blade through the black trees. Even if the memories of your shifts were fuzzy at best, there were flashes of those who’d seen your gargantuan form from the confines of their stone-cut homes. Those wide eyes. Yelling—screaming; sprays of blood as heads were separated from bodies—

“Stop!” You scream, your legs kicking out as your toes scrape the grass. “It’s not me! It’s not!” 

There’s a call of alarm from deep within the woods, the flash of torches and bellow of hunting dogs. They’re running you down, you’d forgotten that in the depths of your breaking mind and body, and by the time your elongated limbs had set themselves back into a more human-like appearance, your spine cracking at every vertebrae, it had slipped your thoughts entirely. It always took you a long time to understand what had happened after…everything. 

But even now, the shouts of the hunt are pointless to the visceral breaking of your consciousness, stuck between leaving bloodlust and knowledge of horror. There’s flesh in your teeth, and you wail before your fingers drag down your face, cupping over your ears. In the back of your skull, the panting of dogged breath echoes; running, blood, blood, blood. It’s a dance of fangs, of pale fur, staining every inch and flooding the back of your mouth. Drinking it down like water.

Flesh—lovely, disgusting, flesh rent and torn to the bone with smacking gums belonging to a square snout. 

Who had you killed this time?

By the time the dogs had tracked your scent to your curled body, it was already too late. 

“Here!” Male voices shift in and out on the backs of crows, hard and cruel. “It’s here!”

“Get the dogs on it!” 

“It’s not me,” you mutter incessantly, not truly understanding what you’re saying as hounds burst through the bushes, all snapping teeth and slobbering tongues your eyes widen in an instant. Panting, your jaw clenches; long whines move your throat. 

“What…?” Blinking quickly, the dogs surround you—having to be at least ten of them on their nimble legs and thin tails. Everything is distant to you; separated. A knife could be driven through your heart, and you wouldn’t even realize it until minutes later, bleeding out on the grass. 

The hounds are afraid of you. 

They dart forward and balk back, your scent driving them up a wall until rabid slobber drips from their maws. Torchlight pulls through the trees—quicker now, running. Fangs nick your shoulder and you yell, shoving up to your backside as the world swirls, shuffling away as the dogs snarl. Their eyes are red-huen. Drunk off fear and order. 

Your head darts and shifts, blood dripping off your chin to travel down the flesh of your stomach and navel—so much crimson that the whites of your eyes are violent under the moon. Hands slipping over the wet grass, your face pulls and slackens in delirious confusion as you try to stand but fail. You cry out in sharp pain, and the dogs go wild in their kill circle, nearly attacking one another in anticipation. 

You glance down and see the black crossbow bolt sticking out of your thigh. 

The scent of wolfsbane in the air only then becomes clear to you, and the realization is slow. Wolfsbane—you’d been told about it by the village priest. It makes beasts of the night dumb and weak; minds unclear. 

In a moment of clarity, the reason behind your incurable hysteria becomes clear.

Lungs heaving and eyes far-off, the hunting party bursts through to where you stay, and you look up in animalistic fear. Figures dip and slip into one another, faces becoming demons as the visages melt into twos and threes. You yell out, sniffling and sobbing, trying to back up until the hounds grapple onto your shoulder and rip a chuck out of your arm. Screaming, your hand moves back, shoving at its snout before hands staple themselves to your wrist. 

“No!” You wail, injured leg dragging as you’re forced back into a heavy chest. Hot breath fans against your neck as multiple grips pull and touch you—shackling you down with rope and chains. Your throat screams itself raw, kicking and struggling futility. “Let go!”

You’re too weak—too drugged off wolfsbane and blood loss. Rotting teeth move across the canvas of a smeared painting, you can’t focus beyond the riot of your heart inside of your ribs.  

Grubby hands snap under your chin, digging into your flesh as you cry, not able to move as the restraints are tightened. A silver muzzle is slapped over your jaw. Dark eyes shimmer as you rage—aggravating the bolt wound until fresh blood forms a puddle on the ground, which the dogs lick their lips at. 

“Look at that,” a low, lust-filled voice eases out, and hands around your body tightening as you squirm, head spinning. Silver and wolfsbane. Your eyes snap to fight the sudden flood of fuzzy heaviness in your body.  “Pretty little Hell-Beast, eh? Almost seems a bit strange to have the Spector be her. Think that hunter shot the right bitch?”

“Course,” another grunt, a hand grabs the top of your head, jerking it up as your head lulls along with the force. You can barely focus on the words being said. “He isn’t a fuckin’ twat. Killed a werewolf in the next village over, too. Heard he skinned the fucker and took its head for his mantlepiece—just like the vampire skull he wears.” A pause. The dogs are still barking—echoing out in the trees. You can’t feel your legs. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?!”

A shout is sent into trees as your panic breeds with the drug, eyelids drooping as your head is snapped and moved by your hair. Your buggy eyes don’t focus on the man until he steps into the torchlight, the crowd parting for him as the metal of your chains drags and clinks together. 

It’s as if the very blackness of night takes human form. 

The man, the Hunter, is tall—very tall. He looms like an aloof animal over most of the others here with his dark boots and his black hood, and yet, under the fabric, there is no whisper of his face. 

Only the upper visage of a pure white skull, and two long, needle-pointed teeth where canines should be. 

“Ghost,” one of the men laughs, groping at your bleeding thigh before you shriek, muffled from behind the muzzle, and weakly kicked out. “Good shot, Mate. Right in the meat of the thing. Gave a good trail for the hounds.” 

Ghost blinks slowly, grunting under his breath as the large crossbow in his hands is shifted. He stays silent as your visible pulse hurries on as if you were a rabbit and not a wolf, watching from under the cover of his hood. The darkness of his clothes is blue in the moon—silver buttons down the length of a loose shirt and pants stuffed into boots. The hood is attached to a jacket, which itself extends down to his knees and sways lightly with every shift. The silent resting of weapons and tools is not lost to anyone. 

Belt of filled vials and large knives; a firearm over his back, and two pistols hidden on either thigh. That crossbow was still in his hands.

Brown eyes openly dig into your soul, dead as a corpse, and your voice whines as your thigh is finally released with a laugh. Your vision blacks and comes back a moment later as you try to breathe from behind the muzzle, gasping. That skull on his face…you don’t like it. It scares you. 

And the Hunter only continues to watch numbly as his wide shoulders stay stationary.

“Get the cage!” Someone roars, and you flinch, shrinking until a dog with short fur comes and nips at your ankles, the man holding you grinning sharply as you sob and shake.

“C’mon—expected more of a fight from you, Spector. Getting bullied by dogs, now? Ain’t that a twist of fate, then. Bet this devil’s whore can’t even walk with all that wolfsbane in ���er, eh?”

A grumble of chuckles as the rattle of metal is in the distance. You grow more fearful, mind flashing to a burning stake and the trials you’d seen in village after village. No—no they can’t put you in a cage; they can’t put you on trial.

They’re going to make it hurt.

“Say we try it out.” A shadow comes closer and grabs you by the arm, ruthlessly shoving you to the ground. You cry out as your spine meets the earth, arms and legs kept under chains that tangle and screech in their metallic way. The rope that holds the muzzle pulls against your neck until you can’t breathe except in ragged wheezes. 

“Go on,” they taunt, some holding back the rampaging dogs just to watch you flail and shimmy. Your face grows hot as you struggle to sit up—shaking so violently you can’t focus on anything but the quiver. “Put on a show for us, Beasty!” 

Death would be better than this.

Tears hit the ground as the cage is finally brought into view, the men all groaning and annoyed that you hadn’t even attempted a forced shift or a desperate run into the trees. 

Ghost’s fingers, you notice from the side of your blurring eye, tighten minutely around the body of his weapon. You do not doubt that he’s wondering if it would be easier to just put a bolt through your eye right now. 

“Get it loaded up,” the Hunter’s voice is accented and gravel-like. As if rotting wood is being peeled back and scraped along gravel, he stares at you for a long moment and then glances at the dogs. “And get those fucking mutts under control.”

“Which one?” Is the low-blow joke, and the ruckus of loud amusement that follows makes you want to die. 

It’s not your fault, how do you tell them that? It’s not your fault.

Your throat bobs in an attempt to speak, but you can’t move your jaw from behind the restraint of your face—held tight to you as the men come back over and grapple for you again. The priest was right, wolfsbane makes werewolves sluggish.

You can do nothing as you’re ruthlessly dropped into a silver cage, borrowed, no doubt, from the Vatican itself, and christened with holy water. But it was a funny thing, really, and the dark humor wasn’t lost to you even like this. There was nothing godly about this contraption.

Locked in, you shove yourself immediately into a corner and hunch over, grasping at your thigh as the bolt still leaks fluid in a long trail over the ground. The pain is so great in your head, that the physical agony is little—a bullet wound to a sliver. 

Your temple slams into the metal, smacking into it as your eyes shove themselves closed. 

Head hurts—hurts. I can’t think. Can’t think. It’s humming, my skull is breaking open.

Bile pools in the back of your throat, but the muzzle keeps it in, leaving you gagging as the cage is lifted with a grunt and carried by long poles; back to St. Francis' Village, no doubt, but you can’t…focus.

“Think you might ‘ave given her too much, then, Hunter,” one calls, slapping Ghost on the shoulder as the crowd follows after the panicking quarry. The large man only gives him a look from the side of his eye and the villager pulls away immediately, awkwardly chuckling before hurrying off after the others.

Brown eyes watch your bare body hunch and spasm, pupils wide as you’re carted off. 

He’d been generous with the wolfsbane, truth be told. He’d expected you to be…Ghost’s dark brows pull in from behind his grim mask…he’d expected you to be different.

Humming under his breath, the Hunter watches the torches disappear into the trees and lets his gaze linger on you. 

There was something…off.

Blinking, he turns, eyes studying the place where they’d found you with sharp attention that misses nothing—not even the birds that come back to settle into the trees again. Large boots shift through the grass, and as he’s re-settling the crossbow in his hands, his eyes find something glinting. 

Watching, Ghost takes another step and brings his body to the item in the grass, hidden, before he kneels. Digging with large digits, the Hunter’s hands loop through the chain of a necklace, dragging it through the torn earth until he can gaze at it fully under the light of the moon.

Blinking in slight surprise, Ghost finds the body of a silver bullet hanging from the confines of a leather strap. Brown eyes shifting to look over his shoulder, the man listens to the cheers and merriment of the hunting party mutely. A simmering understanding brews in his gut. It’s only one that you could know from years of experience doing just as he had—hunting and being hunted in turn with a knowledge of all things dark and unholy.

It could never be easy, could it?

A low grunt later, the man sighs out a deep, “Fucking hell,” and moves to slowly stand, slinking back into the darkness. 

—

They kept you in the cage and set it on display in the middle of town for days.

Shivering now from the cold more than the wolfsbane, you stay collapsed into yourself as people come past to poke and prod at you—even sticking knives into the slits of the cage and digging them into you like an animal until your flesh was marked and brutalized. 

You don’t remember what it’s like to not be bloody.

The bolt wound was festering; infected. You dare not touch it, because the pain only makes you want to vomit, and if you do, you’ll most likely suffocate on your own bile before the trial ever happens. 

Yet, on the fourth night of this, as your eyelids flutter and your body grows weaker, a shadow comes to visit. 

“You weren’t born one.” It isn’t a question, but the sudden voice makes you startle. 

Eyes locking onto Ghosts’, your mind flies with fear—thinking that perhaps there’s more abuse that you’ll be put through. But no…the man has no weapons on him tonight. Only a long knife at his belt. The mask stays. 

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

Grunting, Ghost’s head tilts, gaze moving up and down as you curl in tighter around yourself. A cold breeze rips through the square, and your eyes clench closed with breaking will. When you open them again, the Hunter is kneeling by the cage, and holding up something in his hand loosely. 

“You going to behave if I take that muzzle off?” You nearly gasped at the hanging image of your necklace—a silver bullet on a leather strap; that dark and heavy thing usually kept around your neck. A reminder.

After a moment of wide-eyed staring, you nod quickly to his question, a desperate, pleading thing without the need to utter words. Please, you want to scream at him, take it off.

Ghost’s eyes are as dark as a mound of dirt, sharply intelligent and filled with an unflinching reality. He doesn’t care what you are, and he won’t until you speak to him and let him judge your character far before any courtroom can. The man knows what a lie is better than any priest. 

“Good,” he says curtly, accent far more deep as he thinks, re-capturing the bullet in his palm and standing before he shuffles it into his pocket. 

You can’t help the anxiety as Ghost moves forward, loping to the side of the cage with the side of his eyes on you incessantly. It’s obvious how his other hand lays limp on the hilt of his blade that, with only one wrong move, you’d feel the chill of the edge with no time at all. 

But the temptation of getting this muzzle off was too good to ruin, and so, you stay as still as you’re able as crows call in the distance and the deadness of the town leaks into your blood. 

Ghost moves his free hand and orders, blankly, “Closer.” 

You hesitate, body tight before you drag your face closer to the bars, angling it parallel with the metal so the tight bind on the back can be taken up. The fear can be smelt the second your eyes have to break contact with his with the turn of your head—neither of you trusts the other. 

Ghost hums under his breath at the sight of your broken body coming farther into the open light of the moon, the whites of your eyes all the more visible from under the slathering of blood and tears. He hadn’t been absent to witness the abuse you’d been put through, even if the coin from his successful hunt was feeding him at the inn, a small window allowed the tight view of your torment at the hands of the people you’d once lived around. 

But the reality was that you’d killed people—scores of them—and yet the worst part of it was that he wasn’t sure if you even knew that.

It took four nights for him to break his only rule: never get involved after the job’s done.

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 

Large fingers latch onto the knot at the base of your skull through the cage itself, Ghost grunting at the sight ahead of him. The rope had been gradually chafing over your flesh, peeling back hair and skin until only the bloody meat was left—Simon had to wonder if the people of this village even wanted you alive for the trial or not at this rate. You’d be dead by tomorrow if that infected bolt at your thigh wasn’t taken care of.

Despite himself, a part of his chest tightens at the sight of the thing sticking out of your leg, dripping a yellowish puss. It had been a good shot, and he had overcoated the bolt in wolfsbane. 

Ghost hadn’t expected you to be so susceptible to it—most werewolves only got slower, but you…you seemed to have a stronger reaction. He files that fact away and tilts his masked face to the side. 

Grasping at his blade, the sound of a knife being slipped out of a sheath makes you startle, jerking your head back and shoving away even as your muffed whine of pain falls out. Ghost momentarily readies himself for an attack, but the way you force your mangled body to the opposite corner has him grumbling out a hard, “Easy.” 

The Hunter raises the blade, watching you with unblinking eyes. Your body shakes; panting. It was like calming a feral dog.

“You want the thing off or not? Have to cut it.” Once more, the man rises and walks over, boots almost silent over the small raised platform the cage had been set on like a trophy, you inside are comparable to the golden coins that greedy eyes touch and run their dirty hands over. 

Your mind is a troubled thing as you watch this Hunter and his crude knife come closer, kneeling again, and motioning with two fingers to shift your head. 

“Out ‘ere,” Ghost says, brown eyes not letting you guess anything about his true motives. “Don’t have time to fuck around. Guards’ll make a round soon and I’d rather not get caught wide-eyed.” 

Your brows pull in, hands clenching and unclenching in your lap as goosebumps travel the length of every limb. You were tired—hungry and thirsty; there were open wounds that burned with infection and ones that were crusted over with dirt and grime. You can’t feel your toes, and the tips of your fingers have long since gone numb. 

The thought of getting this muzzle off was like the promise of heaven being dangled in front of your nose. Your hesitation this time is far longer than the first, moonlight glinting off the visible blade in Ghost’s hand as he stares. That mask holds death. 

The hood is gone from him—only that pale bone left and sewn into dark, dark, fabric. The sharpness of the teeth leaves your throat bobbing in a nervous swallow as your head carefully shifts to rest on the bars. Bending, you present the knot once more and try not to focus on the way Ghost’s attention is fully on your expanding lungs; the pulse that is seen through the meat of your neck. 

But he says nothing before his fingers once more grasp the rope and the tip of the knife slips up. You don’t even feel it before the sudden slackening of the muzzle, and then the thing slips from your face before it slaps the bottom of the cage with a dull thump. 

The first thing you do is vomit. 

Spine pulling in, your body jerks as the bile that had been in the back of your throat rockets out, restrained hands slapping the ground as the acidic concoction leaks from between your torn lips. Face on fire, you choke and retch for what seems like minutes before you can finally breathe in the damp air—the innate shame and disgust rolling through as you cough raggedly. 

It’s only after you’d forgotten the man kneeling outside that he seems to remind you of his presence with a grumble. 

“Breathe. It’s no use if you can’t speak to me.”

A weak, quivering glare comes across your eyes, saliva dripping off your chin as your tongue moves to lick at your lips. But the brown gaze is as immovable as stone. Finding it pointless, your hands come up and delicately touch the base of your skull, only making you flinch when the fresh blood pools down and over your neck, licking at your shoulders. Tiny droplets fall to hit the metal one at a time. 

Ghost’s fingers twitch as he puts the knife away. 

“Who bit you?” You stare at him, hands falling before your wrists rub at the aggravated skin of your jaw. He shifts his head, voice slow but heavy. “Speak.”

“...I’m not a dog,” your voice is scratchy, hoarse. You send a small glance his way, mouth open and nostrils flaring in an attempt to bring in the oxygen you’d been lacking. 

“Really?” A hidden eyebrow is slowly raised. “Hell, coulda fooled me.” 

“Damn you,” you whisper, not meeting his gaze as you shuffle back. The crossbow bolt catches on one of the cage’s bars and you bite on your lip to stop the shrill yell that threatens to exit. Head moving, you lightly slam your skull into the wall in pain. 

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 

“Speak or don’t,” Ghost grunts, and he makes a move to stand. “Your funeral.” 

A spark of fear stabs you as he begins to shift, and you can’t explain why. Perhaps it was because it was the first conversation you can remember having lately that wasn’t one-sided or on the edge of a blade.

“W-wait,” you stutter, blinking through the blood. The Hunter doesn’t slow, and then he’s on his feet and fixing the gloves over his fingers, flexing his hands before his foot begins to pivot— 

“Please, don’t go,” your voice is thin and pleading, echoing through the street. “I’ll answer your questions, any of them you want,” the sentence cracks through a dry throat, tears welling. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.” 

Ghost had half of his body turned away before it went rigid; the side of his dead eyes flash to you, swirling with specs of moonlit silver. A hunter and a werewolf lock gazes, great beasts respectively brought together in seconds that seep into slow minutes of delicate need.

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 

The Hunter’s eyes twitch in their ever-narrow resting place, glancing away before he mutely moves back to where he was before. 

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?” 

You stifle a pathetic sigh of great relief, taking company with a man who had shot you not days before. Yet the ability to speak and be heard was a commodity that was dimming each and every day.

“It was already fully turned,” you speak quickly, tongue tripping. “A big wolf—a gray one with eyes like the sky.” 

Ghost glares to the side. Gray? There were no contracts for gray werewolves with blue eyes in the area. Only you—only Specter. The next question is just as stiff. 

“When?”

“Three years ago,” your lips move. “Only three years, I promise.” Brown eyes narrow slowly, fingers tapping the fabric of his pants once before he makes a noise in the back of his throat. Ghost’s jaw clenches, mind working through the hoops that need to be jumped. 

To you, the questions might seem pointless, but to a hunter, they were important—very important. Werewolves who are born afflicted with this moon-drunkenness are different from those turned by a bite. Not only are shifts from turned werewolves more violent, more deadly, but they rarely know their own actions from that of the frenzy under their skin; those that are born as such are rarely out of control, unlike your faction. 

The only question now was if Ghost could condemn you to death when it was obvious your human form was entirely different and you had no semblance of an idea of what was going on. Was it even his problem to care about? Even looking at you now, the man blinked away from cuts and inflicted injuries—the muzzle on the ground. 

The blood and the bolt.

He’d known it had been a foolish play to bring all of those townsfolk with him on this hunt but he needed their knowledge of the terrain; he hadn’t passed through St. Francis’ before. At the time, Ghost hadn’t been averse to assistance as long as he got the job done in his own fashion: capture or kill, the contract had stated. Rarely was he known for capture.

Maybe, deep down, he’d known something was already wrong about this.

“Show me it,” the Hunter grunts, staring you down, a deep anticipation growing in his bones. He had to make sure you weren’t lying.

You lick your lips, face pulling with every twitch and sway of your form. The black at the edges of your vision was coming back, and you blinked quickly, chains dragging before you shifted your back with a quivering breath. The punctures were difficult to see through all of the gore, but Ghost made do as he grabbed at the waterskin at his waist and the rag hanging from his belt. 

Flooding the fabric in the lukewarm water, he hums out a firm, “Don’t move. Cleanin’ it,” before you feel the press of the rag to your back. 

Gasping lightly, you almost jerk away before the sensation becomes a nearly welcomed one—the drag and slight scrape of rough material. Your averted eyes dip lower, staring at nothing as your heart momentarily slows to a normal pace. Ghost cleans the areas where the swell of scar tissue is the most obvious, and, one by one, the violent groves spread out like a slash of paint over canvas. Along the left side of your waist, the blood gives way to a dented ‘v’ shape of healed punctures. Deep, dragging; a point to where your side was almost ripped away before it broke off swiftly. 

Ghost’s dark eyes fight the need to widen, and that hidden blankness stays. 

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

His mask tilts, head shifting as his gaze moves slowly. Gloved fingers twitch to touch them, moving in an almost examining way that befits a surgeon and not a decapitator. Your breath is held in the back of your throat, but you sag nearly entirely into the bars of the cage, growing more unsteady by the second. 

The scent of infection is so strong it makes your head burn, and you’re overtaken by it as Ghost’s presence suddenly disappears. 

You don’t know if it’s minutes or hours before you understand that you’re alone again, but when your limp neck finally turns to wonder where your silent captor is, you are greeted with nothing but moonlight. Blinking through the sludge behind your eyes, the sinking in your gut was stark and sudden—like a knife dragging itself from gullet to navel. 

But all you offer is a light whine as more blood moves to cover the places where Ghost’s rag had just cleaned. You were scared of him, no doubt. A hunter through and through down to the vampiric skull on his face and the shroud of death at every inch of his form. 

He’d shot you and drugged you with wolfsbane. Found your necklace. 

So why had he talked to you?

Your head is too muddled for this, too delicate. Like the crimson under your nails, it dries and flakes off of your brain as the lack of distraction breeds stored agony. There wasn’t anything left to focus on besides the upcoming trial, your death, and the pain that doesn’t let you sleep except for now, on the brink of not rest but unconsciousness. 

And at the sound of a key being slotted into the silver of your cage’s door, only then does your body slump with the weight of doom. 

You don’t even feel the hand that grasps at your ankle.

—

The sway of the horse makes your teeth clatter with every clop of hooves. 

Your conscience mostly comes and goes, only staying in thin seconds where you feel the press of clean bandages on your afflicted flesh and the tipping of warm broth into your mouth. Grass under your head. 

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 

When you’re finally able to speak, when the horse is moving along and hands keep your back stuck to a strong chest, it’s a low, garbled, “Ow.”

Ghost barely blinks down to your head as it slumps to the gait of his horse, glancing before his attention returns to the thin forest trail ahead of him. You’d made noises in your sleep often enough—this was no different except for the fact he felt your shoulders flex.

Slowing the horse with a pull on the reins, the dappled mare settles to a walk. 

“You up, then?” Ghost hums, his hand around your waist tightening as you groan under your breath. “Good. Thought I was dragging a corpse—would have wasted my bandages.” 

Your eyes shudder as they open into the light, having to focus on moving them before the sting of the sun makes them water. But you do, and then the confusion outweighs the numb stinging of tended wounds. 

Head shifting, you look behind you slowly with wide eyes as the horse under both of you snorts.

Brown eyes watch you before a dark brow twitches upward. “What is it?” 

You just blink, mouth slightly open. 

“Where…am I?” 

“Forest.” Ghost states matter-of-factly. 

If you had the energy to glare, you would have. Seeing that nothing will get the man into a proper conversation—he was a brick wall even now—you look down at yourself and land on the scarred forearm that keeps you secure on the saddle. Ghost’s gloves were still on, but the sleeve of his dark shirt had ridden back to his upper forearm, and in the wake of pale skin, you find the black ink of all manner of warfare. 

Werewolf skulls; vampire fangs and fire. The slash of inkish chains with skeletons. 

Your lips thin, your senses slowly becoming your friend again as you stare at the snarling face of a needle-hewn wolf. Eyes tightening as the horse moves to the left, your body follows the reactive action before Ghost’s pressure tightens once more, visibly veins behind the pale flesh. You move on, seeing the thin tunic and pants over your body—feeling under that, the bind of wrappings with the scents of mashed yarrow leaves in the fabric. 

They’d been re-applied recently, too. 

“Stay still unless you want to re-open them,” Ghost utters, eyes scanning the trees for unseen threats. It was midday by now, the sun high above the trees watching the both of you on your trek to seemingly nowhere. “We’re far enough away, but I want more distance before I take the time to close them fully.”  

“The trial,” your arm moves up, fingers grazing the side of your nose before it falls back down. Ghost can feel the air heat with unease. “The…the cage?”

“Trial was two days ago,” he draws, thighs shifting over the saddle. “Give or take.” 

The confession isn’t as shocking now that you have woken up here, but the lack of remembrance on your part of that time startles you. It’s a blank slate—just like the aftermath of your shifts. You don’t like not knowing. 

The next question comes out with a haggard cough, sweat dripping off your nose. “Why?”

“You’re going to tell me ‘bout the werewolf that made you,” the Hunter grunts. “And you can’t speak if you’re lit up like a pig on a spit. Took you the night we met in the square.” 

Through it all, Ghost barely looks at you—always his attention keeps to the trees and the shadows that linger; seeming to listen. He knows more than anyone that they do. 

The horse continues on, your pain surfaces again, and with a shuddering breath, you fall into a fitful sleep once more. The arm around your body tightens, and the warmth it lends is accented when Ghost’s shifting gaze glances at the top of your head. He wears an expression he can’t name yet.

When the throws of fever pull their curtains back for the last time, it shows you the slats of the attic above your head, wood polished and clean as the heat of fire moves over your body. Pulling a large inhalation of air into your lungs, you blink softly as if clearing away cobwebs with a broom—willing sense to return in the few seconds it had flown away. 

The furs are warm. 

In the village, you weren’t anyone of standing. A simple woman—unwed, and, thus, unimportant due to the era the world sees itself in. It wasn’t all bad…namely, it hid your affliction far longer than you could have hoped it did. You had a small piece of family land passed down to you on the edge of the village, and that was where you stayed. Nothing fancy; a hearth, a large, single-room property with a garden and a well. You were known to keep sheep, a fact that had caused perhaps a few hysterical chuckling fits when, every full moon, one or two went missing, but it gave you the ability to accumulate money and, more importantly, an alibi. 

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

But this home already had a more detached feel to it—something removed. The air was sterile, somehow. Groaning, your face tightens before you rise to the palms of your hands, muscles quivering to keep the strength your stubbornness gives to them. Half-vertical, you turn and study the area. 

Square, the four walls are stone with mortar and clay to keep the rounded blobs together. You’re on the ground floor, a staircase to the far right while the bed is stuck into the left corner; a nightstand sitting void of all except a single chamber-wick holding an unused candle. A sturdy table with one wooden chair, a stone fireplace set into the same wall the headboard is level with, and a large oak door.

There are runes written on it. 

You can’t make sense of what they mean, but when you see them, your tiny-pupiled eyes slip to the rest, all placed at windows or near some point of entry—unassuming things until you realize why they were red in color.

Your shoulders tighten, and whatever bit of magic moves through your skin lets your nose pull to the scent of human blood. 

You clear your throat and look away, licking your lips with a dry tongue. Moving your toes under the two bear furs that rest at your abdomen, you notice the lack of earth-shattering pain that accompanies it, and, shifting a hesitant hand, you grab the edge and push it back a bit farther. 

Bandages with perfect ties meet you, void of any crimson staining. 

Truth be told, you expected more of a Hunter’s home—skulls; trophies. The town always spoke of burnt bodies strung up on crosses that mark the property of those in this profession, a ward and a sign of grim hope. Vampires mostly, wasting away in the brutal sun. Others as well. Werewolf fur and witch bones shoved in blessed boxes. 

This place is almost normal, you think, thighs shifting over the dip of the bed as your finger runs the white wrappings where the bolt should be. Your mind dares not go to how he got the thing out of you, and at the stretch of sutures, you take your curious grip off of it entirely. 

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 

Where was the man? The hunter responsible for your current predicament? Ghost. With his vampire skull mask and his black attire—a hellhound with dark ink and intentions. More importantly…

Why were you still alive?

Your memories come back slowly as you stand, bare feet moving to the floor as the tunic over your upper half falls to your knees at the verticality of your spine. They creak a bit, the bones, at the ability to stand fully upwards and not be impaired by bars of silver. A strength seeps through you slowly. 

In the deafening silence, you clear your throat tinily and lightly itch at the clean flesh at the back of your neck where the muzzle sat; rubbed raw now scabbed and healing with the spread of natural oil balms. Taking in a slow breath, you step forward with a heavy limp and watch the door, glancing at locked trunks and cupboards, eyes blinking. Your muscles ached, but the sting only served as a way to remind you that you were still here—living. Few in your position were granted second chances.��

You’re about to study the runes at the door when you’re called to with the creak of the stairs in your left ear. 

“Wouldn’t recommend it.” Your head snaps over, blinking quickly. 

Ghost carries the leather holders of his twin pistols in one hand, the bodies of the weapons in them hanging as he comes to ground level one step at a time. Brown eyes glance over through the confines of his skeletal face-covering as he walks to the table, placing down the items. 

“Keeps the spirits out—smudge ‘em and the house gets haunted,” he grunts. “Rather not bleed myself again to get the runes copied.” 

You stare in mild shock, sound sparking from the back of your throat. “...Right.” 

Side-eyeing the markings, you shiver and step back from the door, silent as Ghost seems to focus on his task at hand—looking over his weapons.

Large hands running the metal and wood, the pistols in his grip shift as the drying light of the day streams in through the curtains of the windows. He touches them intimately, knowing every grove and dip until he tilts one and rubs away a slash of dirt from the barrel with his bare thumb. 

You quickly turn awkward, looking down at yourself and the bareness of your lower legs. It wasn’t lost to you that the man was the reason you were in this situation in the first place. 

“You shot me,” you grumble—not unlike someone who had a knife to their throat. 

“Affirmative,” Ghost says nonchalantly. You get a slow, blank glance and nothing more. 

“Have you drugged me?” You ask, heart speeding up. There wasn’t anywhere to go—not without an escape plan and with Ghost in front of you.

“Wolfsbane?” The Hunter shifts his thighs, boots moving over the hardwood. “Negative. Not yet.” 

“Yet?” An attitude seeps in, lips thinning. 

Ghost sighs under his breath, slipping the pistols back into their holsters. “Forgetting about how we met, Love?” 

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

“Perfect.” Eyelids pull down slightly. “Don’t.” Ghost nods his head to the table's chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sit.” 

“I told you I’m not a—” A sharp, numb look makes your snappy reply stall itself, and you stand there for more than a minute before you find the pointlessness of this.

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

Looping your arms around your waist, you glare to the side as your skin crawls at the unblinking eyes that stare. Ghost rolls his shoulders, tilting his head. 

“What do you know about the werewolf that bit you beyond appearance?” 

“Nothing,” you chuckle hopelessly, moving a finger in confusion. “I…I don’t know why you’re asking me about it—it’s not like I had a conversation with him.”

The Hunter blinks at your sudden confidence, unable to separate your form now from the one in the cage; blubbering ceaselessly in a grassy clearing. But lesser pains always bring out someone's true colors. As long as you told him what he needed to know.

Ghost explains with a sheen of dull annoyance. “Every turned werewolf holds a connection to the one that bit them. It’s pack mentality.” At your blank look, his brows pull in, the mask shifting. “You telling me you’ve never come back into contact?”

“...No?” Your lips dip. “For three years I’ve been by myself with this.” 

Brown digs into your face, a small sheen of confusion slipping in to tighten them, around his biceps, Ghost’s fingers twitch. 

You lick your lips, speaking up in the impending silence. “I don’t remember anything after I turn. Is that normal?”

“For you?” He mutters, still not taking his eyes off of you. “Yes.” 

“I’m not going to pretend like I know what’s going to happen,” you shrug. “But at the very least I want to try and understand why I’m like this.” You open and close your mouth for a moment. “Before you kill me, anyways.” 

“If I wanted you dead,” Ghost grunts through a half-amused tilt of his head. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “...You would be.” 

“‘Capture or kill,’” you huff. You’d seen the flyers; heard from word of mouth. “Right.” You sigh. “They’ll track you down, you know. They’re not going to just let you take me.”

“They won’t make it through the forest. Bastards would get lost on the trail.” The Hunter moves until he can grasp the waterskin from the counter, dragging it over with his hand. He tosses it to the main table in your direction after he comes back over, and you hesitantly reach forward and pull the top off. Ghost changes the subject back to his studies of your condition closely. Dark eyes slip down your front as your lips part to take up the liquid. “Before your shift, tell me what you see.”

Your throat bobs as you drink the water, thirsty as it soothes your dry mouth. You hum, but the inquiry makes your hair rise. Your arm wipes at your mouth as you lower the waterskin, a small thankfulness in your heart. “It’s less of what I see and more of what I hear and smell—blood; metal. River water. I…” Your chest tightens. “I feel my bones breaking and I hear howling mixing with whispers.”

“Whispers?” Ghost leans, eyes alighting with dim interest. “What’re they saying?”

“I try to block it out,” you whisper, not exactly answering. “Makes it go faster.” 

A long nothingness ensues. 

The impending night grows deeper, and then Ghost finally speaks again after you begin to shift with unease. He nods firmly, tilting his head as if it’s already been decided. 

“Next full moon, you’re going to listen to them.” 

Your horrified face snaps up. It’s a moment of stuttering before you force out a heavy, “What? No!”

He’s already turned, moving back over to the stairs and placing one foot on the steps. 

“Ghost!” You yell, face devoid of blood.

He side-eyes you. “Go back to bed. You’re dead on your feet.” 

And then the same man who shot you in the thigh with little remorse disappears into the attic.  

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

The days the two of you spent together were mostly silent—left with tight stares and tense shoulders. Clipped sentences. 

Ghost, for what it was worth, gave you space in this small house; as much as you could get. He kept himself up above while you stayed on ground level keeping yourself occupied. You’d gotten spare trousers and socks, a jacket, and the bed was practically yours with how your scent rolled off of it now. Yet, you had never been permitted to go outside. 

You’d seen the land from the windows—careful of the runes, of course, and it wasn’t anything… ghastly. A vegetable garden, a single-stall stable with a dappled mare, and a beaten-down trail out the front. 

No livestock.

No bodies. 

It was only when you had become ever more curious about your lupine curse that you braved the stairs to the attic—one week into the impromptu stay. It’s funny due to the fact that Ghost had never said that you couldn’t go up there sooner.

You stand now in the flat room with a sloping roof and find the man making bullets. It’s a long table, parallel to the walls in the center of the room; dark and covered in all manner of books and tomes. Grimoires tied up and locked. Racks of weapons with markings and blessings tied to sheets of ribbon…it was something you’d never seen before. 

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 

Ghost fiddles with his silver shell, mixing in gunpowder into the hollowness. He doesn’t speak until you do, but he knows you’re there.

“Tell me more about werewolves,” you speak through the air, and he waits before answering. “The ones who are born with it.”

“Rare,” Ghost comments, and you’re stuck by how willing he is to tell you about this. He puts down his bullet and picks up another. “Harder to find, even harder to kill. Unlike you, they know what goes on when they’re running ‘round. Fuckin’ nightmare to pick up the pieces—bloodbath.” You thin your lips. “Not all of ‘em are murderous, but they’re unpredictable. Can’t help but make packs.”

“Instinct,” you murmur, coming a bit closer. Ghost pauses, looking at you before huffing in the form of a gruff ‘yes.’ Your wondering continues. “But why am I alone then?”

“That’s the question,” the hunter says slowly. “Need to figure out why.” Brown eyes slowly move to you. “‘Fore more people end up dead. Or turned.”

“Can I,” you stop at the table, standing opposite the man. “Can I turn people, too?”

“No,” is all you’re given. Ghost’s eyes glint. “And I’d rather you didn’t bite on me to try.”

Your face heats.

Your attention focuses for a while on how he works—prepares for something unseen. He’d said he’d kept you alive to help him find the one who bit you, but he’d also cleaned your infected injuries, bandaged you, and fed you. Kept you warm. Safe. It was far more than could be said about your village.

However, it was strange how Ghost’s stark muteness was something that you found in the darker hours, a small comfort. When the moon was coming in from the windows, and you hid from its rays as if being stalked down, he once found you sleeping under the bed on the floor because of it.

He never said anything, just offered you a silent hand and helped you back out with a slow blink and a tilt of his head.

There was a distrust, obviously, but there was also an unspoken nearness. No one would make any sense of it—you couldn’t either. It was like a wolf and a raven; something built on hesitence but necessity. You didn’t like Ghost’s mask or his brutalist profession of shooting his wolfsbane-coated bolts, and he didn’t like that once a month you turned into a rampaging werewolf. 

Comparable things, really. 

But even here, in this workshop in his attic, you saw the need for this—for hunters. If you couldn’t stop yourself, there came a time when you had to be stopped. Truth be told, you expected it to be a quick and final end. Maybe that was just a foolish hope. 

A silver bullet would have always been your final song, you believed. Perhaps the very one that had once swung from around your neck; the one you’d never taken off until now. 

But then, perhaps that would have been your own brutalist profession.

“Thank you,” you nod. Ghost pauses, fingers stained with gunpowder. He blinks at the bullet in his hand as you continue. “I know you don’t care about anything beyond your work, but if you hadn’t gotten me out of that cage they would have burned me alive. Skinned me.” Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t have been kind. Job or not…thank you for getting me out of there.” 

“I shot you,” he utters, voice gravel. Ghost seemed confused.

Your lips flick. “I never said I forgave you for that part.”

A smooth chuckle wafts out over the attic and your own softly mirrors. Your head tilts somewhat quizzically. “But, about that…did you mean to put so much wolfsbane on it?”

Ghost shakes his head, grumbling. A small sense of honesty leaks out. “...Expected you to be bigger.”

You blink, and then, a few seconds later, a loud snort echoes like a ringing bell. 

The Hunter's unimpressed look only leads you to find him all the more enjoyable. “Shut it. Fuckin’ hell.”

A hand is waved from your party, dismissing the harsh snap. “Sorry, sorry.” You puff out amused air. “Spector not up to your expectations?”

Ghost nearly rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. He didn’t mind your company, at the very least he knew he needed to keep an eye on you for any potentially forced shifts or hostile attitude. What he hadn’t expected was to find you so…different from your muzzled counterpart, your shared physical inhabitant. 

He could almost call you endearing if he wasn’t so numb to the sight and scent of reality. 

“Sightings were far between,” Ghost grunts. “Here-say. I took an educated guess—better to put something like you out of commission than drag my way out of a forest without legs.”

“No apology?” You try, tilting your head.

“None,” is the drawn response. “I don’t have regrets. You’re alive.” 

Your fingers touch the outside of one of his journals, tracing the bumps and grooves of age and wear. You hum, but don’t reply. Most of your pains have been pushed back now, even if you still weren’t up to full strength. Food and rest helped, but the anxiety that perpetuated only lengthened the healing process. 

When you can’t trust even yourself under the drunkenness of the moon, it only makes your fear of the sun worse. Everything made you afraid—most of all your mind; most of all, the future. 

“Why do you want to find the werewolf that turned me?” You have to speak this, have to push. Your curiosity demands it.

Ghost puts the bullet down and grabs a rag from his belt, mask turning to look your way as he brushes off his hands. He pauses, looming with that gargantuan height—natural intimidation in the span of his chest and the trunk that makes up his front. You find yourself in his shadow as he rubs at his fingers with the rag, taking it away and slotting it back into his belt a moment later. 

The man’s heat leaks into your body as he blinks over, glancing your form up and down in a single look; keeping a respectful distance but still making his attentions known. 

He stares. “If it keeps biting people, there won’t be any villages left to take up contracts from.”

“Money?” You frown.

“Principle,” Ghost counters, chest rising and falling steadily. “There needs to be a middle ground. Too many feral werewolves, too few people. Cut off the head.”

“Ominous,” your form turns to his, itching at the back of your head again—the scabbing skin. “If what you said was true, how do you know the thing isn’t already dead? If it hasn’t tried to get to me, what was the point of making me?”

“Because you hadn’t left St. Francis’ by the time I put a bolt in you.” Ghost grumbles, rubbing a hand on his bicep, itching above the fabric of his tunic. He stretches with a grunt—and you see his shirt ride up and the pale skin underneath. You gawk for a moment at the length of scars and brutal muscle.

“Charming,” you dryly utter, stuttering in a brief second of pulling back your senses, but the Hunter continues on, ignoring you.

“That was where you were turned—your territory. You stayed because your leader is still close by waiting.” Legs shift, and all of a sudden, a body is over you, hands are on the base of your skull, pushing your own away as brown eyes dig into the injury you pick at. 

Your breath hitches, tensing for a second as your spine straightens. You watch widely from the corner of your eye as Ghost runs a careful hand over the flesh. He puffs a breath, chest moving in a grunt that is both commonplace and expected, yet the brush of his chest to your shoulder is not. 

You restrain a shiver, nostrils moving to the overwhelming swell of leather and gunpowder. Bone fragments; the tang of whiskey. 

His skin as he runs a thumb over the edge of your wound.

“It’ll start cracking.” Ghost utters, and through his fabric, you feel the brush of speech. “Have to apply more balm. Stop messing with it unless you want stitches soon.” 

It takes a moment more of his surgical study and a small clearing of your throat before you can speak. Your mind changes the subject for you.

“So…if my bite can’t turn anyone,” you breathe, nearly sagging as Ghost’s fingers catch in your hair, shifting it under his attention to get a better look. He listens, you know. He wasn’t good at talking, but he always listened. “Why did they muzzle me?”

For a brief instance, you think you feel the Hunter’s fingers jerk a tiny amount—some reactionary muscle twitch that leads your body to still. 

Ghost can’t say why he did that, though perhaps it was the sudden flash of the injuries that he’d wrapped on the road back to his property that went over his eyelids. Or the cage—your pleading face aching for whatever small sliver of brutish company you can get. 

The silver bullet that he still had in his pocket, attached to that leather cord. He knew the purpose; the intent. Just as he knew the scrape of scabbing under his fingertips. 

“Control,” he grumbles, and it’s all he’ll say. 

Your burning face is somewhat down-turned, letting him do as he must, study what he can. He hadn’t made any moves to endanger you, and besides the upcoming full moon, there was nothing here that screamed imminent danger. Danger as a general, yes, of course. You were a werewolf in a hunter’s home—it would always be…your eyes flutter when his fingertips drag over your scalp…it would always be danger….dangerous.

Ghost doesn’t think you notice it, but your eyes are drooping. 

He watches after the slight shock wears off, a tiny smirk flickering the hidden skin of his lips after he realizes the reason. If you had a tail, he’d assume it would be moving in a soft arch by now. 

The man was mildly amused at that, and before he moved away fully, he had to stop himself from uttering a sarcastic, ‘like that, then?’ 

He had to remind himself not to get attached to whatever…this was. He was using you as bait, as some key to his problem. Not a companion. The distance here had to be firm and heavy-handed. 

“The balm is down in my packs,” he grunts, leaving just as his name implied before you had the chance to gather your bearings and the lack of caressing heat. You startle back to the attic room, eyes wide and face loose before Ghost’s retreating footsteps echo on the stairs. “Don’t bloody use it all, then.”

The front door opens and closes with a pull of weighted wood.

—

“I can’t do this,” you mutter, pacing alone in the middle of the night down in the living room 

The full moon was tomorrow. 

“I can’t do it,” you itch at the back of your head, peeling at the nearly healed flesh harshly. Your nails dig into the soft tissue, drilling like a knife. A bead of blood slips around your fingers, but it doesn't stop you.

It’s late—late enough to know that Ghost should be asleep by now. For days, the paranoia, just like always, builds until you are nearly as mute as your Hunter. No more curiously searching his attic; no more questions about his job or how he got into this business. Brown eyes had been lingering more as the days went by, this strange companionship growing. You knew, in his own way, he was…worried.

So silent, even he had been getting noticeably uneasy. Shifting legs and quick glances. Nights where you hid under the bed from the moon until lunch came around, Ghost speaking as easily as he could to try and coax you out to no avail. You, a feral dog with white-rimmed eyes. 

At supper, only hours before this panicked pacing, you had told something to Ghost that made him double-take. 

“If I can’t stop it…I need you to shoot me. In the head.”

He’d never answered, but his eyes seemed to get ever-sharper as the hours continued on. More tense. Ansty.

But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 

“Can’t do it,” you murmur. Blood slips down your wrist. “It isn’t right—”

“Spector?” Ghost’s voice had become so familiar to you that the only thing that made your heart skyrocket was the sudden call of it. Your gasp is sharp from behind a panted breath, hand flinching away from the crater you were steadily digging in your skull. A long string of blood trails into the air as your fingers jerk away, and it’s only then that you notice the deep pangs of pain.

Your eyes shudder for a second as Ghost’s form makes it to ground level. He comes over slowly, attention staying on the way the moonlight makes the crimson stains glint from the dripping line seeping into the sleeve of your tunic. He blinks, and you both stand.

The man’s skeletal adornment was missing, though the fabric under remained. A loose sleep shirt and pants, stained by the rays of night. 

“Let me see,” he sighs under his breath, a tiny rasp telling of the sleep he’d been awoken from.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter. He doesn’t seem to care, grabbing your wrist and pulling the limb away as his body takes up presence behind you. 

“Was already awake,” Ghost grunts, eyes narrowing in hidden worry. You calm down a bit at that, one less problem to worry yourself about. 

The Hunter, quietly, leaves for a second and grabs his pouch near the door. With a muffled command, he nods to the bed until you’re backing up and hitting the back of your knees off of it, sitting. 

Ghost lights the candle on the nightstand and opens his belongings with stiff glances your way. He noticeably doesn’t ask why you’ve harmed yourself like this.

“I can’t,” you say it like a plea for help. “Ghost, I can’t do it again.” 

Hands fiddle with clean bandages and take out his waterskin. The man douses a rag with the liquid and comes over, shifting onto the bed and lightly turning you so your back is to him—legs half hanging off. 

The hard press of cold water makes your breath hitch, and you bite your lip.

“It hurts,” you push out. Ghost knows you’re not talking about the newly opened wound. 

“Breathe,” he says to you, seeing the way your sides expand with heavy lungs. Brown eyes flutter from the push of his large hand to the warmth of your shaking flesh. “Tell me about your home, yeah? Heard you lived in your own place.”

The question makes you double-take.

He’s asking me that? Here? Now? Hours away from perhaps another catastrophe?

Yet, you can’t help the slippage of your tongue as Ghost’s fingers rub into your scalp. The rag is lessened, and, soon, the material is rubbed gently over the sore itch of weeping skin. You fight a whimper and reply with an addled mind. 

“It…it’s quiet. Calm. I always keep the candles going because I don’t like the dark.” Ghost works quietly and quickly. 

“There,” he grunts, glancing at the flickering light of the candle he lit. He’d have to remember that. “And?”

“I kept sheep.”

He pauses, and, without meaning to, a soft scoff bounces off the confines of his chest. It catches your attention far better than a bullet could. Ghost shifts a needle and thread out of his gathering of items, taking away his limbs only for the short while it takes him to loop the two together. 

“How many?” The masked man asks, amusement gone just as quickly as it had come. 

“Only a handful,” you whisper. Your mouth opens and closes, glancing over your shoulder as the candle-light spills out over the room; casting shadows over Ghost’s face, catching on his long eyelashes. Those browns of his glint like tree trunks covered in dew.

“Please,” your words are muffled. Eyes wide and fearful, there isn’t anything that can console you on this. “You need to kill me.”

There was a dichotomy to you—a violent thing. You didn’t want to die, no, you feared it heavily, more than the moon, but the truth was that you couldn’t keep going through this. The unknowing. The breaking bones, the blinding pain. The understanding that nothing that you do can stop it. 

“It hurts, Ghost,” your breath stutters. “More than taking off a limb, more than slicing yourself open and ripping out your intestines—it burns more than the light of the moon.”

The Hunter listens through all of it. He sits, he stares, and he hides the brimming sense of concern behind his dead eyes.

With a pulling of his eyebrows, Ghost’s free hand moves upwards and grabs your chin. Freezing, you study this phenomenon from over your shoulder, face on fire with eyes wide to the pale skin visible to your view. You hadn’t realized until now, but this was the most you’d seen of the man’s face. 

You could make out the point of his crooked nose—the strength of his jaw under the form-fitting fabric. Cheekbones and the heaviness of his brows. Wisps of hair. He had eyes like a cat, you had to admit; something sly about them despite the numbness that seemed to extend bone-deep. 

But his hands had been kind to you. 

Firmly, Ghost’s fingers run your flesh, and he blinks softly before a low sound echoes in his throat. He pushes carefully on your jaw and shifts your head back forward so he can help you. When he lets go, your heart quivers in your breast

“I’m ‘ere,” he mutters, and you feel the first stitch enter the thin flesh of your head. You take down deep breaths, focusing on the scrape of his fingertips and not the point of the needle. Ghost can understand the fear of it—of pain. It’s instinct. He tilts his head and pushes out, “I can only ask for one full moon from you, yeah? No more. I just need one.” 

“And if I can’t find the werewolf?” Your voice vibrates with emotion, staring down at your hands as Ghost’s chest brushes your spine. The scent of him was addling your brain; the rub and slide of his hands.

The Hunter’s jaw clenches softly. “...Then I let you go.”

It wasn’t what you were expecting, but anything from the time you’d gotten a bolt through the thigh was unknown territory, and, like a dog without a leash, you’d run into it. Your brows furrow, blood oozing down your neck before Ghost’s grip shifts to place the rag back again, swiping away firmly. 

“Go?” He nods, but you can’t see it. “But what about the hunt?”

“I can manage.” The stitching pauses. The air is broken up nearly a full minute later. “You’re not evil.” Before they start up again as if nothing was uttered aloud. 

The confession makes the sting in the back of your eyes start up again—a strong thing of confusion and vulnerability. Ghost continues his task, pulling together your skin one suture at a time until the injury is fully closed; clean. 

“Chin,” he lowly states, and you allow him to tap your jaw, shifting it up so the wrappings can loop above your ear and over your forehead—securing them. 

Even far after the blood has seeped through, the two of you stay.

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

Your body stays in bed, shaking—sweating. A large pain flairs in your chest over and over like a pulsing well in the earth, skin twitching with the spread of blood. Ghost sits beside the bed all the while, having dragged over his chair. He leans back into it, one arm over the side, hanging with the thing ever so often moving to rub at the back of his neck. 

You don’t think he’s moved since he brought it over last night; since he got another candle to stick into the holder—push back the dark. To watch, to study, or just to stave off your rising anxiety is another question. 

It’s only after the fourth time you try to rip at the stitches at the base of your skull that he finally grabs your hand and holds it silently. Now, his thumb moves over your knuckles—his gloves back on. 

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 

“No,” you say instantly, sweat dripping over your temple, your body partially buried under blankets. “No, I’ll just throw it up.” 

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 

Your mouth is already salivating—thoughts of wet flesh and blood in the forefront until you whine and shove your face into the pillow; panting heavily. 

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 

Ghost pauses, hesitating. After a moment, his thighs tense with the action of movement, thinking you’re speaking to him. Something swirls in his chest, but he starts to stand nonetheless.

Your eyes widen.

“No!” Both of your hands latch onto the Hunter’s wrist, fear a needle stuck in your gaze. “No, not you. Stay, please.”

A silver cage covered in blood slides across Ghost’s slightly shocked look, but he only licks at the corner of his mouth and slowly leans back once more. 

“Not going anywhere,” he says, accent dipping. “Tell me what you’re hearing, yeah?”

His hand slips back into yours, and he presses into your pulse softly, counting. The sun continues across the sky.

“I don’t like how it sounds,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s wrong.”

“Focus,” Ghost breathes, looming closer. His grip squeezes once. “It can’t hurt you.” 

You shiver, eyes tightly closed as tears burn the back of your nose. “It’s howling.”

A suddenly gloveless hand spreads up your cheek, resting there and pushing back the sweat that pools. It’s calloused—scarred. You whine, head spinning.

I’m waiting. 

Find me.

Find me.

“I don’t want to,” you utter under your breath, words an amalgamation of slurring gasps. 

“Spector,” Ghost calls, head moving closer. “Eh.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” your hurried panic is similar to a mind overdosing on wolfsbane. “Gotta go away—gotta get out—”

“Spec!” The Hunter’s quick bark makes your eyes pop open, and you lock instantly with brown orbs. 

They’re tight, unblinking just as always. They offer just a few moments of clarity. 

Ghost holds your head still while the rest of you shivers with cold sweats, you can hear the blood inside of his veins; his heart pumping. The scent of his skin was addicting to the point of memorization on the airwaves. You watch, gulping down breaths as your throat bobs. 

Eyes dart you up and down, fingers spreading out to offer what little comfort he can. The man wonders if he’s completely in over his head. 

Ghost pulls his face-covering up to his nose, and your heart skips beats at the sight of ravaged skin and stubble, scars spreading out like your own. Long ones, short ones, burn marks, and hyperpigmentation. He wasn’t pretty, but he was real. 

Oh, he was real. 

His grip on you strengthens until all you can focus on is him. 

Ghost blinks, and you see his lips move. The gravel of his voice was never more clear. “Fucking hell, keep that head on, okay? Nothing’s going to happen as long as I’m here. I’ve got you.” He sighs out a low breath, thumb running your undereye as the small dribbles of tears begin to sneak out. Ghost murmurs. “I’ve bloody got you, alright? Let it happen—we can figure it out.”

He’d grown fond of you over the course of a month. You were curious; not pushingly so. Honest. Good. You’d been dealt a bitter hand, and damn him if his stone heart wasn’t stretched thin at the raw fear on your face. This wasn’t your fault, but he needed to find who turned you and stop them before it got any more out of control than it already was. If more unstable werewolves went running through the woods, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the territory alive.

“When you turn,” Ghost says as clearly as he’s able. “Go. Don’t fight it. I’ll find you.”

“Promise?” You ask, a weak flicker coming to your lips—eyes vulnerable. 

Ghost nods once, and it’s all you need. “I’ll find you,” he repeats. “Doubt me?”

“No,” you ease, clearing your throat. “But…one more thing?”

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 

“Just don’t shoot me in the thigh again.”

When the claws start protruding from your nailbeds hours later, you’re bolting to the door with only one last glance at the Hunter and his half-pulled-up mask. Booted feet hitting the wood as he stands, he lets you go even as his thighs tense in a need to run after you. Patience was his beast to tame, but it seemed to have left him in the form of a woman disappearing into the tree line. 

There is companionship in broken things.

Your body slips into the forest just as the creak of your bones begins to shift and bend. You fall into a heap, hearing the gargling of marrow under your skin like a call to sea. An urge grows to infect you; a feral need to run and hide. Biting back a shrill scream, a hoarse yell escapes instead—flesh rippling as your mouth opens, fangs breaking the supple mushiness of your gums as blood floods like a river. 

Find me. 

Find me.

Find me.

“Ghost,” you whisper, hands snapping to your head. “Ghost, please.” 

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

A rabid scream rips from your throat, and back in the house, Ghost’s hands tighten into fists as he glares at the open door. He growls under his breath, eyes tightening in a certain type of anger that brews in his gut. The nights your shuffling woke his light slumber were more common than when you hadn’t, and every utterance was clearly heard to his ears. It had become a curse to him—how you’d met.

A regret was seeping in, a care, and now, as he forces himself to back up and head into the attic, Ghost clenches his jaw tightly. So unaffected by the horror of monsters, he was now at a loss of sense for this growth of feelings. 

He wasn’t dull, he knew that some of the contracts he took marked him as a tool and not a person of stable mind. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and he would continue to do them for no other reason than they were the orders he was given.

But you had broken a piece of that off of him, somehow, someway, your face had seared itself into his retinas—speared him at the brutality that your community had treated you with. The muzzle. It was cruel, and while Ghost was precisely that, there was a limit. 

He did his job, and that was that. Anything after wasn’t his problem. 

You became his job, and the one who turned you was an add-on. Maybe if he justified it to himself, he could understand his actions better. 

But he was already sprinting to grab his gear when the first howl shattered the night.

—

A white beast prowls the forest. 

It stands on two legs, but it isn’t human—isn’t natural. It’s taller than a grown man is; snout pulled back in a soundless snarl that puts dogs to shame with rows of teeth so sharp, they look like pale knives. Its feet—large, splayed—soundlessly skate the ground until clawed fingers slam to the earth. 

A nose inhales the scent above the dirt, tongue lulling as a shaggy tail lays limp behind a curved spine. In between the erect ears, under the thick skull of the werewolf, the rolling bumps of a brain spark. A pull.

Find me.

Your eyes are tiny black dots—and they blink once before you rise once more. A great growl moves inside of your chest, the large collection of hair around your neck standing on end.

I’m waiting.

But there’s something that keeps you here—standing in the grass as the moon shines atop your head, your fur nearly glowing even with the stain of bloody injuries. The remains of clothes are about a meter away; only strips of what was. 

Your gaze looks over your shoulder, and your gargantuan frame lumbers backward until you can stoop to them—nose once more sniffing with your arms reaching.

Your fingers twitch, blackened claws digging through the ground as a near purr echoes in your throat. The scythe-like additions card across the strips.

Gunpowder. 

Leather.

Whiskey.

Something you can’t quite name, but feel drawn to despite the tightening noose at your throat. There was something there you can’t focus on…something that you need. 

Your drooling jaws snap, saliva coating the fangs until they drip off one at a time to stain the grass. Body shifting, your head lowers until your wolf-ish visage rubs against the fabric, licking at the sides of your gums as delicate grumbles slip out of your mouth. 

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

Eyes slipping back into the feral-inhumanity of a wild animal, your body jolts up, gaze to the forest trees and the rustling of bushes. The swell of rain on the clouds is in the back of your nose, and the previous attraction to the ripped clothes is lost as simply as it had come. 

You were being summoned. 

Ears twitching, the entirety of your body refuses to move to the sound; tensed and ready to spring on anything that moves if only to let off the spike of anger at the lack of control. The pull grows stronger, and it feels like something is trying to drag you away into the wilds.

This was the sensation you were always trying to fight—the one that led to the aggression; the hunt. You knew that if you followed that howl, whatever was left of your human sense would be gone entirely before you could stop it. 

Yet, this time, there’s a nagging need to find the owner, and you can’t remember why.

Your large head tilts, feet spaced as the curve of your spine grows more aggressive—hunching forward as you snarl at nothing, claws shaking as your fur is more bristly than sleek. 

Like pure white spikes. 

In the back of your head, a thin sliver of a memory slips in. Fingers on the back of your head, caressing calluses and dark, dark, eyes. Clean bandages and gentle touches.

I’ll find you.

If the side of your vision picked up the shadow shifting from far off into the trees, your curled lip never turned that way. If your nose twitched to the heavy weight of a man’s sweat, it never shifted to point as a mutt would to the rustling bush.

Your body bolts after the resounding echo of a wolf’s howl, and it’s no later that Ghost slips after your clawed prints to follow.

—

Crossbow in hand, the hunter’s mask gleams in the darkness, his pale eyes twinkling. Bending down, he glazes at the long pushing tracks of your form—seeing the spray of dirt to the side and the broken branches. Ghost blinks, shoulders tense before he swiftly stands and continues on. The firearms at his thighs lightly rattle, and the bolts in his crossbow are already laced with wolfsbane; silver tips smelt a week ago. 

He passes a river with only a single glance at the tossed rocks from the bed, sloshing through the water as the bottoms of his pants get weighed down. Ghost’s mind is on one thing only: make sure this plan won’t get you killed. 

The bolts aren’t for you—the silver bullets aren’t for you. 

He grunts under his breath, the dark woods casting phantoms over the ground. The Hunter’s legs shift through tall grass, and he carries himself with the ingrained confidence a man of his station requires. If he were anything less than a monster himself, he would have died ages ago. Ghost shoots and lets others come up with the questions, but he could never be called dumb. 

Seeing what fast glimpse he had of your shifted form after the last time, he was struck by how erratic it acted. Snapping head, twitching ears, and roving eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Ghost would have called it rabid. 

Yet, your actions with his borrowed shirt were…body-stilling, to say the least about it. It had made his gut swirl.

“Give me a trail,” Ghost utters to himself, brown eyes still picking up the dash you’d taken. His agile feet splash through a puddle, the beginnings of raindrops hitting his head. 

The man grabs at his hood and pulls it up stiffly, frowning under his mask.

Rain would wash away the tracks.

“C’mon, Love,” he grinds out, body hunched. “Leavin’ me to do the dirty work, eh?” 

It’s too quiet—even a collection of minutes later of hard hiking, the trees barely move. There aren’t any birds; no animals beyond the black bodies of crows in the far-up branches, waiting, watching with obsidian eyes that don’t blink. 

Ghost isn’t off-put, but the length of his strides gets far tinier, carefully stepping over twigs and rocks like a soldier at war. Then again, he was at war. And if he was caught unawares, there wouldn’t be a bullet to pull out of his side, but, instead, a chunk missing. 

His ears were almost ringing from how hard he was focusing. 

Brown eyes shift from one area to another, and then, suddenly as if a deer, he freezes. 

Ghost’s body winds up, fingers twitching from the stark trigger discipline of his crossbow downward instantaneously. No one but him can explain what just happened, but he knows when he has to listen instead of act. Stuck in a clearing not unlike the place he’s first met you, his feet rest shoulder width apart and his eyes stare blankly into the trees ahead.

Your tracks end here.

From behind him, just as the large raindrops slap the side of his bone-ed visage, the small crack of a twig makes his ears twitch.

A low snarl sets his hair on end. 

Looking over his shoulder, Ghost is met with the same color that he’d become so accustomed to in a full month completely blacked out. Void. Lifeless to anything besides rage and bloodlust. 

Your white fur was infected with dirt, blood, and leaves—a mosaic of ferality ingrained into your body; pale fangs snapping. The beast slips through the treeline, slapping a veined hand into the soggy earth. 

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 

His finger shifts over the trigger, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates. 

The man looks into your glinting orbs, the dripping saliva on your lulling tongue as your esophagus pants for breath. One hesitation, he always knew, would mean death. One mess-up. 

You’d asked him to end it, he shouldn’t feel remorse, guilt, perhaps—he was still human, despite his appearance, but remorse was deeper. It left wounds that were harder to lick clean again. 

…So why isn’t he sending a bolt into your forehead?

Ghost remembers the times he’d found you under the bed, your shaking, and the way you hadn’t allowed him to change your bandages the first few weeks you’d stayed with him; didn’t want him to touch you. The nightmares and the small smile you’d gain when he’d spew his dark, sarcastic words as if this was a joke. How you’d always thank him under your breath for the food he’d give you, hunted by his own hand. 

A silver cage. Crimson blood. The sight of your pleading eyes when you’d told him to shoot you.

Maybe the two of you were far more alike than he’d dare to admit. And he currently won’t, not even on his deathbed. Not even now.

Ghost watches, and he waits. 

He can’t do it.

Your body slinks closer, stalking with the sound of anger, nearly rib-shaking in its volume. Ghost’s jaw clenches, and his body shifts to face yours head-on. At the sight of the crossbow, your snarl turns into an air-biting rage, saliva flying through the rain.

“Spector,” he keeps his voice low, even. The sight he’d seen as you smelled his clothes had to mean something. Ghost tilts his head, moving out a hand from the side of his weapon in an appeasement gesture. “I’m not going to shoot you. We have a job to complete…get those fangs away.”

He wonders if ordering you around will even work. You had told him before—you’re not a mutt. Ghost agrees. No mutt was the size of a fucking boulder.

The werewolf’s claws drag—goring the mud as if a pig to tear apart. 

“Spector,” the Hunter tries again. But something’s different about his tone; he drops it, letting it pull on a softer string. “I’m here to end this. We’re here to end this.” He blinks and lowers the crossbow completely. “Breathe. The night can’t last forever.” A breeze whips the trees. “I made you a promise.”

There’s a second, he thinks, where he can see something shift in your gaze, pupils slightly widening above the deluge that wets down your fur into a sopping mess that hangs off muscle.

“That’s a girl,” Ghost grunts, taking a small step closer. “Never told you,” he utters, eyes locked with yours. He sees your nose twitch minutely. “But if we get this right, Spec, there’ll be no more painful shifts, hear me?”

Your dog-ish mouth is closed, hanging off every word as Ghost comes even closer.

“I kill this bastard,” the hunter breathes, gloved hand still outstretched, nearing closer to the near-silver of your form. “The moon’ll have no claim on you. She’ll let you off the leash, Little Wolf. You get to decide when it happens.” 

He thinks he has you now, back to some state of recognition in the addled brain that tries to see him as prey; as competition. Ghost’s fingers are close enough to almost touch you, but just before he can brush his gloves over your wet fur, your mouth opens in a display of untamed challenge. Your growl is enough to make the man unconsciously reach for his pistol, and in the time it takes him to realize the fault of it, you’ve already rampaged forward with an unhinged jaw.

Ghost’s eyes widen, taking a quick step back. 

Your legs push off, and you shove the hunter out of the way just before the fangs of an immense beast can clamp down on him, your own finding the shoulder of gray, thick fur.

Fighting as wolves do, Ghost only needs a moment to recover and get to his feet, though the sight in front of him can rival any that he’d seen before. His crossbow clatters a few feet away, sending the bolt off into the trees with a metallic ‘twang’.

The two werewolves roll around the pouring clearing, snapping teeth and rending claws drawing blood that’s deep enough to swim in to the green grass. White and gray meld together—blue eyes like a knife to Ghost’s chest when he takes it in from between the sound of tearing fur. 

“Bloody fucking…” the man trails, staggering as his palms slap to the pistols at his side. He blinks, shouting in more of a bark than even a dog could imitate. “Spector!” 

The wolves pull and rip the other to shreds, flesh torn and limbs grasping for purchase. Bodies are slammed to the ground before getting tossed to the side, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Ghost watches crimson stain your fur a pinkish-red.

He can’t get a good shot.

The werewolf that turned you sinks its claws into your sides, dragging them downwards as you yowl, eyes tiny with aggression before your jaws connect with its snout, biting down with more force than a horse’s hooves. The monster screams—a garbed thing of fangs and saliva. 

Just as easily as it called you here to it, as it stalked your Hunter, it bashes your body back into the earth and takes you by the scruff of your neck. Eyes wide in that lupine way, you lock on Ghost’s profile before your body is lifted, and tossed away violently. 

Spine slamming into a tree, you hear the cracking and bending of your bones in your ears just after you hear the sharp shout from the man in the clearing, body dropping to a heap into the grass and mud. Angled head flopping back and forth, black infests the edges of your vision, coughing up blood that seeps from between your gums and slips down the back of your esophagus. Fur and flesh are stuck at the base of your throat. 

Whining, your limbs drag and pull futility, eyes flooded over with crimson and fogged by rain. A great roar worries the air, sending long shivers over your spine as you try to rise to your limbs, a five-fingered hand slamming you back down. 

Just before the fangs can clamp your throat, two great booms burst through the forest. 

The wolf atop you reels back, great bellow escaping its throat when you can finally drag your head to look over. This beast was clawing at its chest, shaking its large head in an arch to try and dispel the shock of having two silver bullets entering its back—the gray head snapped around to Ghost, who held his twin pistols aloft with eyes burning with anger from behind his mask. An avatar of vengeance; a bringer of death. 

The orbs inside of your sockets widened, nose twitching wildly as you bleat a quick warning bark. 

Blue-Eyes rises, body far larger than yours would ever grow to be—on two feet more powerful looking than a bricklayer many years into his craft; tall enough to reach to the sides of black-shingled homes and pull itself up. Ghost takes one look and growls under his breath, knowing there would be no time to reload the weapons in his hands. 

So he drops them and pulls slowly at the cruel blade in his belt until the gleam winks in the low light like a curved smile. Setting it in his hands, the small flicker of a sharp smirk on his lips is lost to you. 

Yet, there isn’t a chance for some brawl between two beasts—there’s only the flash of pale fur and the final crunch of a body hitting the ground. 

You bury your fangs into the wolf’s neck; the one responsible for all of your pain and torment spanning years of isolation. You feel the body seize as it drops, the last remnants of a dying brain trying to fight the inevitable nothingness that ensues, and, you only hold on the harder, the bloodlust seeping back in with every drop of life pooling into your locked jaw.

Your throat releases tiny growls of pleasure, biting a bit to make sure there wasn’t a sliver of a chance that something living was walking away from this scene. 

Ghost pauses, and in the back of his head, he knows he should stop you. Brown eyes see the animalistic sheen of enjoyment at a fresh kill, the way you pull at the flesh until chucks peel away from a gurgling wolf. Even when the thing is long dead and the rain still slaps the earth, you barely let go until you get a hold of the meat and tear with a backward jerk of your snout.

“Love,” the Hunter sheathes his knife, taking a step forward. The blood was pooling under your body. How many of those were treatable? He had to know. “Let me see what’s—”

The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 

Up to your ears, the entirety of your face was awash with the stain of life, dripping off the whiskers at your cheeks; your chin. 

Before he can utter another word, he finds himself on his back with a snapping snout right in front of his face, two dead eyes staring deeply into his own. Ghost sucks down a quick breath, hand snapping to the large wrist shoving down on his chest.

He pants out, gravel accent far more deep than it was before. 

“Easy, Spector. Easy. Eh—focus on me.” Your tongue licks at your fangs, body shaking. Ghost pushes out, “That’s it, then. It’s over, yeah? You did it; let's pack it up and head back home.” He grunts. “Recon even dogs get cold in weather like this—the bed’s waiting. Get a nice fire going.”

Ghost sees your face move closer, and his hand minutely shifts to the vial of wolfsbane on his belt. It wouldn’t kill you, but it could put you out of commission until your body shifted back into its proper form. He could carry you back—that wouldn’t be a problem at all. 

But he was worried about your injuries. Even now the droplets of blood roll off of you faster than the water can. 

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 

“Fuck,” he growls, seeing the carnage and the open meat. “Sweetheart, we need to get you checked out—you need to listen to me. Can you do that?”

He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 

Your mouth moves with fast pants, claws stuttering over his gear futilely. You blink rapidly, shaking your large head in fast increments with small snarls. 

“C’mon,” Ghost says slowly, fingers looping the vial. “Keep listening. Know my voice is utter shite, but only you can tell me it.” 

Your head drops to his chest just as the wolfsbane is popped open, and, for whatever reason, Ghost pauses. He waits. 

You take a long inhale of his gear—of the leather and the gunpowder, and just before the Hunter can dump the vial over your skin, the long blackish claw on your finger loops the bottom portion of the fabric under his bone attachment. 

The man’s breath hitches as you let it rest along his nose bridge…holding it there as you drag your head upwards as if it were an impossible chore. Your mouth dribbles out gore to his cheeks, but the Hunter stares upwards into your eyes as they soften in a lupine way. 

Inexplicably, you let out a bone-rattling sigh and slump into oblivion. 

—

Come morning, you sleep under the spread of large fur blankets—clean bandages over your bare frame as the man has tended to you for hours. He mutters for you to slip your arms into a spare shirt after he finds your eyes open, not uncomfortable by your nakedness, though he wants you yourself to be at ease. 

His brown eyes are creased, and you can’t remember what you’ve done. 

You comply with small grunts and moans; more sore and cut up than you can recall ever feeling as a large tunic is slipped over your head by scarred hands. 

Gunpowder. 

“What did I—?”

“You finished the job,” he says, sparing you a glance as he shifts back with his eyes averting themselves from your visible legs. The sun seeps in through the windows. “It’s morning.”

You blink slowly, and the man eases you back down into the furs. 

“I’m tired,” your voice yawns out—weak and brittle like the hope you’d had that this plan of his would work. Eyes half-closed, they blink at the hunter with a soft kind of care that you can’t remember showing before. Whatever pain medicine he’d given you, it was working. The underlying itch was still as strong as ever, though. 

“Tired is good,” Ghost nods slowly, standing still until he crosses his arms and sets his feet. He’s in a fresh shirt and pants. There’s blood under his fingernails; traces smeared over his flesh. “Means you accomplished something.”

“Don’t think that’s entirely true,” you breathe. A pause. “...Why is your mask like that?”

It was half pulled up—showing off his lower jaw and the stubble. The scars that you already have memorized. Ghost shrugs, blinking those dead eyes of his. 

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

He reaches up and slips the thing off in one motion. Your loose brain takes a moment to realize the entire face you’re staring into, but the second it does, the image is engraved into your mind forever. You make a noise in the back of your throat. 

“Better, Little Wolf?” 

“W—” Your lips stutter, new sutures pulling tight. “Why would you…?”

“Hungry?” Ghost asks, quickly changing the subject. “Know you like that venison that I caught.”

“No,” you breathe. “No, I’m not…I’m tired, Ghost. My head hurts.”

A hand sweeps over your forehead, staying as you sag into it with a hum and a fluttering of your eyes. 

“Bloodloss,” the Hunter murmurs. “Normal. Go back to sleep; take however long you need. I’ll be here.” 

The bond between the two of you has strengthened to that of a silver rope.

“Stay,” you plead under your breath, already slipping back into nothingness with no promise to wake up again soon. “Hold me, Ghost?”

“Simon,” he grunts to only himself, knowing that the words are lost to you. Perhaps that makes him all the more eager to share it with you when you’re better. “Stay still.”

It wasn’t like you could protest.

The broad man slips in, shifting the furs until you’re covered back up and your forehead is to his chest—keeping himself closest to the door where the runes still sit in their bloody glory. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear them humming him a tune.

No song was better to him than the one of your breath at this very moment. Alive. Moving. There were many times in the night that he thought...hm.

“Better, then?” The dry tease slips out. 

A kiss to the side of his mouth is what he gets in answer, and he doesn't say a peep more until he knows you’re back in the clutches of a dream—a good one, he knows, because he watches your expressions like a loyal guard dog would.

Ghost, Simon, rests his lips on the top of your head, and in a delicate murmur, eases, “You did good, Love.” 

There was much to do, but for now, all he had to do was hold you a little bit tighter and let his stone heart beat a little bit faster.

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[apothe-roses]

Dance of the Sugarplum Prince

Nutcracker!Aemond x Clara!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: violence, character death, smut, tiddy sucking, oral (f-receiving), uncle-niece incest, unprotected sex, piv sex, breeding kink, possessive Aemond, obsessed Aemond

A/N: I may not be the first nor the last to do a nutcracker au, but I’m doin it anyways! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. All rights go to HBO and George RR Martin

The snow falls heavy and thick outside the window. You watch the snowflakes dance to the ground while your family makes a ruckus behind you. The adults Gossip amongst themselves while your brothers laugh and joke amongst themselves. You love your family, but you’ve grown tired of your overbearing aunties trying to set you up with “nice boys” they know.

You notice a figure making their way towards the front door, making your own way towards it to greet them. Right after the doorbell rings, you open the door, smiling at the woman on the other side.

“Aunt Alys,” you smile and embrace the older woman.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, but it’s nearly impossible to make one’s way through that,” she replies, indicating to the storm outside. Other family members come to greet Alys, so you move to the side and let them. She pulls a large case out from under her coat. She reveals several beautifully made dolls, winding them up and letting them dance across the carpet. Your family is in awe. While they’re distracted, Alys approaches you.

“I have a special gift for you,” Alys says. She opens her bag, gingerly pulling out a final doll. He was a beautiful man with long silver hair and black armor accentuated with gold.

“This,” you aunt explains, “is no ordinary knight. He is a prince of a faraway land.”

“Oh Alys, she’s too old for dolls!” your mother calls from across the room.

“Oh, but he’s so beautiful!” you rebut. “Couldn’t I just put on on my shelf and admire him?”

“You can put these dirty dishes in the kitchen,” your mother tells you. You sigh, setting your doll on the windowsill. Alys follows you into the kitchen.

“Perhaps you should’ve brought me a real prince. That would’ve made mother happy,” you laugh. Alys simply smiles at that.

Suddenly, a loud crash sounds from the sitting room, followed by your mother shouting “Luke!” You rush into the room. Your doll is lying on the floor at your brother’s feet.

“It was an accident!” Luke explains. “I only wanted to get a closer look!”

You rush over, picking your doll up off the ground. One of his eyes is broken. Luke apologizes profusely while you carefully extract the broken pieces. Alys approaches.

“I couldn’t find a spare eye, but this should fit,” she says, handing you a small sapphire. You slip it into his empty socket; it fits perfectly. She provides a small strip of black fabric that you use as a makeshift eyepatch.

“Thank you, Alys,” you say, giving the older woman a hug. You don’t notice the worried look she gives your doll.

BONG

BONG

BONG

Was it midnight already? You must have nodded off at some point. You look down at your prince, admiring his handsome face. Perhaps it’s the dim light, but it looks as though his mouth twitches.

You’re about to go to bed when something moves at the edge of your vision. A small man walks out from under your Christmas tree! For a moment, you think it’s your prince. However, this man has two eyes and looks older. He wears a crown that looks like it’s made of wood. He’s looking around, clearly searching for something. You stay as still as possible, hoping he doesn’t notice you. Theres a possibility you’re still dreaming, but you’re not willing to take that risk.

“Looking for someone, Daemon?” a voice calls out. Both your heads snap to the corner where it came from. Your mouth falls open. It’s your prince! But he’s alive! He approaches the man, sword drawn.

“Aemond,” Daemon greets. “It appears you’ve suffered a horrible accident. Shame. I was hoping for a fair fight.”

“And you’ll get one,” Aemond snaps. At that moment, more figures storm into view. You recognize them as your brothers’ toy soldiers.

“Alright. Two can play at that game,” Daemon raises a hand, and several mice scurry out from nowhere. You clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to scream. Daemon and Aemond draw their swords, circling one another. Daemon strikes first, but Aemond is quick to block. The mice and toys launch at each other. You’re enthralled. Though bloodless, the battle is intense.

Suddenly, Daemon strikes Aemond’s blind side. He’s sent flying to the floor, his sword clattering away. Daemon smiles viciously, standing over his nephew. He raises his sword to strike the killing blow and—

WHAM!

A giant slipper knocks him off his feet. Aemond glances at you, noting you are now missing a slipper. He grins, then springs into action. He draws a dagger, races to his uncle, and plunges the blade into his neck. Daemon never had time to regain his senses before he bleeds out, choking and clasping at his throat. The battle stops. The now leaderless mice scurry off, and the toy soldiers return to where your brothers left them originally. Aemond walks over to you. As he does, he grows until he’s the height of a normal man. You stare up at him, lips parted. He’s tall, and even more handsome as a man.

“You saved me,” he states, kneeling at your side.

“I-it was nothing,” you stammer, blushing. “I didn’t want him to…kill you.”

Aemond’s lips curl into a smirk. “Such a sweet thing you are,” he muses. He reaches out, winding a lock on your hair around his finger. “It’s not every day a man can say he was saved by someone so beautiful or kind.”

Your blush deepens. “You’re too kind,” you whisper.

“You must come back to the castle with me. My family will want to meet the girl who helped defeat my wicked uncle and his wretched mouse army,” he stands, extending a hand to you. You look around the empty sitting room, wondering what to do.

“It’s only for tonight. I promise to have you back by morning,” he assures you. You bite your lip, not noticing the way his gaze darkens. Then, you smile and take his hand. When you stand, you notice how much taller he is. you look down shyly, but he tucks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up to his. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he says, “let’s be off then,” and leads you to the Christmas tree. With each step, you shrink until you can easily walk under the branches.

You spot a castle in the distance. A beautiful red fortress perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sprawling city. The faint ringing of bells can be heard.

“It seems word of our victory has spread,” Aemond observes. “I imagine the celebration is well underway.

“Oh, but I’m not dressed!” you realize.

“Look down, little one,” Aemond replies. You do, and you gasp. Your simple nightgown had been replaced with a beautiful white dress, tied by a large red ribbon. The skirt floats in light layers down to your calves. Your feet are covered by red slippers with ribbons wrapped around your legs.

“How…?” you start to ask, the question dying on your lips when you look up and see Aemond had changed as well. He’s wearing a black and red jacket adorned with golden epaulettes, and also matching breeches and shiny black boots. His hair is loose, and the swath of ribbon covering his eye is replaced with a proper eyepatch.

“Come,” he requests, extending his hand. “We don’t want to miss out on the festivities.”

The walk to the castle is filled with merriment as the small folk throw flowers over your heads and dance and cheer. Inside the castle is even more merry as ball is in full swing. You spy the king and queen at the end of the hall, their matching silver hair catching the light.

Aemond leads you to the middle of the dance floor and leads you in a waltz. The night passes in a series of twirls and lifts, until a hush falls over the crowd.

The king leads his queen off the dais into the center of the crowd. Everyone pushes back, forming a wide berth around them as they lead a solitary waltz. You feel a large hand on the small of your back.

“Come with me,” Aemond whispers. His breath tickles your ear.

He leads you out of the room. The two of you race down the halls. You haven’t felt this exhilarated since you were a child chasing your brothers outdoors.

You’re lead into a bedroom that you presume is his. You don’t have time to take in the decor, as he grabs your face and kisses you hungrily. You kiss him back, hands tangling in his soft hair.

He deftly undoes the bow on your back. He tries to untie the laces, but he gets impatient and just tears your dress open. You gasp as your dress falls from your body.

Aemond scoops you up and lays you on the bed. He looks over you like a lion about to devour his kill.

“Have you ever been with a man before little one?”

“N-no,” you stutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Well,” he starts, “allow me to show you.”

He tears the rest of your underthings off, leaving you bare before him. Without breaking eye contact, he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. Your head rolls back as he sucks on the sensitive flesh, kneading your other side.

“So beautiful,” he gasps, switching to the other tit.

“So perfect.” He trails kisses down your torso. He fingers swipe through your folds. He brings them to his lips and sucks them clean; his eyes roll back and he groans.

“I knew you’d taste sweet,” he purrs. He lowers his head to your mound and drags his tongue through your folds. You gasp and instinctually shy away, but he pins you with this hands on your hips. You can only moan as he relentlessly devours your cunt.

“M-my prince…”

“Aemond. Call me Aemond,” he breathes, sending a shiver through you. You feel your peak approaching, closer and closer. It’s just about to wash over you when he pulls away. You whine at the loss of stimulation.

“The first time I make you come, it will be on my cock,” Aemond states, once again leaning over you. He sheds his clothing with ease. He’s truly one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. His cock is long and thick, and already leaking. He strokes himself as he gets into position.

“What if it doesn’t fit?” You ask innocently.

“It will fit.” He replies. “I’ll make it fit.”

He angles his cock and enters you with one sure thrust. You gasp loudly, clinging to his shoulders.

“Gods you’re tight,” he whispers. He begins to rock in and out of you, setting a steady pace.

“So wet, and I’ve barely touched you. Such a needy little thing. Absolutely begging to be fucked.”

You babble incoherently in response. Aemond chuckles and starts playing with your pearl.

“Already cockdumb are we?”

He pinches your pearl.

“I could keep you here you know. Fuck you—breed you— day and night, until your belly swells with my child. You’d like that wouldn’t you? My perfect little princess. My broodmare. Mine.”

You’re a little frightened by his declaration, but you’re to overwhelmed by pleasure to do anything about it. You can only lay there as you climax, the pleasure melting your bones and heating your blood.

“That’s my girl. That’s my good girl,” he groans, and you feel his cock pulse followed by a sense of warmth. He keeps his cock plugged inside until he starts to soften, then he pulls out. You feel a mixture of your fluid and his seed leak out. He hold your legs open, admiring the sight. Then, he lays down, pulling you into his arms.

“You’ll want for nothing. I’ll make sure of it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You lay against his chest, and it isn’t long before sleep claims you.

“Sweetheart, wake up!” you hear your mother call. You reluctantly open your eyes. You’re in your own bed, in your own room.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we have some surprise guests waiting downstairs,” she pulls open the curtains, and you wince at the sudden brightness.

“Get dressed quickly! I need to get back downstairs!” she rushes out of your room, closing the door behind you.

At first, you don’t move. There was a heaviness in your chest. It had all been a dream. Of course it had been a dream. Mice soldiers, living dolls, and princes could only be the product of dreams. This is the real world, and there are guests waiting for you.

As you get dressed, you realize your prince doll is nowhere to be found. You must have left him downstairs.

Voices could be heard in the sitting room as you make your way downstairs. Unfamiliar voices. You round the corner and freeze. Sitting around the room are three very familiar faces.

“Darling, these are my half-siblings.” She leads you to the Sugarplum King. “This is Aegon,” then to the Queen, who smiles sweetly at you, “Helaena,” then finally to the most familiar of them all, “and this is Aemond.”

He takes your hand in his, planting a kiss on your knuckles. You stare up at him with wide eyes. He’s wearing an eyepatch. Over the same eye your brother broke. Was he hiding a sapphire under there?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you breathe.

“Please, the pleasure is all mine, niece,” he purrs, looking at you in a way an uncle should never look at a niece.

“What happened to your eye?” Luke asked abruptly. Jace whacks him on the shoulder, admonishing him.

“Ow!”

“It’s alright. It was an accident long ago,” Aemond replies.

“Oh, let’s not dwell on unhappy memories,” your mother says, turning to Helaena. “How is Alicent? It’s been too long since I’ve heard from her.”

The conversation carries on, but you’ve stopped paying attention. You’re not looking at him, but you feel his gaze on you. Just as intense as it had been when he made love to you in your dream.

A dream.

It had only been a dream.

Right?

[ceask]

Nightmare's castle is literally so fancy. So elegant. So dark, so royal, so magical and whimsical.

Every window is covered with curtains, which are embroidered with silver thread in shapes of tree branches. Every piece of furniture is soft and nice, the wooden chairs having those fancy curves on them, and most of the beds have a fancy carcass to them.

Honestly, it's perfect for a King like Nightmare.

IF ONLY HE DIDNT HAVE A BUNCH OF PSYCHOPATHIC RATS RUNNING AROUND AND BREAKING EVERYTHING 😭😭😭😭😭

Killer is so modern compared to all the fancy stuff. Dust is just basic and plain. Horror looks like a homeless man. Cross is the closest thing to fancy that they have around there, and that's only if you count him as a baddie.

When I say most of the beds have a carcass, I mean some have literally been broken and had to be removed. Killer sleeps on the floor on a mattress because it's comfy for him like that, it's easy to roll out of and roll back into. Horror had his carcass replaced with something simple and metal rather than wood because he would accidentally crush it.

Every chair in the dining room is now just some random chair. Except for one, there's one fancy chair left and Nightmare is literally gonna kill anyone that touches it. It's his now. The rest of the chairs are just random ones they stole from abandoned aus. Why are they all broken? TAKE A DAMN GUESS!! Obv it's Killer and Dust who just destroy everything around them like hostile cats whenever they're in a certain state of mind.

So many things are broken and worn down, making the castle look messy. Nightmare used to hate it, but it grew to him, plus he didn't really have the resources to fix everything. Like not until him and Dream signed a truce. Now, he just doesn't want to put down the framed hole in the wall that Dust somehow managed to punch through. The walls are like thick and durable. Guess that one was rotting.

[periwinklemoonlight]

desperate for a minute in the light ⋆ boatem knights au

my third short story set in bee @applestruda 's boatem knights au and canon to the plot written by zera @hopepetal !! this is a big one!

cw: death, graphic injury, body horror

if you prefer, you can read it on ao3!

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It all was a bit of a blur. Pearl wasn’t sure if she could recount how exactly she had stumbled across the ancient temple in her journey, if she was honest. She had just been wandering around the forest on the outskirts of camp, and maybe travelled a bit too far in when she’d broken off from the others. She was sure that she would’ve seen a structure as big as this one earlier, though. Or that someone else had seen it, at least. The thing practically towered over the treetops around it.

Pearl tiptoed around fallen tree branches, fluttering her wings curiously. The structure sat in the middle of a small clearing, lush with tall grass and decorated with small, vibrant purple flowers. They were in sharp contrast to their surroundings, a stark colour among greens and yellows. She made a mental note to remember to pick a few from their stems when she was on her way back. There was a slightly older girl in her flock that she knew had garnered a great interest in botany recently, and Pearl had thought it a good idea to ask her to identify the flora. She’d also found herself rather interested in plants as of late, though she was always most enamoured with those that matched the lustrous gold colour of her wings. 

There was a small path of scattered rocks leading up to the entrance of the temple, barely visible between the blades of grass that hiked up to her waist. The Sun was high in the sky, and at just the right angle for the building to now be casting an ominous shadow over her as she approached ever closer. Its intimidating stature did not deter her; Pearl stepped deeper into the darkness.

It was extraordinarily odd, she had decided, that something like this had been here for what she presumed had to be centuries, if not millennia, and not a single person had ever mentioned it. It was a tall thing, to be sure, although as she looked closer she saw it did not seem to actually be very large beyond its generous entrance. It appeared to Pearl as more of a facade, as if the idea of a structure was all that remained. She wondered what the need for such a building may once have been before time and disrepair had taken hold of it and its architects.

Speculation aside, it was in a terrible state to be sure, with massive chunks of rock missing and an assortment of unidentifiable vines and mosses nearly entirely encompassing what was left. They seemed to crawl in between the cracks of stone and twist into each other like knots. Frail-looking columns teeming with fractures were all that remained to hold it all in place among crumbling walls, though evidently not without much difficulty. All things considered, it was a miracle it was still standing. 

The absolute disarray the structure was in made it all the more intriguing that a crescent moon symbol at its forefront was still completely intact, and subsequently, all the more imperative for Pearl to investigate. Or at least, that was how she had reasoned it out in her mind. 

Pearl crossed the threshold inside. 

She wasn’t expecting to find anything of value inside the old temple when she had entered, much less the prettiest thing she had ever laid eyes upon. There, resting on a crumbling pedestal at the other end of the temple was a beautiful silver crown, adorned with twinkling jewels and iridescent pearls. All her other curiosities were instantly thrown away the moment she saw it. It was magnetic: how she was instantly drawn to the item, and utterly sure that her finding it was no mistake. 

Sweet sunlight poured into the temple through half shattered stained glass windows, coating the crown in an alluringly bright glint that made Pearl’s heart swell with excitement. It was perfect. Her flock mates would come back from their search and see her wearing the gorgeous object, shinier than anything any of them had ever seen before, and be unable to resist showering her with praise for her expert find. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t already deeply accustomed to it, though. Being her flock’s golden girl had its perks, undoubtedly, especially in terms of popularity among the other children. The meticulously woven crown of sunflowers in her hair said as much. 

Something dark began to build in her as she approached it, however. The closer she got to the object, the more she could swear she smelled something rotting. Every eager step she took was soon punctuated by a feeling of dread that was quickly overtaking the initial exhilaration. Still, she persisted. She couldn’t give up the opportunity of retrieving the crown, couldn't shake off the feeling that something about it was just so right. Something so meant for her, and her alone. 

Pearl held her breath as she reached the final steps, though at that point she couldn’t tell whether it was in anticipation or to momentarily relieve herself of the nauseating smell that exuded from every crack in the stone and permeated all her senses. It was wholeheartedly disgusting, but Pearl had never been one to flinch at a little muck. The crown was just as beautiful up close, every jewel shining in a vibrant technicolour that by all accounts should have been impossible. She wanted nothing more than to take it for herself, place it upon her head and declare her rightful place as queen of this old dilapidated structure. 

She reached out to grab it, and gasped in shock at the intense burning sensation that instantly spread from the metal’s surface to her fingertips. Then, it all went dark. Though it was midday, the light that had been streaming into the temple vanished at once, as if someone had forcefully put the Sun to rest and brought upon night. The only light now was a faint, ghoulish glow emitting from the crown as it continued to singe her fingers. 

Pearl screamed in pain, though it only fell on the deaf ears of the dark. The sound reverberated around the temple walls, surrounding her in a claustrophobic cacophony of her own agony as the smell of flesh burning filled the air.

She watched in frozen horror as the skin on her fingers began to melt and rot before her eyes. Flesh bubbled and sloughed off as the burning spread down her palm, then her arm, until it creeped into her shoulder and threatened to seep into her wings. Pearl cried out again, bony fingers trembling uncontrollably as the rot began to trace her spine. Chills wracked exposed bone as warm blood ran down her back. Her feathers withered into ash as quickly as hair catching flame. As the pain began to paralyze her body entirely, Pearl thought, while she still had the capacity to think, anyone, anything, please, help me.

Her vision began to fizzle out entirely, and what was left of her collapsed on the temple floor as she finally let go of the wretched item, fingers fully limp. It was far too late, though. Seconds, maybe minutes, maybe years of agony seared through her body as she lay helpless, the crown fallen somewhere just out of reach. And then, it all stopped. 

Pearl wasn’t anywhere, and she was everywhere. 

A new type of darkness encapsulated her, this one deeper, more primordial than the first. No, not the absence of light as it had once been, but rather the essence of darkness itself. Although she knew it was dark, she could not see. No senses passed through her as she drifted meaninglessly, unsure if she was falling or rising or even moving at all. 

It was peaceful, yes. It couldn’t be anything but. Nothing around her, nothing against her, nothing for her, she was nothing just the same. All that was left was a deep, insurmountable emptiness. The emptiness that held the fabric of the universe together, the negative space to fill the gaps to keep it all from falling apart at the seams. Pearl might have felt fear, being surrounded by nothing and everything, if she had still been capable of anything at all.

Pearl spent forever in the silent nothingness, and no time at all had passed when she first heard it. A faint single tone, low but not deep, floated around her. Pearl clung onto the sensation desperately, trying to grasp at it, take it for herself and hold it tight to her chest. Instead, she followed it as it slowly became louder, more solid. The pitch increased, then dropped and mellowed out in the middle once more. The melody was the brightest thing she had ever seen in a long, long time. 

She followed its lead, doing something akin to opening her mouth to sing along, wanting to join this light in its song. She did not, of course. She had no mouth to sing with, and no voice to produce noise. She was just Pearl. Still, she chased the tone, which had since then evolved into a simple melody, repeating itself patiently, taking care to never get ahead of itself or change its pace. The melody had all the time in the world. It knew Pearl did, too. 

She felt herself be guided by the song, mirroring its tones with her movements. When it dipped, she dived down with it. When it rose, she soared. The vocalisations carried her like a current, weaving Pearl through its highs and lows. 

And then, all at once, nothing was dark or ever had been dark. A brightness enveloped her, so purely light that darkness would never dare step close to it, lest it cease to exist entirely. It knew better. The melody had evolved too, the chiming tones teetering on the edge of resembling words. Pearl could not make them out. 

Instead, she allowed the song to engulf her as well, feeling two blankets of light drape across something that could have been her back. Gently, the song washed over her and flowed like a lullaby, rendering her into something akin to sleep. Suddenly, after spending eternity in absence, she was something again. The light became brighter, heavier, thicker, until it was no longer encasing her. It was her.

The light was as bright as it ever could be, and suddenly it was dark again.

And cold. And wet. And sticky. And gross. Pearl opened her eyes, and found herself exactly where she’d ought to have been. Collapsed before the pedestal, yet bathed in the same warm light of midday. Except, something was very, very wrong. She lifted herself weakly off the temple floor onto her elbows, finding her hands covered in a black sludgy substance. Brown, wilted petals and leaves lay where her head had been. Pearl’s vision blurred and spun, and she blinked it away as best as she could, trying to orient herself to having a body again. 

She wiped the sludge off her hand on something white and soft, a fuzzy substance resting gently underneath her as if it had broken her fall all this time. Its edges appeared torn and frayed. She attempted to raise herself up further, and was met with an intense ache in her back that caused her to double over again in pain. She inhaled sharply — she was breathing, she could breathe— and tried again, this time successfully balancing onto her knees. 

She made a half hearted attempt to flutter her wings, feeling panic start to surge through her when they felt wrong. Lighter. The familiar weight of hollow bones and strong muscle on Pearl’s back was replaced with something featherlight and delicate, though she would bet that whatever was there wasn’t feathers at all. 

With trembling hands, Pearl reached up over her ear to feel the texture of the small wings that resided there, the panic bubbling inside her as she felt nothing but smooth skin and clumps of wet hair where soft feathers should be. No, no, no. 

Her hand traveled higher, threading through her hair and stopping at her forehead. No, that wasn’t right. Her hand was stopped. By an antenna, sticking out of her head just where her bangs began. She grasped it, and promptly cried out in pain at just how sensitive it was, her nerves on fire. And then it hit her. She was feeling what it felt. It was a part of her. 

There, sitting covered in sludge-like black goo and on top of a silk cocoon, at the crest of a worn down temple in the middle of nowhere, Pearl screamed. And this time, it was heard.

She had only just managed to get herself to stand on her own two feet again when she heard twigs snapping and familiar voices chattering nervously, getting closer. Pearl balanced herself with great difficulty, the lightness on her back still disorienting. Slowly, achingly, she stepped forwards off of the silk and onto the cold, gritty temple floor once more. 

“Pearl?” an approaching voice called out, stretching out her name. “Where are you? Are you okay?” Pearl opened her mouth to speak and screamed again as black sludge poured out and trailed down her chin, evidently not yet all spilled on the floor behind her. The noise alerted her flockmates, though, and the footsteps drawing near increased in speed tenfold as she spat out the rest of the sludge, feeling utterly disgusted. 

“Pearl!” they called again. “Are you in here?” A flurry of voices accompanied the cry, getting closer and closer until Pearl could finally see them approaching her. The leader of the search party, a girl with dandelion coloured wings, was the first to enter the temple, and the first to see her. The others quickly appeared at her sides as the girl cried out in shock, clasping her hands over her mouth and stumbling backwards. The rest of the search party followed suit similarly, gasping and yelling as they laid eyes on her. 

Panic quickly returned to light Pearl’s nerves ablaze and replace the small shred of hope that had been building when she’d first heard them approach. She tried to speak again once more and found that her throat, terribly dry despite being choked with sludge moments ago, could only produce a croak that tore into her vocal cords like shards of glass. Tears formed in her eyes as another drop of sludge fell to the floor in front of her. She could see on their terrified faces and through their hushed whispers to each other that she had only moments to plead her case.

Desperately, Pearl gestured behind her where she knew the silver crown had dropped from her hand, unsure what she expected to happen but hoping they would notice it nonetheless. Something, anything. Instead, what she said was a conveniently placed pile of ash that just so happened to create a perfect ring shape. Pearl wailed in frustration, the sensation ripping through her throat. 

“Oh my void, she’s a monster!” one of her flockmates, a girl about her age with pretty amber wings, shrieked through tears as she clung to her friend. As soon as Pearl took a single step forward, she knew it was over. The other girls all screamed and ran as fast as their feet could take them out of the temple, each clamouring to be the first to escape. 

On wobbly legs, Pearl followed them, chasing just as desperately she did that melody in the darkness. She couldn’t let her hope run away from her. 

One of the slower girls dared to look back and screeched to the others, “She’s following us!” Those who had exited the temple now scrambled to take flight, pausing only to pull the last of their flockmates along with them into the sky. They had already risen high into the sky by the time Pearl made it out, the tall grass beneath them entirely trampled in their haste. Purple flowers lay pathetically: half-lodged in dirt, disregarded. Pearl’s eyes darted upwards at her fair-weather friends and she grit her teeth, determined to fly after them despite her badly aching body.

Pearl jumped and flapped her thin wings uselessly, embarrassingly unacquainted with the new protrusions on her back. She managed to hover in the air for only a moment before she came crashing down onto herself, her already bruised limbs now meeting solid ground. She didn’t try to get up again. 

Instead, Pearl lay there in the dirt, shivering and crying unabashedly into her arms as her flitty wings twitched, unable to do anything as her flockmates abandoned her as quickly as they’d found her. When she’d finally mustered up the resolve to lift her head up, she was greeted with a single amber feather that had fallen just inches away from her.

⋆⋆⋆

Pearl had gone silent in front of Grian, her words now replaced with shaky breaths and sniffles. He finally let go of her hair and let it fall against her back, having finished braiding it long ago. 

“Pearl?” He asked gently. “Are you okay?” She didn’t say anything for a moment, and he used the opportunity to slide himself beside her. Soft blankets crumpled around him. A simple glance revealed what he already knew: quiet tears were streaming down her face. She turned her head away from him to wipe them, suddenly aware he could see them now. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” Pearl breathed. She faced him again, unable to hide the smile that creeped up into her cheeks when she saw his silly worried expression. “Honest.”

“Are you sure? We can stop now if you want-”

“Griba,” Pearl interrupted. “I want to tell you. I don’t think there’s anyone on this planet who deserves to know more than you. Will you let me do that?” Grian’s shoulders relaxed.

“Of course, yeah.” He looked sheepish. “Sorry.” Pearl elbowed him playfully.

“It’s alright, mate. Really. It’s been on my mind for a while now.”

“So… what happened next?” Grian asked. Pearl took a breath before continuing.

“Well, for starters, I had to get all that muck off me. So I took a little dip in the nearest river. I don’t blame them for not recognizing me at first, now. It stained my hair and clothes black for a while. I still looked like a completely different person by the time I went back to camp.”

“You went back?”

Pearl laughed. “What choice did I have? There was no place for me there anymore, I knew that, but there wasn’t exactly a place for me anywhere else, either. So I went back. They… I’m not quite sure they knew what to do with me. They tolerated me, which was all I could have ever asked for at that point. Well. Pretended to tolerate me. But that was all I needed. I could tell as soon as I got there that everyone already knew everything they needed to. How the other kids had found me, that I was a… moth.” She paused for a moment, sniffling again.

“Everyone was gathering up to leave camp. By the time I got there, they’d already begun to pack their things, so I did the same. We always travelled light, of course, but I can’t tell you how happy I was to finally get myself a change of clothes. I was wearing my favourite dress that day, you know? Green, with lovely droopy shoulders and little bits of gold to match my wings. And it was ruined, covered in nasty muck and drenched in river water, just like the rest of me. I think I burned it. The night they all left.” 

Grian tilted his head to the side, trying not to intrude on her space but wanting to be closer nonetheless. He thought of the choice he had made all those years ago, the look on his little brother’s face when it happened. A hand grasped tightly in his own, wings wrapped even tighter. He imagined Pearl in his place. To be loved one minute and left behind all the same. “You didn’t have any family in your flock?” As soon as the question left his lips, he regretted it.

Pearl winced, her face scrunching up. Another tear dropped down her cheek. “I did.” 

Grian looked as though he was about to give her a million apologies, but instead, he silently wrapped his wing around her, brushing his feathers against her shoulder as if to say, I’m here now. And I’m not leaving.

Pearl continued. “I did try to leave with them, don’t get me wrong. By then, I had actually figured out how to fly a little with these things.” She spread her wings out for a moment before flattening them out again. 

“But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t keep up with them normally, not by a long shot, and especially not in the middle of a storm like the one that was raging that night. I would have never admitted it to myself back then, but I’m certain now that they left when they did very much on purpose. They wanted to make sure there was no way I could follow. And they were right, I couldn’t. I did make it farther than I thought I would’ve, higher too actually, but void, was the wind strong. I was tumblin’ around like a leaf in the air trying to keep up. I tried for a good long while until I just couldn’t anymore. And then I fell.” Grian pressed his lips together, his mind suddenly conjuring up another familiar image. Yellow feathers stained red, caught on tree branches and littered in the grass below. He knew all too well the consequences of an avian falling. 

“I was one of the lucky ones, I guess you could say. My wings, flimsy as they were,  — are  —, were okay for the most part. It was my leg that took the blow the hardest. The break was pretty bad, I won’t lie to you. It was only another stroke of luck that saved me. There was a village nearby, barely visible from wherever I’d landed. But it was there. So, one more time, I chased it. I propped myself up on my good leg as best I could, and I was going to drag myself over to that darn village if it was the last thing I did.” Inexplicably to Grian, she giggled after she spoke. His expression said it all, and Pearl laughed again.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just thinking about it. I must’ve been quite a sight to those poor village folk! Covered in mud, leg twisted all the wrong way, soaking wet in the storm! I think that was the beginning of my whole ‘wet cat’ shtick, honestly.”

“Pearl, you could’ve died, I don’t think-” Grian began.

“I know I could’ve died!” she squawked, throwing her hands up. “But it just, I don’t know, it didn’t really scare me anymore. I didn’t want to die, mind you, but I had just kinda thought, well, I was going to live, or I wasn’t. Simple as that. And hey! Look at me now! I’m still kickin’, aren’t I?” 

Grian couldn’t imagine it. All his life, above all else, he had been determined to survive. There wasn’t any other option. He'd tell himself he would live to see the Sun rise another day, and somehow, he would. Death was not something to come to terms with, shake hands with, tell I’ll see you later. It was something to fend off, teeth and soul bared, and triumph against despite all odds. There was simply too much life had to offer to him, and he would be a fool to refuse it. 

“That you are, Pearl,” he smiled, poking her with his knee. Pearl returned the favour with an exaggerated kick to his shin with the leg she’d been swinging back and forth off the edge of her bed. Grian yelped dramatically.

“And don’t you forget it! Where was I? Oh, yes yes, the village. Well, I did make it over there in the end.” Pearl looked wistful. Grian waited patiently for her to continue again, but the moment never came. After a good long while, he spoke.

“...And then?” He asked.

“And then?” Pearl slinked her braid over her shoulder. It really was nicely done, each strand placed with clear care. “And then I met you, doofus. And Jimmy. And it was the best darn thing to ever happen to me.”

[thepixelelf]

Band of Silver, Remember my Vow [Teaser]

Based on and inspired by the Sanskrit play, Sakuntala; or The Ring of Recollection, by Kālidāsa, which dramatizes the story of Sakuntala as told in the epic, the Mahābhārata

genres: romance, angst, past civilization au (set in a made up land inspired by joseon and influenced by other asian (and hints of european :/) cultures), subtle magic, not e2l just people who annoy each other at the start to people hopelessly in love w each other pairing: healer reader x lord scoups. platonic reader & soldier dino teaser word count: 2.2k estimated fic word count: ~15k teaser warnings: injury by weapon to an animal (hunting). animal attack. estimated fic warnings: descriptions of blood, injury, and illness. (possibly) sex but not smut. animal gore. notes: this was meant to be for caratlibrary's fall collaboration, but I flubbed it on the deadline (no surprise there!). I'm still not done, but I wanted to post this to see if people are as interested in the story as I am! I will not be making a requestable taglist, however I will be tagging people who comment/show interest in the tags of reblogs

In the story of Sakuntala, the king Dusyanta ends a hunting trip before he comes across the beautiful Sakuntala in a nearby hermitage. He is immediately captivated by her, courts her, and marries her soon after. However, he must return to his royal duties in the capital. He leaves his signet ring with her, promising to return. While distracted with her love for Dusyanta, Sakuntala forgets to greet a visiting and easily irritated sage. Angered by her disrespect, he curses her by making Dusyanta forget her existence. He is later convinced to lighten her punishment, and revises the curse so that the king will remember everything upon seeing the ring he left behind.

teaser under the cut!

The bowstring pulls taut as Seungcheol draws his arm back. His aim is unwavering— it better be, with all the years of training his breath to even at will, all those days spent shooting arrows at dyed targets and skittering rabbits. He kneels in the grass, still as a corpse, and waits for the stag to lift its head from where it’s dipped at the base of a tree.

Wait. Patience. That’s what he was taught.

Patience. Wait. Wait. Breathe.

But — air huffs through Seungcheol’s nose — why isn’t it lifting its damn head? The entire forest surrounding him is quiet. Nothing is here to disturb this perfect moment. This almost perfect moment.

Seungcheol fills his chest with air again, even and silent.

Wait. Patience. Breathe. Lift your damn—

“What are you doing?”

Startling at the sudden whisper in his ear, Seungcheol swerves to the side, his fingers slipping and releasing his arrow into the air. It slams into a tree, right where the stag’s neck would have been had it lifted its head. The sound echoes through the forest, and it spooks the stag. It dashes off out of sight, and Seungcheol curses under his breath.

“Why would you—” He whips his head around and finds you crouching next to him, a woven basket resting on your hip, held there by one hand. For only a moment, he is distracted by your face, and the way the sunlight, broken through the leaves of the forest, dances on your cheeks. He clears his throat. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”

You blink and tilt your head. “What have I done?”

Abruptly, Seungcheol stands, gesturing his bow towards where the stag disappeared. “My— you…” He huffs, then looks away, returning the bow to its spot on his back and tearing off his gloves in muted frustration.

He came here for a distraction, but you are closer to an annoyance, albeit a not unattractive one. He prefers to lose himself in the concentration of the hunt.

As he moves to follow the deer, your voice stops him.

“Where are you from?”

When he turns, you’ve already stood up, and you regard him with slightly furrowed brows.

“You must be from rather far,” you say without giving him much chance to respond. “Were you planning on shooting him?”

“Him?” Seungcheol echoes. “You’re referring to that animal?”

You hum, nodding to yourself. “Rather far indeed. He may very well have been the patron spirit of these woods.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a terrible dishonour to harm an antlered one in this forest. A dishonour to what this place provides, and the vast life within it,” you explain, though the words mean nothing to Seungcheol. You step closer to him, tilting your body to peer at the quiver of arrows on his back. “You’d be a fool to attempt to kill one, and invite grand misfortune by doing so.”

His jaw clenches, and air comes out of his nose hot. “Who are you to call me a fool? Do you know who I am?”

You straighten. “Am I supposed to? You’re quite far from home.”

“I am Lord Choi Seungcheol,” he announces with pride, though it tastes of the arrogance his mother always tutted at on his tongue. “General of the Four Peak Soldiers, and— and future ruler of the Eastern District.”

You make a face, and it only makes the anger in Seungcheol burn hotter.

“A lord, huh?” you taunt. “Or a general. Which one is it? Or does it not matter?” Leaning back slightly, you study his face. “Certainly, it doesn’t matter to me. I am neither a Four Peak soldier, nor a citizen of the Eastern District, so I will say as I please. A fool is a fool.”

Seungcheol raises his hand, and you flinch, but only slightly. Your eyes remain firm on his.

He lowers his hand, tired of your presence and of having to listen. If he and you were in his district, you’d have serious punishment awaiting your next sunrise. However, he was out on his own, alone on a rogue, spontaneous hunting trip far away from home because he wanted some space to get his thoughts together. It’s something he’s done before, two or three or nine times. His mother shows contempt for this habit of his, but she does not try to stop him. All she asks is that he not bring home trouble.

You seem like trouble.

How was he supposed to know that the woods he ventured into had such trivial myths to abide by?

He is Choi Seungcheol, damn it. Your silly fairy tales won’t deter him.

Deciding to spare you this time, Seungcheol breathes out and turns away, walking now in the direction of where he tied his horse. Perhaps this trip was a failure. To expect to clear his head the same way he has done before was foolish — though he would never admit that. What is on his mind now is much heavier, much more inevitable than the other things he would run away from in his youth.

A marriage to the country’s princess.

His marriage to her.

Seungcheol’s hands twitch, and he yearns to draw his bow again.

“Lord General,” you call out, the tone of your voice itself a warning. “Don’t be a fool.”

He ignores you.

=

Ricecake seems to have had a much better experience in this forest than Seungcheol. He finds her munching on the lush, untrodden grass, and he almost feels bad for interrupting her meal. However, that feeling lessens when he remembers that if he were successful in his hunt, she'd have to carry the spoils all the way home. At least she has that.

Seungcheol rides for not half an hour, following the river, before another stag dashes alongside his path. He spends no time thinking. Pulling his bow from his shoulder, he notches an arrow and lets it fly. A second arrow leaves his fingers before he blinks.

The stag rears on its hind legs, one arrow in its thick neck and one pierced directly through its eye. It shrieks, haunted and low.

But it does not fall.

Seungcheol dismounts from his horse and draws another arrow, aiming again for its neck so it cannot escape far before it dies. He expects it to run in the opposite direction.

Its hooves dig into the dirt beneath it, and the stag charges towards Seungcheol.

He has no time to react, his arms moving instinctually to protect his head, before pain blooms fiery red from his torso. An icy cold engulfs him, and everything goes dark.

=

Pain is what wakes him up, dull and aching, but when he attempts to right himself, Seungcheol winces. A fierce pang rings in his body from his stomach to his right ear, which sparks a jolt of pain throughout his head. He falls back again, though his head doesn’t hit the hard earth. Instead, a steady hand catches his head, and another gently touches the front of his shoulder, as if to calm him.

“Easy there, Lord General.”

Your voice, and the way you patronise his titles again, make Seungcheol frown. It hurts to breathe, but he can’t help the annoyance that refills within him. What the hell are you doing here? Did you follow him? Why are your hands so gentle?

Though his headache may worsen with sunlight, Seungcheol pries his eyes open. His eyelids are heavy, and for a moment, he thinks he must not have opened them fully. He can barely see you, even though it was midday when he’d been knocked unconscious. It then registers that he is no longer outside, in the woods, but in a room, lowly lit with sparsely strewn candles.

The realisation makes him want to jump up again, but the pain in his torso forces a groan from him, and he falls back onto the support of your hand. He strains his head to assess his surroundings. “Where am I?” he grits out. It hurts to speak.

“Be careful,” you say, concern sewn into your brows. “You may have broken your ribs.”

He demands, though perhaps sounding weaker than he likes, “Answer the question.”

Your lips settle into a straight line, and you breathe out through your nose. “You’re in my home.”

“Why?”

“I found you nearby,” you begin to explain, pulling your hand out from under him to cross your arms. He feels a thin layer of folded cloth under his head. “You were washed up on the riverbank, unconscious. Bloody…bruised…” You tilt your head. “Perhaps even more bruised now, since I practically had to drag you here, though the balm should help with the scrapes.”

“Balm?” Seungcheol echoes. Now that he thinks about it, there is a strange warmth seeping through the skin on his face. “You’re a healer,” he concludes.

You nod, and for the first time, Seungcheol sees a smile on your lips. In the candlelight, it only adds to the warmth.

“You’re lucky it was me who found you. Who knows how long you were lying in the cold water.” You sit back, eyes thoughtfully gazing over Seungcheol’s blanket-covered body. They pause around where Seungcheol’s left hand is. “I was able to save almost all your fingers.”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen, and he jerks his hands out from under the blanket to hold above his face. The pain this causes is in the background compared to his panic, but that fades soon after he sees all ten fingers, wiggles them, then glares at you.

You’re smiling wider now. “That was a joke, Lord General.” At his glare sharpening, you let out a small laugh. “Your fingers are fine. They might be stiff for a few days, though.” Your expression shifts to a more serious one. “Your ribs, on the other hand… You’re severely bruised. I suspect they may be fractured.

Breathing in again, Seungcheol watches the way you eye his chest as it rises and falls. It hurts like a bonfire has sparked in his lungs.

“What happened?” you ask, no residual hint of playfulness in the simple question.

“I…” In the back of his mind, Seungcheol sees the stag again, sees the blood rivering from its eye and neck, sees its antlers as they bouldered into him. He sees you, and how you spoke to him in the forest. An enchantingly bright bad omen.

Don’t be a fool.

Yet here he is, under your care in your home, for doing the very thing you warned him not to.

"...I fell," he says after a moment of quiet. It’s only a half-lie. He did fall, even if that wasn’t how he sustained the injuries to his ribs.

One of your eyebrows rises up your forehead. “You fell.”

“...Yes.”

You hum, doubtful. “Off your horse, I assume. I’ve seen similar bruising and fractures when people are kicked. It happens to someone around here at least once a year; there’s no shame in getting unsaddled.”

He’s never fallen off Ricecake — she’s the perfect companion, but Seungcheol grits his teeth and says, “I suppose there’s not.”

A triumphant grin appears on your face, and you turn slightly to reach for a small notebook. “Well, Lord General—”

“That is not my title,” he interrupts on principle, though he instantly regrets it with the waking pain in his chest. Still, he cannot stop himself from correcting you. “You will address me as Lord Choi, or ‘my Lord’.”

Your eyes don’t leave your notes. “Alright Lord General, it—”

“You can’t—”

“—is my professional opinion that you should be on bed rest for three days, though your full recovery could take two to three moons. I’ll need to monitor your breathing until it regulates.” You speak as if Seungcheol is just anyone, not someone with power or higher standing. To you, he is just a patient.

Why does that thought not continue to anger him?

“I need to find my horse,” he tells you. “There are healers in the Four Peak fortress that can oversee my recovery.”

You shake your head. “Riding is out of the question. It will only worsen your condition.”

“I can’t stay here. I am needed as their leader.” And his mother is going to kill him for being gone more than a few days without a word.

“Do you have a palanquin?”

Seungcheol frowns. “Do I look like I have a palanquin with me?”

“Could you send for one?” you rephrase.

He ponders on that. It is rare for him to ride a palanquin, even back home. The cart is used more decoratively these days, reserved for events like longevity parades through the city, and no longer for extended trips over uneven ground like the forests he travelled through to find himself on your land. 

Still, he can’t stay here. Certainly not for three moons. “I’ll write a missive.”

“Alright,” you say with a nod. “There’s a merchant group that travels every two weeks between here and a city in the Eastern District. You can send it with one of them.”

“When are they travelling next?”

“You’re lucky, Lord General. They leave for the east in five days.”

Not as soon as he’d like, but at least the merchants hadn’t just left. Then he would have to stay here for one full moon before he’d even be able to send for help.

“For now,” you continue, “you should rest. It’s late, and your body needs time to recover.”

do not send an ask/reply just asking to be on a taglist!! I will only be tagging people who reblog and comment in the tags!!

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

AU Prompt #6 💓♪

Time slowed to a full stop around you as you focused, the chaos surrounding the silver tree all brought to a halt. Not even Pure Vanila Cookie or White Lily Cookie could move a singular fiber of their being. Such is the perks of having Dungeon Master Cookie as your patron. And, speaking of your patron, she stared down at you with her huge, white eyes. " So, the seal upon the silver tree has broken, thus releasing the five Fallen Heroes into the land of Earthbread once more. Now, Reader Cookie, I suspect you want to do something before I have you roll initiative, yes?" " That's correct, Dungeon Master Cookie." You reply, staring up at the holy, towering figure. However all the seriousness of this moment was thrown out of the window with a few, simple words. " I'd like to roll to seduce the Jester." Your patron seemed... unamused? Yet also as if she were expecting this. After all you did the exact same thing with Dark Enchantress Cookie, but that was just for the funny(plus, you got a nat1 that time). You were completely serious about attempting to woo Shadow Milk Cookie, maybe even another one of the Beasts if they showed themselves. " Are- Are you seriously doing this again?" She asked exasperatedly, to which you eagerly nodded. With a sigh and a wave of her hand, a D20 appeared in your arms. " Fine, fine, give me a Charisma check." And once again, fate blesses you. With a natural 20. " ... NAT 20 LET'S GOOOOO!!!!" You can feel the tired aura from Dungeon Master Cookie. " Alright, alright... I'll let you have this." She sighed as the world faded back into motion. You stood tall and proud next to Pure Vanilla Cookie + Gingerbrave and Friends before you stepped forwards. You're pretty sure that you gave PV war flashbacks with the expression on your face. " Reader Cookie for the love of the Witches-" He attempted to plead, but it was already far too late. " Shadow Milk Cookie, hm?" You began, your tone flirty as it always was when you did shit like this. " What a fine name for such a clearly ever so powerful cookie~" You hummed flirtatiously, batting your eyelashes at the gigantic jester before you. " Oh?" Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, leaning down to get a better look at you. " My my! I didn't think I had such an adoring fan of mine waiting for me here~!" He chirped, a subtle yet bright blue hue taking over his face. " Lord have mercy on us all..." Pure Vanilla Cookie mumbled to himself almost desperately. If both you and Shadow Milk Cookie are flirts... then you'll probably be here, locked in a battle of the heart for a while.

....

Or, You, Reader Cookie, have a Patron named Dungeon Master Cookie. Cue DnD shenanigans brought to the world of Cookie Run. And of course, the natural chaos a nat20 brings when you decide to flirt with the bbeg of the current adventure.

[thefallenangel2008]

I have come up with my Relativity!Falls AU!

Ok, so, I came up with this today at the last period at school so it might be a bit messy, but pls bear with me.

So let me tell ya!😈

Ok, so Mabel and Dipper's lives were fairly normal back in the 60's. Like, sure, their parents got a divorce when they were 13 and lived in a broken home but they still loved eachother and their love only grew stronger when their parents broke up, their will to stay together strengthening. Their parents still cared about them dearly despite the breakup, so everything was not as bad.

Dipper wanted to go to university to study science and Mabel wanted to go to a fashion school and be a fashion designer! People already loved her sweaters so it only seemed fitting.

Dipper got a scholarship after his project got approved by scientists. It was going to be the first time of the twins being apart, and although sad, they knew they could do it. A year later Mabel left home as well to go to her desired fashion school.

After university Dipper gained an interest in the supernatural and he decided to investigate, he even started recording himself searching and finding these paranormal creatures. He kept the videos in a cassette, hoping one day he could show the world and maybe, just maybe, he would get his own show. He started to keep a journal, the cover being blue/silver with a silver pine tree in the middle. After a while Dipper realized that the most sights of paranormal activities happened at a place he had never heard of before, a small town called Gravity Falls. He built a house there and a basement underneath to find more paranormal creatures.

There, he learned about this demon called Bill Cipher from a cave writing near the town, and said demon visited him in his dreams after saying the incantation written. He flattered him for his smarts and said that his unusual birthmark on his forehead made him look like a freak, but in a good way! And although Dipper felt flattered, he didn't trust him all that much, because why would a demon want to talk to him of all people??? Also , come on, that was a DEMON. He had seen enough movies to know whether to trust a demon or not. (Mister Anxiety and Overthinking everyone lol)

Bill kept pestering him about building a portal that leads to other dimensions, and after a LOT of thinking Dipper decided to build it, believing it would be a big step in the world of science.

He decided to ask for help from the richest woman in town whose family found it, a brilliant (and admittedly attractive) mechanic, Pacifica Northwest.

They spent a long while building the portal together, and once it was ready they decided to test it on a dummy, only Pacifica was accidentally pulled in with it. Dipper managed to get her out, but when he did, she seemed... Paranoid. She started screaming at him and demanding to dismantle the portal, only Dipper didn't listen to her, too stubborn to admit it wasn't a good idea now that he had done so much. Pacifica quit right after.

After that he didn't know what to do and as a last resort he sent a postcard to his sister, asking her to come over.

Now the twins had kept in contact, but Dipper tried not to mention the portal to Mabel, just saying he was working on a project that could possibly change the world.

When Mabel got the postcard (she was back at California) she decided, sure, why not? It would only take a couple of months, maybe at most a year, and then she would be back to her small business.

When she arrived at Gravity Falls Dipper explained to her about the portal and the otherworldly creatures. He told her that his last assistant quit, leaving out some very important details.

Mabel was ecstatic to be a part of dangerous scientific experiments, spending some time with her brother after 10 years of phonecalls and postcards, and possibly meeting a unicorn!

They started writing a journal together, that had a purple cover and a purple pine tree with a shooting star at the top (Dipper said it looked like a Christmas tree. Mabel just found it funny) and they wrote about every other creature they discovered and their progress on the portal.

But as time passed by, Mabel started to notice that... Maybe Dipper was hiding something. But no, he would never hide anything from her! They're siblings, they share everything! But she had a weird feeling that the portal might be for something more instead of just "scientific advancements" and he regularly seemed to meditate. Dipper??? Trying to clear his mind??? Yeah, right! She began writing her own journal (which was more like a scrapbook tbh) where she wrote down her thoughts, her suspicions about her brother, and also had a bunch of photos of the creatures they found, clothes she made and their time together. It was pink/gold with a dark pink shooting star on it (and thus the three journals were created).

One day Mabel accidentally came across Dipper's journal and she had a look at it. That was when she found out the real reason why Pacifica left the project and she also found out about Bill Cipher.

She confronted Dipper about this and they had a huge fight over it. Mabel accidentally pushed Dipper and he burned the back of his shoulder with a symbol. Because of that the portal was accidentally opened and Mabel was sucked into it. Dipper tried multiple times to get it to work again and bring her back but it was severely damaged and nothing worked. After a while he gave up and he decided to dismantle it.

Bill was not happy about this and he kept hunting Dipper in his dream and also possessing his body and at some point he finally got a metal plate inserted into his mind so Bill wouldn't possess him anymore.

Oh also by the way Pacifica created the memory gun and kept erasing her own memory and created the Society of the Blind Eye and yeah, she lost her mind, yk.

Dipper kept trying to reach out to Pacifica but since she lost her mind nothing could happen so he would just visit her from time to time but she would always be in her own mind, being the crazy old hug of the town or "old hag Northwest", and also because she was crazy now the Northwests kicked her out of the Northwest Mansion and she's been living in the junkyard ever since.

Dipper is forced to fake Mabel's death to "excuse" her disappearance. A lot of people came to the funeral.

He hides the two journals (he doesn't know Mabel wrote one of her own) so that no one would find them and rebuild the portal again.

Anyway, Dipper turns his home into a museum for the supernatural to get money where he has fake miniatures of the creatures he found but of course always people would think they're fake but they mostly go there just for fun. It's called "The Home of Mysteries".

Many years pass by until he gets a call that hey, you're gonna babysit your twin nephews this summer! Yey...

Well, anyway, his nephews. Stanford (Ford) and Stanley (Stan) Pines.

On their first day the twins discover a pink scrapbook underneath a wooden floorboard. They see photos of their Grunkle Dipper but much younger, and a woman that looks almost just like him. Ford was quick to inform Dipper about this, but Stan stopped him and told him it would be a good way to learn more about their weird relative.

Well, that's what I have so far. I might draw something based on this, can't promise anything though. Oh well, I'll see! Sorry it's so big!

[saradika]

— BLEED FOR ME | part iii

[masterlist]

mand’alor!vampire!din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 2.4k

haunted hoedown prompts: vampire!au + “i would burn the world for you.” + vampire has a taste for specific blood + revenge + (one-sided) enemies to lovers (+ 1 to be revealed!)

tags: vampire!au, drinking blood, reader has scar on shoulder, mentions of death, shared memories, light angst, references to seduction, sexual innuendo and thoughts, references to violence

The days until the winter solstice tick down. Early Autumn days start to cool at night.

You sleep under the last warmth of the sun, with windows drawn open after he leaves. The canopy is wrapped around your bed, letting in the afternoon breeze but mimicking the darkness.

And still, you feel adrift. That funny feeling is still settling in your stomach. Rolling with the sway of your step as you follow at the Mand'alor's - Din's - heels.

No longer seating across the room in the throne room. Now next to him, in a golden seat that matches his silver one.

Listening as he conducts his business. Trades and agreements, settled firmly and carefully. A disagreement, broken up without violence.

It’s fascinating.

But it feels... wrong. Your own task seeps into the honor of being at his side, polluting it. You're expected to enjoy it, to look happy, and it's become all too easy to forget what happened - why you were here.

Too wrapped up in the quiet questions he asks, in those moments of dusk and dawn. Half truths becoming whole as you guard slowly lowers. As you begin to learn about him, as well.

Things he tells you. Things you pick up, absorbing greedily without thought.

It feels like a betrayal, later.

How could you forget what happened? How could you forget your promise?

His kindness only extends because you are physically keeping him alive. You should have ended things by now.

But, you haven't.

The guilt gnaws at you. Seeping into your dreams, into those moments of connection, when your eyes can't help but close.

The images so much more vivid, now. Almost a tangibility to them - the quick, blurred edges coming into focus. Repeating, growing longer.

So much seems to focus on that night. You think it's because it still haunts you. Replaying how the shouts had awoken you. That startled feeling as you crawled out of bed.

The shadows on the walls, the weak and watery grey sky. Soon turning red, and then black - with flame and smoke.

A glint of gold. Your grandmother's necklace, lying on the bedside table. A photo of their wedding day inside, painted with such care.

Something you wish you could have saved - one of the few relics from your family, a gift from when you had left them to find your purpose.

You had always wished for a love like theirs. A fated connection.

There’s a throb as you remember the collision - something solid that knocked you to the ground. Fingers coming back sticky, your mouth tasting of copper. The visions always swim, then.

Parts you've never been able to remember, before. Always growing dim, until you'd been woken up under the tree, and it was over.

But lately, there's more. As if you're outside your own body. The limp sway of your arm, dangling as you were carried. The murmur of a low voice, though you can’t make out the words. Dark eyes looking down at you, almost brown in the morning light.

There's a sharp edge of a knife that you always walk.

Torn between pressing, nudging - trying to get get a glimpse of the vampires, the destruction. A way to remind yourself what has happened, why you are here.

And then, not wanting to see.

What if it's something you can't take back? What if it disgusts you so much that you can't help but act in that exact moment - ruining your chance?

So, you don't.

You let the images pass - carefully collecting them. Pressing them lkke flowers between a book, something to come back to layer. Not even realizing that deep, deep down...

You’re really just hoping that you don't see him.

You really shouldn’t have gone down to the kitchens.

A heat still burns in your cheeks at the thought, when you finally made your way back to your room. Your treasure procured - a freshly baked pastry with homemade jam clutched in your fingers.

The food here is the best you’ve ever had. You can admit that, at least. All the Companions are well-fed, with treats and delicacies always left out downstairs.

It’s here, that you had found a few others.

Beautiful men and women, all gathered around a smoldering fire as the sun had begun to rise. Their other halves flitting off to hole up until nightfall.

But just like you - there was a desire to see the sun, at least.

You had joined them, half out of loneliness and half intrigue. They had accepted you quickly, stifled laugher and glances over their shoulder as they had whispered questions.

“So how is the Mand’alor? I’ve always wondered.”

“You don’t have any marks. Does he drink from your-”

An elbow then to her side, her words had cut off with a giggle. A head turned- an aside to her friend.

“Lady Kryze is always so thorough. I haven’t slept in days.”

Someone else had sighed.

“What I wouldn’t give to be Lord Fett’s Companion.”

You had realized there’s desire in their words. That none of them were afraid, that there was a sense of private camaraderie and knowing amongst them.

That unsettling, confused feeling comes back. They were human, like you. Did they not know what the vampires did? Were they so shallow that coin and finery had bought their loyalty?

Their eyes were on you, expectant. You had no choice but to shrug with embarrassment.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

They were quick to set you straight.

“It’s like, a feeling, you know?”

“You have to lean into it. That connection.”

“The first time I tried it, I had marks up and down my thighs by morning.”

There was an eagerness that laced with jealousy, leaving you even more bemused than before. Faking a prior engagement as you had left them, promising to give it a try.

Privately, you told yourself you wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

Looking back, you can’t even remember the taste of the jam, what fruit it was. All you could think about is this new facet of their relationships.

Wondering if that will be expected of you. Wondering why you weren’t warned.

Wondering if you cared.

Wouldn’t that be a good way to get closer?

The thought makes you uneasy.

You’d put an end to this. But you weren’t so cold-hearted to stoop to seduction. That wouldn’t be fair, to Din.

But as the sun rises, when he comes back.

When his mouth is pressing against your wrist, when you’re looking at the bow of his lips and the wide breadth of his armor, that wondering comes again.

The thoughts creep in.

For he is handsome… the parts of him you have seen. A rich voice and the breadth of his shoulders in his armor. The little upward tick of his lips in a rare smile.

And you are human, after all.

You find yourself imagining marks on yours thighs, on the soft curve of your neck.

How your blood would throb, rushing down to pool beneath heated skin - wet and swollen. The thud of your heartbeat kicks up a notch, as your thighs press together. As you squirm in your seat.

You don’t know his face but you do know his mouth. It’s his teeth you picture sinking into your skin, your mind nudging curiously at the thought.

It sends a jolt down your spine. Pricking at your skin, heat licking at your chest and down to your belly. Then slipping lower. Your breath catches in your throat-

His grip on you tightens, then. It’s almost painful - startling you. A hushed cry rattles from your lungs as he pulls back with a rough gasp.

“Ulyc, cyar’ika.” Din’s voice is ragged, as his hips shift upward - letting go, as you pull your wrist back to your chest, “I’m sorry. But you can’t-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his thought. A knock at the open doorway, Boba’s face grave as it turns your way.

“Mand’alor.” His voice is low, his brows drawn together. “The city, it calls for you.”

Din’s chest still heaves, his hand dragging across his mouth as he composes himself. The helmet sliding back into place as he stands, but still keeping himself close to you.

“Wolves?” He asks.

Boba shakes his head, “Raiders, from the looks of it. Like before. I can send someone, or go myself.”

You forget about the pain, about everything, for just a second. The thought of the town below in ruins sends you back to a year ago, sorrow twisting through your chest.

It has you half-standing, but Din’s hand is pressing against your shoulder, carefully easing you back down.

“I’ll go.” His voice is firm, “This has gone on long enough.”

A second, as he turns to you, “I need to take care of this. Boba will look out for you while I’m gone.”

Something like worry creeps in. Aware of the weak light that slips through the cracks of your curtains, how soon it will be morning.

“The sun…” You begin hesitantly, and he’s stepping closer.

“I’ll be fine.” His fingertips touch your jaw and that has you looking up - wishing once again that you could see his eyes.

Giving him just a small nod, instead.

From your window you watch him leave. The glint of his silver armor in the morning sun, now - his movements practiced as he swings a leg over the slate-grey horse.

Drawing his sword - the metal dark and gleaming and looking almost alive, even as far away as you are.

Watching as he gallops down the path, racing off to ward away the threat.

Leaving you inside the castle, to wait.

You worry turns into something else, as the hours pass.

Anger, at the thought of him rushing off to save this town, when he had launched an attack on yours. Did human life mean so little?

Did he even think about the bodies that had lied littering the streets, the memories that has been torn down?

Was it only because these humans were complicit, that they were spared?

You had awoken to screams. You don’t know if your town had even been asked.

The mark on your wrist stays red, unhealed. A reminder while he is gone. That you’ve slipped too far, that you need to get over the tender feelings you’ve pretended not to notice.

They fester inside your chest. You dream about him while he’s gone, as the day bleeds into another.

His face bare, features blurry above the lips and nose you know so well. Leaving you to wonder if his eyes are red, like the glimpses you’ve gotten of Lady Kryze? Are they burgundy, like Boba’s?

Replaying the sound he had made, the morning that he left. The edge his voice takes just after he feeds, lasting through the few moments he stays afterwards. That pulsing, thudding beat that leaves you squirming, when you’re alone again.

Leaving you with the urge to sink your own teeth into something.

Those thoughts are ruled by your heart, not your mind, not your logic. Another betrayal, your eyes unable to help flicking towards the window, again and again.

Looking to the others throughout the day, checking for any news or weakness.

A sign that he’s fallen.

None come.

You try not to think about the relief that follows. Or why you feel listless, your eyes dragging over the same words in the books you pick up, in an attempt to pass the time.

Your enthusiasm for the food waning - more in tune than ever with the hours that pass.

Still wondering about the town, below.

You had spoken to some, in your journey here. They had been good people, honest folk.

Maybe along the way, there had been a mistake. An itch in your brain that you haven’t been able to scratch, irritating you since you arrived.

You’ve decided to ask Fennec about it.

Not about anything that would raise suspicion.

Just why the Mand’alor himself would feel the need to go alone. What sort of promise he had made, to go rushing off with such intensity?

Maybe then, you could understand.

You find her by accident - in a large ballroom that you often cut through.

The ceiling painted in a wash of colors, accented in gold. Seraphs lying on clouds and sprawling gardens and somehow always feeling bright, even in the dim room.

Liking the way your feet echo, in the empty room. A swing in your step as if you were dancing too, even if just pretend.

But you’re not alone today - she sits in one of the plush alcoves. Arms bared where her shirt pushes up, a dark jerkin slung over one of the marble statues that line the walls.

"I'm sorry-" You manage, attempting to back out of the room. The moment looked private - your question could wait.

Her eyebrow lifts, looking unbothered, "You can come in, I'm just preparing."

The way she lounges is casual, as if she does this regularly. Propped up against a nest of pillows, a book opened against her bent knees. An arm draped to the side, an ooze of red that drips down to a half-full goblet below.

A jar of that same salve Din had given to you sits in the open windowsill, for after. A means to wipe the mark from her skin, to knit it neatly together again.

The sight makes your stomach turn, even after all this time.

"Are you leaving, too?" Your head nods towards the cup, as you linger in the doorway - thinking about what Boba had said about her ferocity.

Her brows pinch in question, as you gesture to her arm.

"No," Fennec's head shakes, as she understands. "This is our arrangement."

"I didn't know you could do it another way." You say this without thought - wondering if this had been what Din was offering, that first night. An alternative to biting - another small attempt at adjusting to your comfort.

"I tried the usual way." She shrugs, eyes dropping down at the text, "This is better, for us. It's tedious, for certain. But I've never enjoyed the connection. Boba's memories are..."

Fennec searches for the word, as you go still, "...Unpleasant. And I am sure mine are worse."

His memories.

Is that what you've been seeing? Those flashes of thought that blend with your own, when his teeth sink into your skin?

But how can they be, when you are in them?

"But, I am sure that's different for you." Her expression is sly, lips curving in a small smirk. A sharp glimmer replacing the far-away look in her eyes, coming back from her own evocation.

"What do you mean?" You ask, your voice sounding far away.

Dazed, as if the words are taking their time on their trip from your thoughts to your tongue.

That look comes back. As if you're on two different brainwaves, as if she isn't understanding what you're asking.

"Well, I thought that would be obvious. We’re not like you…" Fennec frowns, her head tilting. A breath, as she clarifies.

"Boba isn't my mate."

Ahh and the last Secret Prompt from the list is soulmates / fated mates! 💕 thank you so much for reading! If you’d like a tag for the last 2 parts, please let me know!

Ulyc, cyar’ika - “careful, beloved”

(Tags: @dameron-grant-spector, @sugadolly, @writingsofestella, @spaceydragons, @-ohsolovely-, @survivingandenduring, @queenquazar, @alitaar, @dindjarinsslut, @avarkriss)

[cherryredstars]

1K Prompts

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: Gods AU, Sprinkled Fluff, Mentions of Injured Animals

Summary: It is as the prophecy foretold.  

Word Count: 1.2K (Not Edited)

The light is a golden white. 

The monument is beginning to form cracks in its delicate marble, foreshadowing the crumbled state it will begin to take as time rushes forward. The night air is warm, chased with the occasional breeze. Footsteps echo in the hollowness, a cloaked figure descending the steps of the shrine. The wind comes to greet the figure, playfully trying to detach the pure white cloth from their form. The moon comes to greet them too, lighting the path to the village in silver. From a distance, the figure seems to glow with the moon.

The village is silent, warm from the late night candles that are now extinguished. It is shielded in darkness, but a bittersweet taste is hanging in the air, just like the townspeople said. It is familiar, bordering on fearful and comforting. Under wooden doors, light teases to escape from the homes but thinks better of it and stays to warm the residents. As the figure walks through the empty dirt road, scattered randomly with stones, the crickets and night owls quiet. 

A dog, skinny and wobbling on a broken paw sits in a dark crevice between two homes. The figure walks to the entrance of the small slit, staring down at the animal. Instead of cowering and running away, the dog tries to crawl forward. Its body is too heavy to support itself, protruding ribs weighing down its skinny legs. It tires easily, barely moving a foot before it shifts its head up to look at its cloaked savior. A pitiful whimper rumbles from its throat, silencing when the figure brings a finger to its mouth. The figure bends down, their hand hovering over the dog’s face like they are closing its eyes. The dog's eyes grow heavy, head lowering to rest on its paws. The figure gets up, leaving the dog in its place before continuing their journey. A few seconds later, a puppy of the same moonlight silver follows, tripping over its paws. 

The puppy weaves around the figure’s legs yapping in a pitch only they can hear. The puppy seems excited and nostalgic, tumbling and chasing fireflies. The two make it to the edge of the village. They stand at the entrance of a thick forest. The leaves and trunks are dense, preventing the shining of the moon. The figure walks ahead, stopping as the puppy hesitates and gives chase once again. It is colder in the forest, but the figure continues weaving in and out of trees. They do not seem to have an exact location in mind.

Suddenly, cold and deadly arms wrap around the figure’s waist. The figure stills momentarily. Then, they reach up. They grasp the material of the cloak’s hood delicately, pushing it off their head as they look over their shoulder. 

The figure--a woman--has shiny skin. Her hair flows from her head and her eyes shine with a comforting warmth that feels like you are coming home after a long and cruel journey. Her aura and face promises protection and all that you’ve been secretly longing for. 

“Cariño, you always know where to find me,” the second figure hums. 

It is a man, his dark apparel contrasting with his lover’s white clothes. He seems harsher, more final. But, matching with his other half, he gives a subtle comfort. It can only be found in a darkness, revealed to those who are brave enough to enter it. His features are sharp and defined, instead of soft and rounded. 

“I brought you a present, Miguel,” the woman responds. Both turn to the ground, watching the glowing puppy who tilts its head in curiosity. 

“I see,” Miguel murmurs. 

His arms unwind from the woman, crouching to the ground. He holds his hand out, slightly translucent and resembling bones. Hesitance engulfed the small dog again, put it steps forward and sniffs Miguel’s hand. Its tail begins to wag as it realizes what is to come. It yelps excitedly, spinning and jumping in circles before pushing its head into Miguel’s hand. Both gods chuckle, eyes softening as Miguel scratches behind its ear. The puppy pulls away, looking at the two of them one last time before licking Death’s hand. A strong breeze comes through the trees and the dog disappears with it. 

They stay paused for a moment, giving nature and its spirits their moment before Miguel gets up again. The two gods face each other, the woman holding her hand out. Miguel takes it, winding his arms around her waist once again. The Guardian throws her arms around Miguel’s neck, delicate fingers ghosting up and down his back. A dark rumble escapes his chest, his face falling to her neck and nosing at it. She giggles at the gesture, turning her head so her lips hover over his ear. 

“The village smells of death. You scare them.”

A deep sigh leaves Miguel, pulling away slightly to cup the Guardian’s cheek. He presses a soft kiss to the opposite cheek, stalling. The woman is patient, basking in the moment and not rushing Death. He is thankful. 

“They scare themselves,” he whispers back. “Something, a plague or a… hero, perhaps, is soon approaching. Something is stirring, mi luz.”

His goddess hums in thought, eyes glazing over as she peers somewhere behind his shoulder. Her hand on his back stills, hands readjusting to grasp his shoulders. His hands squeeze her sides in comfort, resting his forehead against hers. Her eyes return to his, clearer now. Her beautiful features are marred by a frown, and Miguel’s hand comes to smooth her frown lines away. 

“The temple… it is beginning to crack. It grows colder. The oracle foretold it, but it is too soon.” 

Her voice is calm, but it holds a bit of alarm. Her body grows stiff and Miguel comforts her in a way only he can. He hums in agreement, but there is little else the either of them can do. 

“I know, but we know better than most that time is unforgiving. It does not wait for God or man.”

The Guardian huffs and sinks into her lover’s hold. Some of her warmth seeps into him and he smiles. His hand goes to the small of her back while the other pets her hair. After some time, he pulls away and takes her hand. He guides her back out through the trees, returning to the forest’s edge. The night sky is beginning to lighten, and the moon begins to melt into the sky. Miguel presses his front into her back, kissing the curve of her shoulder. They are silent for a few minutes, watching as the sky clears to make way for the approaching sun. 

“A new age is upon us, mi luz,” Miguel whispers faintly into her ear. “It will be our turn to rest soon.”

A strong breeze comes again, her hair trying to follow. When it settles, the coldness at her back is gone. The Guardian stares at the horizon, that small frown still on her face. With a heavy sigh, she pulls her hood back over her face. Her feet move back through the village, growing further away from the trees. She passes the crook where the dog’s body lays, the crickets and night owls sleeping now. 

An echo comes again from marble steps, a cloaked figure in white disappearing through the column. The sun rises, washing everything in a golden white before the world is silent again. 

Then, the village people open their doors and live as they always have for the last time.

I love God AUs.

[namusthetic]

The Writers' Series

Who wrote you, based on your aesthetic?

British Edition

---------🖋️

Oscar Wilde

"You can never be overdressed or overeducated."

Irregular sleep schedule

Sprawling on a sofa quoting poets long gone

The forbidden sweetness of guilty pleasures

The gently whispered name of a lover

Losing oneself to sensations and feelings

Writes poems for their lovers

Dressing up only for the pleasure of doing so

That dizzy feeling of late night adventures

Procrastination and unsent letters

An old silver framed broken mirror and forgotten withered roses

Sitting alone late at night. The thick, stuffy air in the room is making you dizzy and dulls your senses

Virginia Woolf

"How many times have people used a pen or a paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?"

The soft first autumn breeze

Spending winter afternoons in hidden library corners

Taking long walks along the riverbank in the early afternoon

Gives good advice but doesn't follow it

Scented candles and gentle nostalgia

The furious, quiet calmness of the ocean before a storm

Orange blossoms and sea salt

The texture of paper under your fingertips and the sound of chirping from outside the window

Wants to change the world one word at a time

Never forgives, never forgets

Reads poems in the golden afternoon light

Romantic but won't talk about their feelings

William Shakespeare

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves."

Wine stains on victorian shirts

The sound of footsteps on marble floors

Scribbling random Latin sentences in other people's notebooks

Dark, alluring, and a little bit occult

Writes poems on random scraps of paper and then forgets about them

The line between dreams and reality starting to blur

Loud, contagious laugh

Sword fights back stage

A lone flickering candle in the night

Laughs and cries at the same time when overwhelmed with emotion

Believes in the power of the unsettling and the forbidden

Sprawls on any available surface just to read tragedies and drink wine

Mary Shelley

"When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster?"

The sound of your heart beating in your ears when waking up from a nightmare

Anatomy and science illustrations

Equations and formulas scribbled everywhere

The touch of cold metal on warm skin

The clap of thunder and insistent drumming of heavy rain on the windowpanes

The muffled sound of cracking thunder from outside

Organized shelves and absentminded humming

Cold gravity and solemn silences

The cold shudder of realisation

Pacing back and forth trying to solve grave problems and unexpected results

Empathizes easily

Agatha Christie

"Poirot," I said. "I have been thinking."

"An admirable exercise my friend. Continue it."

Hot chocolate on cold winter days while people watching inside an old Café

Sitting down in parks and reading the paper

The scent of clean laundry

Windswept hair and sharp looks

Spontaneous conversations and smiling at strangers

Could prove anyone wrong solely for their own amusement

Wet pavements glinting in the sunshine after a rain shower

Apricot jam, fresh baked croissants and café au lait while reading the newspaper in the early morning

A glint in their eyes and a spring in their step

Peppermints and vanilla hand cream

Sarcasm and condescending smiles

J.R.R. Tolkien

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Early morning dew sparkling on spiderwebs

The awareness and clarity that comes with crisp morning air

Daisies, gingerbread and warm comfy clothes

Really into folklore

Snail shells and acorns kept in a jacket's pocket

The scent of fresh homemade bread in the morning

The gentle murmur of the wind blowing through the trees

Nothing could make them miss their afternoon tea

Knows the name of every plant or bird species

Presses flowers in their notebooks

That spark for adventure glims constantly in their eyes

George Orwell

"But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought."

The smell of cigarettes and the sound of steps on the wet pavement

Long night walks around the city

The cold winter wind howling against the windows

Cheap black coffee drank in a small almost empty 24/7 coffee shop

Tired eyes and vivid dreams of liberty

Messy, rushed writing

The condensation on a cold window

Minimalist notebooks and black ballpoint pens hidden everywhere

Trying desperately to be free, to feel alive

The deafening silence of loneliness and the gentle quiet of solitude

T. S. Eliot

"For I have known them all already, known them all / Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, / I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."

Coffee and ink stains

Tiny scribbled notebooks carried around in worn out messenger bags

Reads to escape the real world

Reading on public transportation and almost missing the stop

Falls in love five times a day

Strong coffee and dark chocolate

Feels like nobody can truly understand them

Doesn't take care of themselves

Stacks their books randomly around their house, forgetting empty coffee mugs and notepads on top of them

Flopping facedown on the bed and listening to the sounds of the life out the window

[modcroissant]

"You can't turn away"

"We'll make you want to STAY"

So, I didn't had enough evil SM aus. The only ones I have are Same yet Different au and Broken Silver Tree au SMs. Yes, Same yet Different SM is not exactly evil but not good either.

And since the dazzlings is a trio, there's one slot left. Ya can join in this duo if you want to.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 12.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, body horror, horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, many religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, NSFW, soft/loving smut, fingering, mating press, implied virgin!reader due to time-period standards, pretty vanilla, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon’s skin is bare to the moon, and he can taste your blood on his tongue. 

Eyes wide, the man’s lips are loose; jaw slackened at the horror that lays below him as crimson drips down the swell of his Adam’s apple and between the dip of his chest. He can’t move, even as the chill sets into his spine, the hair over his arms and on the back of his neck standing on end. 

All he can see is your body. 

You don’t move, you don’t smile or send him that stern look of stubbornness—the snow falls to your head, it collects on the side of your face and limp corpse. Your torn clothes show the weeping wounds and jagged remains of flesh. 

But none more so than one on your neck. The gaping tear made from his fangs. 

Not me, Simon’s fingers twitch at his sides, your body in a pool of red. Not me. 

It was him, though, wasn’t it? 

He doesn’t remember what happened, cannot recall the memories in his brain—a demon, the Lord of this forest, and a prisoner all in one. You hadn’t killed it, no, there was no way to do that. Silver could only do so much.

But it had done something to you, to make your scent twist and rot. Your soul didn’t smell right.

“I…” Simon’s voice fails him. 

His body is broken and bent, his entire side burning with pain, but none of that matters. Brown eyes quiver, and the man goes to lick his lips only to gag at the taste of copper, snapping his eyes away to pant quick breaths into the tree line. 

Simon’s hand raises to hover above his stomach, shaking. 

“I didn’t bloody do that,” he mutters, the evidence on his chest and stuck in his pores. The forest is silent. “I didn’t do that.” The man says it louder. 

You stare forward numbly with a broken neck and a torn-out throat.

Foot twisting him around, he levels his back to you, hands coming up to his head as his jaw clenched so tight his molars scream at him. What had happened? What had gone on? Simon closes his eyes and hunches his shoulders forward. 

“No,” he growls. “No, I didn’t fucking do that to you.” 

The night continues to keep him in its black hold, the snow absorbs the blood and black liquid. He can smell the rot—the infection under your skin as it brands your corpse. 

This forest was like a beacon to every monster in its vicinity. It called them here and made them lose themselves. Under the light of the moon and sun, whenever its branches told him to run and hunt as a beast, Simon Riley had no option but to obey. He would come here on a moment's notice when he felt the change coming over him, to his hut and his glade. 

There were few times he could predict it, and no matter how much he wanted to stay with you, that just wasn’t how it worked. 

Every monster that was called here was bait for that demon, and no monster had the ability to wield anything that could kill it. No silver. No holy water. 

But a mortal could. 

Every hunter entering these dark bounds had been hunting the wrong colossus and never had the chance to know it. 

Simon bends slightly forward to hold his head tighter, grunting out whimpers as if trying to keep his brain from falling out. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Then louder than a scream and longer than the first, “Fuck!” The trees shiver. 

Simon harshly pulls at his hair, feeling the strands snap before he slides his hands up and down his face; trying to push off the crimson yet he only succeeds in spreading it. He can’t hear your heart beating anymore, can’t hear the swell of your lungs. Nothing. 

Hand lashing out, his knuckles connect with the hard bark of one of the tree’s trunks and he sends it back and forward three more times until his fingers crack and bend. When he’s done, the man doesn’t even notice the tears freezing on his cheeks as his breath puffs out in clouds. 

Simon silently stifles a ragged inhale and sags forward, unable to turn back and look at you—he can’t bear it after everything he’s been through. Forehead tapping the rough bark, his pain-filled body flaring, the blond clenches his fists like an angry child.

He should have told you in the glade—in the safety of consecrated ground where holy men and women had been buried for time immemorial. He should have explained why it was only you that made him whole.

But Simon was a silent creature; a creature of silent glances and hidden softness that borders on a fear of abandonment. He would never tell you until you happened to figure it out yourself or if it became undeniable.

Oh, you should have stayed away. 

His knees threaten to give out, so he lets them go until he can move his body to the side and lean against his tree. Barely breathing, he cares not about the cold. As he did when he was a child, all those years ago yet still shrouded in pain and hate, he loses any and all expression from his face—brown eyes dark as they stare at nothing. 

There had been a moment that he’d come back to himself as the Ghost. A brief moment. 

Simon wants to hang for the memory he now holds. 

Your eyes, blood-burst, looking into his own as his fangs rend your flesh in two. The feeling of your neck snapping under his jaws. Tongue lolling in blood and licking its muzzle; whiskers dripping.

This time Simon gags, but he also hurls up his guts, too. 

Bending his aching spine, his forearm keeps him up, bare thighs tensing and nerves quivering as his abdomen bunches. Simon pants staring blankly at the bile in the snow, saliva pooling in his mouth. He still can’t look at you. 

With little left for him, the man curls up in the snow and resigns himself to freezing to death, arms loose around his waist and injuries screaming at him. 

He’d killed you—is death not the only option left for him as well? 

Simon lays there until his eyelids grow heavy, only thinking of you and how you had been. Your kindness, your wit. He enjoyed your loudness, and there was no one to perfectly challenge him but you. 

From the first time he’d seen your form, it had only ever been you. He was yours, utterly; wholly. He should have told you to stay away.

“M’sorry, Love” he whispers into the ground, shivering violently, lips blue. His head is turned away as the trees hold their breath. “All my bastard fault—should’ve been me. It…fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes, clenching his jaw. “Should’ve been me.”

He mutters his self-hatred until he falls silent and his chest rattles. Until the forest listens. 

Until it answers.

Simon’s eyes snap open to the sound of a world cracking in two and finds your body gone. 

—

This place isn’t real. 

You sit in a mirror vision of your shop, but nothing is correct. Looking into the corners, shadows slip away with quiet laughter, and the door rings but no one walks through. It’s…repetitive. It never stops, but you can’t seem to leave. 

You think it’s been days, weeks, even. Always it feels like there’s something watching you, and the window of your shop shows nothing but black night outside and flickering lamps. 

It doesn’t feel right to speak. 

If you speak, whatever is standing out in the street will know you’re here. 

You shake as you watch it now, silent and swallowing down saliva. Its eyes have been ripped out, and the chains along its wrists drag so loudly you can hear them even through stone and wood; they make you flinch and shiver. For whatever reason, the phantom of the man cannot find you, though he has been looking. 

He even knocks on the door.

It was a clanging, dead, thing. With a slam of a gnarled wrist and a raspy cry of your name on his slit tongue. You don’t want to ask how it knows your title, so you only hold your hands to your mouth to stifle your sobs. But for all of this, you still contained self-awareness.

You’re in Hell, or some strange, twisted version of the middle point. Purgatory. 

But why? Why here of all places—your soul had been branded, you heard that curse and felt the blackened nectar in your flesh. Had known what Simon had…

You blink quickly, looking away from the twisted man and taking down a shaky inhale. 

Whatever this place was, you and this shade were the only ones here. The only once-human ones, anyways. You didn’t exactly want to go out and meet him. 

“Please!” It bangs on the door again and your head snaps up in panic, hand whipping to your mouth to hide the sharp gasp. If you ever got out of here, you never wanted to see your home again. This version ruined it. “Please, let me in. I can’t see—it took out my eyes! Please, please I need my eyes.” 

Your eyelids close tightly, your heart clenched and beating fast. 

All of this terror lets you think about Simon. And so you do, and try to not blame him for what he did even if you know in your heart it’s not his fault. 

You remember the first time you met him, and you think that’s perhaps one of the best memories you hold. 

“If you expect me to fix this, you’ll need to hand over half of your soul and a blessing from God himself,” you frown at the remains of a pair of tweed pants, blinking with your mouth agape. “I’d ask what happened, but I think that would put me on a list of some kind, Sir.” 

Simon stares.

“How much?” You sigh and shake your head. 

“Really, there’s very little I can do here short of just offering you a new pair.” Placing the scraps on the table and lightly pushing them forward, the man moves his large hand out to take them from you. 

Your fingers touch, and you blink as a slight spark makes you flinch. Simon as well, you remember, had snapped his hand back to him, his eyes slightly widening and his throat holding down a breath. 

“Woah,” you mutter, touching your head as you suddenly go lightheaded. “S-sorry about that, I don’t know what—”

“Both.” Simon slides the fabric back to you. 

Your senses come back in a slow sweep and you clear your throat. “...Both?” 

“Fix the pants and sell me another, yeah?” A quirked brow, but something else swims in that dark gaze, something that fights with itself. “I’ll pay. Money’s no problem.” 

“Oh,” you blink, taken aback. The both of you stare at each other. 

You’re struck by the thought that this man’s eyes are far more deep than anything you’ve looked into before. 

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” He grunts, tipping his head and looking to the side for a moment. He wears that strange covering, too. The one that sits on his nose. 

“Good.” Simon backs up a step before pausing. “You have a name, then, Tailor?” 

You tilt your head and cross your arms, eyes narrowing carefully. “Just as you do.”

That silk fabric twitches, gaze sparking. 

“Simon Riley.” Your smile slowly pulls at your muscles, and for the first time throughout the day, you truly mean it. 

You don’t know how time works here, but you also can’t really understand that you’re dead. Of course, the thought of an afterlife crossed your mind in your living hours, but you’d never thought you’d go to one so soon. 

But every time you blink, you don’t think you’re meant to be here.

So, again, why? The question was mulled over incessantly after every memory of Simon, and you start to believe he’s the catalyst. 

What were you missing? 

The man himself had hinted at it, talking about how your scent to him was opium—like a drug. It kept him…him even when a monster. 

“Please!” You’ve discovered that all of the windows are bolted and the front door is locked, but it never becomes daytime here. A perpetual night and a pleading soul guarding you. In the long hours where you sneak from one empty room to another, so similar to real life that it makes you sick, you wonder if this place is an exact replica of the city you called home.

If some of the other houses are not so vacant after all; the inhabitants hiding like you are. Purgatory sounds about right.

Chains drag and there are garbling sobs and you stare at the door without the key to open it. 

The thing was blind—if you could sneak past it…your eyes looked out the window to Simon’s home across the street. There was a pull to all things that included him. A sanctity. Despite how your life had ended, how you’ll surely still think about it and sob out of pain, you can’t blame him for it. 

He didn’t have control.

You begin to think of a plan to break out without making any noise as you close your eyes tightly, hands clenching at your sides. 

“Back again, Mr. Riley?” Your bell rings and you glance at the intimidating figure walking through. He takes a deep breath when he enters, nodding in greeting before lumbering to the counter. 

“Any trouble?” He had a habit of asking this when he’d been gone on a longer trip of his, always back disheveled and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. As if he gets back and the first thing he wants to do is come see you.

The thought didn’t bother you. 

You laugh, “I’m happy to report the only thing that happened was that a pigeon ran into the window.” 

Brown eyes glance over his shoulder to blink at the impression of feathers on the front glass.

“Poor Bastard,” he huffs, amusement in his accented tone as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Get any feathers out of it? New pillow if you’re lucky.” He tilts his chin. “If you know how to pluck a bloody corpse, that is.”

“You’re incredibly strange, Mr. Riley,” you laugh, nodding your head at him. “I’ve never heard a man state such things.”

“I wrong?” Simon grunts, but you hear his slight smile in his tone. 

You only roll your eyes. “I highly doubt a pigeon would give you enough feathers for a pillow.”

“Well, you’re just not fuckin’ trying hard enough then, yeah?” 

“Are you here for a reason, Sir?” You can’t stop smiling, holding back your loud laugh as happiness is plainly stated on your face. “Or are you just here to speak to me about the feather-quantity of the local birds?” 

Simon’s eyes are crinkled slightly, and you try very hard to imagine him beaming just as you do, though you know it’s slim. 

You want to make him smile; you want to be the reason he does. And you don’t even know why. 

Your very soul leaps when you see him from across the street, it tightens and calls out like a reaching hand desperate to grasp into another counterpart. You’d never felt like this about a man before, much less one you barely knew anything about on a personal level. 

You liked Simon Riley.

“I was thinking ‘bout a new undershirt. Black.” A hand moves up and a pile of money is placed on your counter. “Anything’ll be good, just need a new one.” 

“Of course,” you easily slip into business, not bothering to look at the sum. “Special occasion?” You pause before fake laughing. “A lady to impress, perhaps?”

Your heart sinks more than it should; nearly hurting. Did Mr. Riley have a courtship? 

He blinks at you carefully, long lashes caressing his scarred cheeks. You swore his lips under the silk twitched. 

“No,” is all he says, blunt and casual, thighs shifting. 

You stare, hands touching themselves on the counter as heat burns your cheeks. 

“Okay,” you mutter, embarrassed, though you don’t know why. “That should be no trouble at all. I’ll just need your measurements.” 

Simon nods once, staring at your hands before he takes off his jacket and places it on the wood. You grabbed your long measuring tape and slipped to the front, asking lightly for him to hold out his arms. 

Heart hammering, he does so; great torso flexing and face blank. 

You begin with the chest, sliding your hands along his clothed body to flatten out the tape until you can see the mark it rested at. It would be false to say you didn’t lose your breath slightly, being so close and able to freely feel the swell of his muscle. Under your fingers, his pulse was like a hammer, and he was so large you actually had to give him a hug to connect the other side around him.

“S-sorry,” but Simon’s eyes are entirely blown, body tense and slightly shivering as your hands feel him. 

“Don’t be,” he breathes, and you feel the push of his lungs to his ribcage; molten heat. 

Your lips tingle, and heat seeps into your stomach as you shift your thighs to quell it. 

Simon grunts, and his head turns down incredibly fast. 

You blink. “Mr. Riley?” 

“Nothin’,” his lips flinch, and his brown eyes, more like black now, dart to your lips. “M’fine. Keep going.” 

You do so, oblivious to the coil in the man’s gut that mirrors yours, flaring with every gentle poke and prod.

It was when you’d almost given up that there seemed to be something else on your side in this god-forsaken place. You found your knife. 

It was in the same drawer where your tape measure should be, just sitting there where all else was absent. You stare and slowly reach for it, sliding your fingers over the hilt and the glint of the blade before picking it up. 

But you’d checked this drawer a million times over, what had—

There’s the sound of a fluttering of wings outside of your shop, and you’re unimpressed with yourself at how your mind immediately goes to a helpful pigeon spirit. You hold a hand to your lips to stop yourself from laughing, despite it all.

A spark alights in your heart. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to nothing, turning the blade over in your hands and smiling. 

Walking slowly, you avoid every creak in the wood—unlooping your belt for the small prong that would come in handy. Placing the blade into the slit of the lock, you insert the prong above it, twisting and waiting to hear a series of clicks; putting your ear next to the wood. 

The dragging of chains is far off, the loud wailing distant. 

Now or never. 

You hold your breath and listen to the sounds of the lock, sweating and grimacing. It’s so very silent outside—you’re so used to the clanging of metal and the clop of hooves that it scares you more than the monster. Like you’re standing out in a field but there’s no wind, no air even. Unnatural nothingness. 

So hard at focusing, when the click of the door lets you know it’s open, you don’t notice the heavy breathing on the other side. Standing and taking out your knife, you silently celebrate plucking your belt away just as the handle jiggles. 

Only you’re not touching the handle. 

Blood leaving your face, you can only skitter to the side as the hinges squeal like a dying animal, the barrier slowly opening as your back flattens against the wall. At first, nothing happened. 

The door is open and you stare wide-eyed as no sound enters your ears. Lamp-light seeps in, creating a long glow along the floors. 

A ragged breath makes you want to shrivel up, and then the wailing starts. 

“Please, please, where are my eyes?” Too close. 

You flinch wildly as chains are dragged into the room, the scent of dead wood sticking to your nostrils. Up close, the man’s skin is dripping water—seaweed over his shoulders and hanging off his restraints. 

He walks inside and the gaping wounds of his eyes make you nearly gag. “Where did you take them? I want them back, please, let me borrow yours until I find mine again.”

He drags his heavy silver chains far into the shop, stumbling and groaning through sobs. Those things seem to have no end to them, and he bumps and walks into the back room right as you slip outside. 

Immediately, you rush out into the street, crossing the cobble and hopping the long metal ahead of you as you re-loop your belt with one hand and grip your knife tightly. Getting to Simon’s house, you grasp the handle of the door and pull.

It jerks with a bang of metal.

Locked. 

“Shi…” you trail your curse and bite your lip. Silently, you take a step back to quickly think as the warden still calls hopelessly from your shadowed shop. Where else would you go? The inner city? The town?

Your eyelids blink. 

The forest. That had to be it—there had to be answers there, right? 

You were beginning to grow more fearful that you would be stuck here forever, in between life and death. A branded soul and yet, you weren’t in Hell. Or, at least, you imagined Hell far more hot than this. 

Turning, you slip down the steps and speed walk down the road, not running for fear that your shoes would make too much noise. That was also strange—all of your clothes were mended here, stitched back together as if never cut; wounds healed and nonexistent. You weren’t one to complain.

“Where are you going?” The Warden is on the steps, and he falls down them in a shattering of bone and a slurp of wet skin. “Please, give me my eyes! I can hear you running away—I can smell your souls! Let me have what little is still free! Let me see!” 

Souls?

You start sprinting as the great wail of chains lets you know you’re being pursued. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your lips expel, skirts swish, and muscles tense all at once. Like a race, the man’s panting breath is almost felt on your neck, bare feet far faster than he should be. “I don’t have your eyes—I’m sorry, but you’ve really got the wrong person! T-try down the block?!”

You call loudly behind you in hopes that it will get him to give up on you, legs pumping harder as he screams with rage and you curse yourself with every breath. He’s gaining on you, somehow, this blind beast is gaining on you.

There was no way you were making it to the forest.

In a split-second decision, your shoes skid over the street, and, steeling yourself with what little sanity you have left, you turn with your knife at the ready. 

Hell, you’d already died once. 

But you’d never forget the image of this beast running towards you with a wailing mouth and dragging chains, the things so heavy they wrench back his arms. You falter for a moment, but shake your head and raise the knife in one hand, gritting your teeth despite your unimaginable fear. 

Bravery was far too hard at this moment, but there was no more running. You take down a shaky breath and will your arm to stop vibrating with its sweaty palm.

“My eyes!” It screams. “Give me your eyes!”

Seven feet, five, four, three—

A familiar rageful roar takes over, and a black shadow covers the street lamp light from above as if a storm of vengeance. You watch as the gargantuan body flies over you and wastes little time for pleasantries.

The Ghost slams its body into the Warden, and they go down in a flurry of feral snarls and wails. You watch, frozen still with shock, as black claws can be heard tearing through flesh and rending meat, a slick slapping of pig slop as black blood spills to the streets. 

In the utter absence of all else, you listen with a quivering body, the fear extending down to your spine. Not of the other thing on its back, wailing and sobbing about its eyes even as its gut is invaded by a large muzzle and ivory fangs, but of that muzzle-owner itself.

You didn’t realize how much of a shock it would be to see Simon again. Like this. 

Your eyes stare blankly at how an arm is ripped from its socket, shredded from a shoulder, and tossed to the sidewalk with a rabid jerk; the body of the Warden lifted as the Ghost rises to his back paws and grips tightly. Hands on the lower half, mouth on the top, your jailer is torn in two with nothing more than a tear and a sound of vertebrae popping. 

Black splatters over your cheeks, but you make no move to swipe it away. 

Simon drops the body to the ground, and it twitches—it speaks as it bounces. Brown eyes dig into its mangled face, ears erect. 

“My eyes…M-my…eye—” A large paw pad is pressed into its head, and pressure is leveled. Brought down like an anvil. 

The Ghost crushes a skull under his foot and the resounding pop is enough to make you snap out of your frozen terror. He turns to you seconds later, mouth stopping its snarling and going silent all at once. 

The beast blinks slowly, ear twitching once.

Averting your gaze, you completely give up in light of this new arrival and clench your eyes shut. Your neck hurts—burns—like it’s being ripped open over and over again, snapping, and the light getting sucked away. 

Great feet take lumbering steps forward; you take one back. 

“I…I don’t,” you shudder and shake, hand holding your knife. Your mind can’t comprehend him being here—in this void with you, leaping in a great bound to tackle the monster to the ground. No, no, this was another phantom. He was going to kill you again. 

Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t his fault.

You back up some more until there’s a soft huff. It’s tiny, small as if coming from a lap dog that Mrs. Ida would own. Your eyes are firmly shut, yet he tries again. 

A wet nose is leveled to your forehead, pressing in and tapping you lightly. A chuffing noise echoed in the back of his throat, gruff and low as he breathed you in. You hide a whimper as that nose dips to your neck, imagining the ways he’s going to sink his teeth in and how your bones will—

The Ghost sags into you, and with a flick of his ears, the large head begins to rub into your flesh as he grunts. Your eyes snap open as his gargantuan hands circle your waist, anchoring you to his chest as he leans back on his haunches; small noises bouncing from his breast as he curls his head behind yours. You’re lifted gently as you squeak, hands snapping to dig through fur and, like logs, your feet dangle from under you. 

You don’t speak as Simon begins running out of the city, down the black outskirts. Into the midnight shadows the two of you disappear in the direction of the mirrored forest, your body in his grip and the side of his head never failing to lean into yours. You can feel his eyes roving, darting down and around, before always coming back to you regardless of the things he smells here. 

Like a candle in the dark, he had already scoured the bounds of this purgatory for you—waiting for that small flicker of something to grasp onto that would let him find your light. And it hadn’t been your scent or the way you’d yelled. It had been the very call of your soul, or, at least, souls. 

Because that was what it was. 

The reason you were here instead of Hell was because that corruption had only marked your soul. Not realizing that half of it didn’t belong to you. 

Simon knew little about how it worked, but sometimes people are only born with a fraction of their soul as theirs—the other pieces snapping into place when a match is met but still not held as theirs. Your other half, the reason you stayed here, was because Simon’s soul had held you up like a rope to an anchor.  

That spark in the tailor’s shop; the longing and the insatiable pull to be near you—marked as two pieces of a puzzle sitting right next to each other, the image leaking from one to the other. 

A Fated Pair.

The Ghost breaks through the treeline and you curl into him as he covers you with his arms, eyes watching the black trees and the void of space above him. There were no stars here—no moon. You can’t see anything, but he can. 

Simon rushes your intertwined souls back to the place he had dragged himself through; a great fissure in the earth that had opened and swallowed your body who knows how long ago. Weeks, months—years, even. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. 

His instincts brought him through, and his guilt had kept him going; this all-consuming and deathly guilt. He’d never forgive himself, but he can’t leave you here. 

Simon finds the fissure as great screams begin to wail out from the city, echoing off the trees and over the air. A scream and a plea. Hundreds, thousands. 

He doesn’t bother to stay, because you’re in his arms and his nose breathes in your scent. You grip onto him tightly, shaking with a fear-bathed quiver to your lips, and those large arms hold you ever closer; a large grunt and a rub of his chin. 

Simon stands on the very edge of a void, and he jumps. 

—

You wake to the large dog curled around you, softly breathing and using his body to shield you from the gentle snowfall. So warm does his blood run, that you don’t even feel the cold on you, only the brush of silk and the hard press of his hands. 

Simon’s breath ruffles your hair, his spine shaped in such a way that not a sliver of you is visible to the world beyond your head in his neck, resting on the swell of his softness like a pillow. As if he was a swan, keeping you in a bed of feathers.

Your eyes flutter open, and you take air down to bathe in the scent of earth. 

The Ghost shifts, grunting and not letting up on his grip. 

You’re in the very same place you died, yet there’s no evidence of that—the blood is gone, the broken trees are surrounded by young ones, and the snow is deeper than it had been before. But your clothes are…

You shift, and the beast lets you go easily, though his eyes don’t leave your face. He stays on the ground as you sit up, looking down at yourself. 

While the forest may have moved on, you, it seems, have not. 

Your clothes are back to the state they’d been in before—torn and ripped open, long gouging marks and stains that would never come out. You tense at the sight, swallowing saliva down as if wine with a grimace. Like a magnetic link, your eyes slowly turn up to meet Simon’s. 

He waits. He watches. That muzzle of his closed and his breath slow. If you told him to get away, there would be no doubt that he would—he would disappear and never come back to you, a memory that fades into a dream and then farther on. 

Your fingers twitch as his large claw lifts, a finger pointed and slowly coming up to your face. You try not to balk away as it draws near to your nose, where a tiny snowflake rests. The blackened sickle pauses, Simon’s chest expands, and then he slightly brushes it away with little more than a twitch of his finger. 

The knife is only a foot away, sitting bright and glinting in the morning light. You look to the sky to distract from your burning cheeks; your internal war. 

Light. Real and glowing above you from a globe set into the heavens. 

Gazing at it with wide eyes, your sockets fill with stinging tears, blinking until they slip down your cheeks and you put a hand over your mouth as a small sob wafts out. You bend your spine forward and cry, gasping. 

Simon keeps himself away, unknowing if he should reach out or if he would only make it worse. His great body is tight with agony, souls raging with pain. Everything in this form was more instinctual, more in tune, he wanted to comfort you—to make it alright again, but even as a human, when had he ever been good at that? 

The Ghost watched, body wound up but still deathly still; ears pointing straight. His hands twitch. 

You sob until your lungs hurt and your head feels light, not knowing how to process this in the slightest. When you’re done you numbly stare at the ground below you, trying to rid your mind of death, demons, and wool. 

A human hand on the top of your head makes you startle. 

Snapping your red eyes up, you meet tight orbs of brown, a face twisted with remorse and a deep inner hatred. 

“I…” Simon’s lips utter out, his voice low and pale skin in the snow. “M’sorry, Sweet Girl. I can never fuckin’ give you an apology that matters, eh? But I need to say it—I need you to know.” You stare and feel his fingers caress your scalp. He looks away, breath small. “It’s all my bloody fault, yeah? So don’t you dare think for a second that anythin’ comes back to you.” 

The hand threatens to leave you, to slip back down and return to his side, but with a small noise of alarm—one that had Simon’s eyes widened in concern—your body darts forward. 

Connecting with him, you make him grunt as his biceps press into your side, shocked as his first reaction is to make sure you don’t fall. 

“Get me out of here,” you plead. “Please, Simon, get me out of here.” 

There’s no hesitation as he lifts you upward, a bridal hold like the same he had used to lift you above the thorns and mutters into your hair as he quickly walks into the trees. 

“C’mere, I’ve got you. Don’t cry, c’mon now, you’re back. You’re back.” The knife is left far in the past, and there it will stay—far away from the two of you. “Breathe, then.” 

You bury your head into his neck, breathing hard and shaking not from the cold but from memories; things you shouldn’t know. 

“M’sorry,” Simon says again, voice cracking. “Christ, I’ll never say it enough.” 

If you hated him he understood—would welcome that Hell in its own right. Of all the things he’d done, this was the worst sin he could have ever committed. He’d spend the rest of his life thanking whatever power was out there that had broken the earth for him; had led him to you. His tailor.

You sob through a panicked chuckle. “Y-you already have, you brute.”

Simon rubs his face into your hair, holding your quivering souls together and opening his mouth in a shaking exhale as his eyes flutter. 

“Breathe,” is all he says, repeating everything like a record and an order as you hone on the stiff tone—getting you to focus. 

You follow the pulse in his neck, lips pressing into his flesh as your head tilts. 

You’re both back at Simon’s hut as you still try to calm yourself, the man’s face turned into yours and his forehead pressing into your scalp. There’s so little for you to grasp onto besides him—how he feels, the dig of his fingers, and the sound of his breath. 

He sets you on the bed and he pauses, kneeling down slowly as his hands come to gently clutch your cheeks. 

“Can you look at me, Love?” Simon asks you, voice gruff in its low tone. You shiver, sniffling, before your eyes stutter over his features and land on those burial mound browns. He releases a tiny puff of breath—a flicker of his lip.

“Atta girl, jus’ like that, then.” The man blinks slowly, tilting. Simon looks you over with a heavy expression, one that shows the pain and the weight he carries. “Need to get these off, okay?”

A finger lightly travels to your neck, tapping the remnants of your shirtwaist as a few more tears slip out when you blink, shakily nodding. Simon’s lips tighten. 

“Want to do it yourself,” he breathes, “or is it alright if I touch you, Sweetheart?” Your hands are too unstable to do it yourself, he knows that just as well as you do. 

So, in a small broken whisper, you simply utter out, “Please.” 

Simon nods once and the topic is settled; he knows.

The man’s fingers deftly undo the buttons, one after the other as the light from outside seeps into the small square of a home. He doesn’t comment—doesn’t make a sound—just does what he can to help you and get you sorted out; Simon could hear the rapid set of your heart, feel your pulse like a rampaging storm. 

When you’re down to nothing but your flesh, the man grabs the covers from behind you and wraps you in them, his eyes not once flickering downward until you’re entirely swamped by fabric. A hand on your waist squeezes. 

By now the brush of his skin atop yours had sucked you in as if lighting had struck with every pass or small press. The glide of his scars and calluses grounded you here. 

There were very few beings that would hunt for you through life and death and fewer that stayed that course. Thumbs once more brush away the water on the swell of your face. 

“Sleep,” he utters, even if there’s light outside. 

You gaze at him, at his stubble and his pale complexion; the wind rustles outside. What would he do? Guard the door most likely, perhaps even think of how to get into town and grab new clothes for the both of you, food, and necessities. Simon’s mind was fighting itself, just as it always had but now there was the largest stain on his consciousness that he could ever remember having. 

He was worried if he handled you, you might break under him. You…you already had. Avoidance, even if it killed him inside, was the best course of action.

Your mouth is filled with wool, tongue heavy, but in your heart and whatever feeling you have burning in your chest, you know you can’t let him move away from you. Simon being this close made it…easier. Even if a piece of you was still hesitant about black fur and sharp teeth. He had said it himself, hadn’t he? 

Simon wasn’t the Ghost, but at the same time how could they ever be apart from one another? 

Yet, your lips are already moving just as he’s about to stand up. 

“Stay?” Simon’s lungs take in a silent breath, a moment of long silence as he tries to understand why you would want to be around him at all. His hands twitch, your eyes catching the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow. “Please, Simon,” you breathe. “I don’t…I can’t be alone again.”

He grunts and is already lifting you. 

Simon shifts your body back and lays you nearest to the wall, shuffling his body until he can lie with his spine facing you; his face to the door as he stays unblinking. 

“Nothing's going to happen to you,” he says, and you turn so you can lightly rest your head into the span of his shoulder blades. Simon’s jaw clenches. “It’s safe here. We’ll figure it out when you’ve got your energy back.” 

You want him to explain, but perhaps right now sleep was the best option. For all intents and purposes—you can’t even remember when you last had true sleep. So you stay there, skin to skin, and breath to breath as the sun still shines outside; the wind travels slowly. 

As you slip off, Simon has to restrain himself from turning around and pressing you into him—leveling his head above yours and breathing you in like how he wishes he could. But no. Too much. 

He’d explain it all when you were better. 

So he settles on the fact that all he can do is watch the door with a far-off expression, his body sagging back into you as your heat meets his.

—

You slept for three days, and in that time, Simon had only left once. On day two he went into town where he’d snuck like a thief—and there truly was no better analogy. Wearing only a blanket once more, the man breaks into your closed Tailor’s shop; boards on the windows and a sign out front to set it for sale. Inside, everything was as it had been left. Dust and layers of stale air, but there was never a better place to be for Simon.

It was where he met you, after all. 

He takes everything he’s able to carry. A large trunk of clothes, personal belongings, and anything that looks of great importance; clothing himself in a simple undershirt and pants along the way. With that, he goes to his own home and grabs all manner of money. Come morning, people would believe it was a robbery, and that was perfectly fine with him. 

Mostly everything belonged to you, anyway. They could have his sparsely furnished home and its cracking foundations. It mattered not. But he knew you needed your work—your passion. 

As he grunts and lifts the trunk, a knicker echoes out behind him. Blinking, dark eyes look behind to find a meeting pair—a long horse’s neck leaning out of a stall. They stare at each other before Simon huffs a chuckle and turns to the shadows.

When you finally did open your eyes again, deep in the third night, everything was different. 

You blink at the bright roar of the fireplace, the flickering of the candles that push back any darkness—curtains on the windows to hide the blackness of midnight. There are your belongings on the cleaned table; the foot of the bed and, there, on the desk. Measuring tape, fabric scissors, and yards of materials are stacked in the spotless corners. 

There’s no doubt that the broken window is fixed for the moment as well. 

New sheets sit on the end of the bed, waiting for you to get up before he can fit them. Jaw loose, you glance all around as the fabric pools at your waist, bare body glistening in the light as your head moves like a bird back and forth slowly. Dare you say it, the place felt…homely. Warm. Small, yes, but the definition of comfort rarely mattered when speaking on size. 

There’s a shuffling sound outside the door and you realize you’re alone. 

Face stuck at the door, your sudden tension is somewhat lessened by the small grunts and puffs of a large nose and heavy, clawed, feet. Somewhat. 

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

Your hand lightly comes up to your throat, pressing very loosely as the sounds continue, spiking your cautious curiosity. You know you shouldn’t be holding this against him, but, you had…died. You had felt your neck snap and your blood coat his fangs. 

Somehow, Simon had brought you back from that, but he had been the one to do it in the first place. 

No, you think, feet very carefully sitting on the floor. No, not Simon. The Ghost.

Yet again—aren't those the same? It was a constant question.

Your lips are thin as the dagger in your heart digs ever deeper, but it is your dagger, and it is also your heart, too. Yours. Standing, you cover yourself with the thin sheet, hearing it drag behind you as your body takes you to the door with quiet and even steps. 

So much the two of you have gone through—it seemed hard to comprehend it in this world of black fire and battling beasts; hell and purgatory. He’d tracked you down…how? As your hand meets the handle, slowly walking feet coming closer from beyond it, you tighten your hold on the fabric near your neck and breathe slowly. 

You first see crimson, and then the beady brown eyes of a large dog and a stained muzzle. Breath tight, you stare at the dead bodies of two sheep in the Ghost’s maw, limp bodies hanging from the legs out of puffed cheeks. The both of you halt your courses. 

Simon’s eyes slash down your nearly-naked form, and he drops the animals to the ground before his head darts to the side; snow splattered with blood and the imprint of large woolen bodies. He snorts and takes a single step back, seemingly hunching down lower as he sniffs the air in distraction. 

His feet pivot, one clawed foot moving away.

“Simon,” you say, breath puffing over the cold air. He waits, head only slightly tilting your way; eyes pointing down. You don’t know why you speak, why you call to him like this. 

The silence settles as you struggle to articulate, mouth opening and closing like it was a choice between speech or the metaphorical blade to your throat. You close your mouth and look to the side, the lids of your eyes tightly shut. 

Without another word, you’re setting your feet in the drowned snow and walking up to him, fingers shaking before your hand extends from the elbow. It rests above the side of his muzzle, hovering with a tiny quiver as you fight with your own fear. 

You can feel Simon’s eyes on you now, watching. Always watching. Forever watching. Eyes like hard earth; like the dirt under your nails. 

Simon’s throat grumbles, and before you can make a decision, he helps make one for you. 

He softly moves his great lumbering head down and to the side—slotting it under your hand as you gasp, feeling the strands of fur under your grip. Immediately, your eyes snap to meet his, seeing long lashes holding snowflakes. The Ghost’s so large that he has to bend low in order to give you a comfortable resting point for your hand; sitting in between his sharp ears. 

You swallow down your nervousness as the seconds draw on, your heart rate slowing until you can properly move closer and feel the waves of fur beneath your fingertips. Playing with them, you card your digits in gentle strokes, hearing the low purr that rattles your bones as a great weight is leveled into your torso. 

A tiny giggle emanates from your chest, and the beast responds by only pushing himself deeper into your stomach. 

“Easy,” you mutter, eyes light as a smile forms on your lips. 

The chill seeps in gradually as you both stand there, a werewolf and a barely-clothed tailor. Before long you’re shivering even as you feel content next to Simon and to steal some of his furnace-like heat. 

You pull back and the wolf momentarily tilts to find you, only to open his eyes when he can’t feel your sturdy body. He blinks, before slowly standing back up to his full height. 

The light from the hut seeps out to cover you, and you take comfort in that—if the door shuts on its own, you’d be left in a darkness you know you’ll fear for many, many years. With its illumination, you speak freely.

“I don’t know how you did it, Simon,” his right ear twitches. “But…but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. I should, I know I should, but for the life of me, whenever you’re near I can’t think straight. Please, when you’re back to,” you huff a tiny laugh, “whenever you’re back to walking in a man’s skin, explain it to me. Explain why I can’t think of anyone else but you.” 

Avoiding the sheep, you step back into the hut and close the door as those dead eyes follow loyally, the wolf not breathing beyond a thin line of condensation wafting into the air. 

You only make it five steps back to bed before the wooden barrier is opened loudly, hitting off the back wall and shutting closed on its own. Turning back quickly, startled, you’re met with a fast panting chest and a human hand that swipes blood away from his lips. Bare skin is close to yours, and your eyes widen at the instantaneous blown feeling of your pupils. 

Simon’s face is above yours.

“Because you own half of my fuckin’ soul,” he breathes into your scalp, accent rich and heavy with implication. “Just as I own half of yours.” 

Literal or a metaphor, you care not. 

You both stay there, hearts pumping and skin tingling as the air increases in temperature—the sheet around you held in a tight fist suddenly seems almost suffocating. Your arms itch to drop it. Drop it now and let him see you; let him feel you like no other has. Where did these thoughts come from? Or…had they always been there?

The man hasn’t moved, and you know he won’t do anything unless you ask it of him, but you can smell the sweat on his skin, the scent of blood and musk. Quick death and dragging claw. 

If he was fire, it would be a blessing to be burned. 

“Simon,” you say, voice tight. He grunts like a damn dog, hands at his sides twitching as his bare chest shines. So many scars. You want to trace them, to feel them writhe. “You’re no good for me.”

“I know,” he growls. 

You press your lips to his and breathe him down as the sheet falls from your shoulders, all-encompassing hands finding the swell of your hips and sliding behind them; gripping tightly. Your own dig at his waist, finding the bulk of his abs and the deep tapper of his v-line before you gasp at his hand kneading the flesh of your arse. 

At the motion, Simon takes the opportunity to smirk before letting his tongue slip into your mouth. You release a small noise from the back of your throat, and he groans—one hand coming up to grip the base of your skull and maneuvering your head farther upward. He pulls back and presses into you, your face growing hot as he finds your neck and starts leaving deep open-mouthed kisses as his chest vibrates. 

Lips swollen and sensitive, you whimper as he bites down at every other interval; arms around his waist and nails running up and down his spine. Simon shivers, hips lightly bucking as you press on the small of his back. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Love,” he nuzzles under your ear, pupils wide and blackened, feral-like. “The things you do to me, yeah? Drivin’ me up a damn wall whenever I caught a whiff of what I did to you.”

Your stomach is rolling in tight knots of desire, lungs heaving as his hands squeeze and travel. At your core, you can already feel the slippery effect on your folds—a stain of sin that leaks out with nothing to hold it hostage inside of you. Face tightening as Simon groans long, he leaves hickey after hickey, as if unable to not mark your neck and under-ear. 

The feeling of teeth there doesn’t even startle you, no, not now. 

You ache with need, legs threatening to close in on themselves before Simon loops a hand in your inner thigh and keeps them open. The world around you blurs as your body tingles with a yearning that almost hurts.

“C’mon now, Sweetheart,” his lips come back to yours and you let him ravish you with long, deep kisses as his hand moves up. You balk forward and shiver as you feel the deep press of his growing lust for you against your stomach. “Don’t wanna know how long I’ve been dreamin’ about this.” 

Your eyes flutter, and you gasp out through the joining of your hungry mouths, “Show me, Simon. Show it to me.” 

His teeth bite slowly into your bottom lip, easing you into this game of wolf and sheep as his half-closed eyes open and dig into you. Simon’s fingers flex but don’t move, the other still at the base of your neck; your own have been leaving crescent-shaped marks on his back for a while, absentmindedly pulsing along with the heated blood in your veins. 

There are still the remnants of sheep’s blood on his cheek—slashed up the side of his face and over his deep-set eyebrow, but you find you don’t care at all. 

With how his fingers tap so close yet so far to that sensitive bundle and the dripping mess of your insides, nothing matters. 

“My Girl wants that?” Simon hums, and as easily as if he were picking up a shirt from your shop, he lets his thick fingers push you open as you suck in a quick breath and sag into him. Into his neck you sigh, hitched airways making it seem tight. Instinctually you open your legs wider, whining at the press of calluses and scars in your clutch and sliding up your sensitive walls. 

Simon stops and waits mid-way past his first knuckle with two fingers, groaning as you tighten and flex around him at the foreign sensation. His thumb at the back of your head moves up and down, his own thighs hard with eagerness and a stain in his abdomen from the lack of attention—but he cares little about his own leaking head, content only when able to give you pleasure in the purest form. 

Your stomach as well as his are wet from his weeping tip, the chill of it making you both shiver and try to mash your bodies ever closer as the sheet below you two is tangled at your feet. The fireplace crackles. 

“Simon,” you keen, and he answers with a bite of your shoulder before rubbing his head into your neck. Like opium, he’d said. If only he could tell you your scent now was convincing enough to make him lay on a bed of burning coals if only he could smell it for three more seconds. 

Arousal. Lust. Animalistic desperation that Simon’s eager to bring you to the brink of—face sick with pleasure and eyes blown with numb satisfaction. Open and bare to him.

“Attagirl, that’s it,” he slides his digits deeper as your hips buck, making him grit his teeth to hold back a grunt as his dick is jostled. “So wet for me, fuckin’ perfect. Let me help, yeah?” 

“Fuck, Simon,” he buries his fingers at the base, wasting no time in crooking them back toward him and pulling his wrist down. You moan loudly, stretching and being played like an instrument. Simon’s fingers repeat the motion until you’re a mess of rutting thighs and shaky legs. 

The man takes down every moan and whimper—every sigh and jerk with a growing sense of pride. His dick is begging for friction, and the little bit he gets is from your stomach rubbing against it with every slippery sound of his fingers entering and exiting your core. 

Simon’s mouth is open with a tight pant for breath, mirroring yours before the pad of his palm rubs against your bundle. You arch into him, whining and pleading instantly with a burning face, half convinced something had overtaken your body to make you act in such a way. 

The man moves his fingers faster, making sure to maneuver his limb in such a way as to get your clit harder and harder with every pass, leaving you limp in his arms. Simon anchors you to him with a hand on the back of your shoulder blades, grip hard and knuckles white. 

As your face screws up and a fire burns in your core, nails leave long scratches down the back of his torso as if he was a wooden trunk to tie a horse to—a rock in a storm. 

“Simon,” you sigh out, head stuck under his chin. “S-so good, keep going.” 

He opens his mouth as he rubs his chin on the top of your scalp, mixing your scents together potently. 

“Look at me,” Simon utters, in his desperation to bring you to the edge, his accent is as deep as you’d ever heard it. “Look at me, Love. Wanna see your eyes watchin’ me as you fall apart. I’ll make it good, promise.” 

“K…” You gasp as everything keeps building up and up, teeth clenching together and legs fighting to close around his hand—Simon bullies you open through the overstimulation; the flood of your senses. “Know you will!” 

“So good to me, Sweetheart,” he grumbles, taking you by the side of your cheek and leaning back slightly so he can still let you rest on him but also watch. 

Your eyes flutter with every rapid intrusion from Simon’s digits, tight and textured walls giving in to him as he pushes and prods, searching for something as his brows crease and his abdomen bunches. The man’s biceps flex and strain, feet wide open and lips parted as he locks onto your gaze. 

“Fuck, what a bloody sight to see. Yeah, you enjoying that, then?” He mutters, and only when he pushes those teasing words out does he find a point inside of you that leaves your mouth opening and your toes curling; that he truly loses his breath. 

Holding your head forward, Simon’s jaw slackens as your face contorted with pain-like expressions of confused pleasure, sweat glistening your forehead and your lips swollen—neck nothing more than raised skin from all of the man’s biting. 

You strangle down such an instinctive and leg-shaking moan that Simon nearly forgets that he’s not even truly inside of you yet; balls tightening with building excitement and his length begging to be squeezed, used for nothing but that same expression on your face.

“Christ,” he breathes, teeth grinding and feeling you fight to keep his fingers in. Slick drips down his wrist, tapping the floor in a clear stain that could bring him to his knees. 

You can’t even speak, spine curling with such raw electric sparks. If Simon isn’t careful, your legs will entirely fail you. 

“Sim-” Your voice is high, mixed with panic as you let him hit that same point again and again like a hunter. “Simon!” You chant, fighting to meet his eyes as your vision blurs. 

Everything was too hot, the scrape of his calluses on your flesh like a knife raking through your insides with pleasurable stabs. 

“Jus’ like that, Love,” he breathes, not blinking. “C’mon know you feel it. Squeezin’ my fingers just right. Look at that pretty little face.” 

You’re building and building, standing on the precipice of a large chasm. There’s nothing to stop you from going over the edge—and you don’t want anything too. 

Your body tenses gradually, knees wobbling and your abdomen pulling into itself. A sharp claw seems to play with the string of your impending release, fiddling with it and taking it into its fingertip; rubbing it back and forth in a slow game.

Your breath comes out in short gasps, moans getting higher and more cut, Simon’s eyes are transfixed, panting like a dog, and, in an instant right before you break, moves his fingers at a break-neck pace. 

Your sharp cry is caught on his lips, sucking it down as your orgasm floods his hand, leaving it a sticky mess that he continues finger-fuck you through with firm strokes. He’s whispering praises on your lips, keeping you up as his hand snaps to your waist when your legs buckle. Your walls move like a noose, letting the man fantasize how it would feel to have you speared open in his lap as you writhe and take him down in the low light. 

All of these thoughts, this sight, make him harder by the second. 

Simon keeps moving his fingers, drawing your explosive release out until you plead quietly for him to stop from overstimulation. The sensation makes your abused clit cause your spine to arch with every touch of his wet palm. He obliged, the sound of slick slapping halting, but his fingers didn’t leave your spasming cunt as your limp head fell to his shoulder. 

Your chest heaves, aftershocks leaving your mind blank to all else but the press of skin and sweat. The air reeks of sex and hot breath. 

Simon’s head clacks yours, fingers flexing as you whimper and dig your hands into his sides. He chuckles and slowly pulls out, taking long strings of cum with him as they string his fingers together and dribble to the floor from your slit. He holds you up, uncomfortably shifting his feet when your body jostles his raging erection—making him hold back a tight gasp. 

“Good?” The man asks, gruff and casually. Your open mouth lays a firm kiss on his burning flesh as he side-eyes you waiting for a response. 

“Yeah,” your voice is far off. Simon chuckles lowly. 

In an easy sweep of his arms, you’re picked up and carried to the bed; set down to the plushness that’s down one sheet. You lay on your back, gazing up at the man as he stares down at you in turn. 

Neither of you speaks until Simon has to rip his eyes away, clearing his throat. Your eyes travel down before widening at the violent red of the man’s length—the thing twitching and dripping pre-cum down to the base in an obvious plea for stimulation. Yet Simon makes no move to do anything. 

“You should get some more rest—”

“Let me help,” you whisper, eyes widely innocent as they meet the browns that snap your way, those orbs slightly widening. “I own half your soul…right?”

Simon watches you, jaw loose. 

“It looks painful,” you ease out, pointedly moving your gaze downward with unabashed boldness. 

“Is,” he utters. If he was being honest, he was worried that he had been coming on too strong—that this part of the night might be going a bit far. You were a lady, after all, and he respected you as such. He needed confirmation. 

“Then let me help, Simon.” Your eyes blink at him, hand coming up to trace the bulk of his thigh muscles. His breath goes shallow, self-control fraying fast. Just a little more. You lick your lips. “I want to feel you take me like no one else has. I want you to stay in this bed with me until the fire goes out and the light outside peels through the curtains. Can you do that for me?”

Your wet core pulses again, wanting—waiting for something more. Something only Simon could give you. 

The man’s chest rattles. “Yes,” he relays, words low. 

After a moment of eye contact, the man places his knee on the bed, shifting so that he has himself in between your legs; hands coming up beside your head. Your lungs are heavy, fingers coming up to rub over his blood-stained cheek as his nose brushes yours. Simon’s stubble itches you, but you still sigh constantly as he kisses you once more. 

This was slower than the previous—less desperate though you don’t know how as you could feel the strain of his length prodding like a hot iron in your inner thigh. It made you slightly nervous, the size and the action itself, but you didn’t doubt who you wanted to be the one above you. 

Simon kisses the side of your lips, nipping at the skin as he grunts out, “You sure?” 

Brown eyes never waver as they stare you down. Any ounce of hesitation would be found immediately and the action would be over; Simon paraded around as a cold and heartless beast, but never had there been a man more considerate of your own safety. He didn’t want to hurt you. 

You drag your fingers through his hair and he shudders, one grip sliding to your legs as the drag of barely-there claws makes your breath hitch. Your lips mutter, quietly, “Yes.” 

“Gotta make me believe it, Sweetheart,” Simon kisses over all of the marks he left, slowly dragging the warm press of his mouth and side-eyeing you. 

You glare down at him and feel his smirk on your skin, how he hooks his hand under your knee and lightly lifts the limb. Your muscles flex at the sudden spread of your legs, your hand in his hair grasping tighter. Simon sighs low as your body shifts, shivering at the slick heat he restrains himself from rutting against. 

Face burning at your bare excitement, the man’s eyes glaze over. 

“I’m sure, Simon.” 

“Don’t wanna make you feel like you have to—”

“Simon,” you interrupt his comment, and the blond huffs, the air sliding over your heated skin.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.” You smile softly and drag his face back to yours, kissing him deeply. “Let me try…” Simon mutters on your lips, and soon both of his hands are pushing up your knees as you widely blink at the openness of your core before your legs are folded up. 

You whine at the stretch, the embarrassment of having your dripping folds on full display. This was foreign to you.

Simon hums, looking down and groaning. He taps his forehead to yours as you breathe deeply, letting him take control. 

“Okay?” He asks, and your heart skips a beat. 

“Are you going to keep stalling,” you breathe, looking into his gaze teasingly. “Or are you going to show me how you can’t function without me beside you?” 

There’s a stretch as he lines himself up, hips moving back and abdomen sliding over yours—your lungs stutter as his eyes glint at you; lips flicking in a smirk.

“You going to keep me here?” You breathe, voice breathy as Simon’s length begins to steadily press forward, your face twists as you take him down, lines forming on your forehead. “Make me,” his hands keep your legs up beside you, open as they tighten. His lids narrow in concentration at the tight vice of your walls, having to slowly bully his way into you inch by inch. “Make me tailor your clothes a-and spin your wool?”

The sounds from your joining bodies are vulgar. A slide and a coating of flesh with natural assistance as Simon’s jaw clenches, not able to help the jump of his pelvis as you moan and arch your back as he moves even farther into your clutch. 

You both writhe as he bottoms out, bodies shaking at the intensity of the moment and the sparks under your flesh. 

“Ah,” Simon strangles a whine, eyes tight shut as yours follow. Quick kisses are placed on your lips. “Don’t tempt me, yeah?” 

The great stretch of your insides leaves you sighing, tiny waves of pain pushed back by pleasurable pulsing and the scrape of veins. His head lays in the hold of your womb, slick leaking out from the ring of your core. 

“We,” your hips jerk, and Simon’s hands on your knees tighten until you know there’ll be bruises come morning. “We’re beyond temptation.”

Simon chuckles—his eyes dark and glimmering in the firelight. “Smart girl.”

He lets you adjust there for a moment, even if his dick is pleading with him to move and drive your back into the mattress; to see your face crease in rapture. But that wasn’t what his head wanted, no, he wanted this done right. 

When you look at him and your thighs stop shaking, he carefully grinds himself into you, letting your bundle of nerves meet the wirehair of his happy trail and give himself the slightest feeling of relief. You bite your lip, one hand on Simon’s cheek and the other still in his hair. 

The angle of your legs makes you feel him that much deeper, even as he simply grinds himself inside of you and doesn’t move much beyond that. 

“Feels good, y’know that?” Simon mutters as your mouth takes down a slow breath, eyes stuck on each other as the man fully begins to remove himself and softly flinch his length back into you; exiting just enough before letting him re-enter. “Tight; warm.” He shudders, gritting his teeth. “C-can smell you like this—how much you want it. Always have.” 

You whine at the words, tightening around him as he begins gently fucking you in earnest, the slap of skin and tight walls joining the crackle of wood. The scents on the air are a perfect mix of addictive pheromones—so potent even you can smell it as you try to meet every dig of his hips.

Simon’s face goes to your neck, nuzzling into it as his eyes go tight. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out a groan into your ear, mouth open. 

 The heat returns easily to you, the burning in your gut. Simon’s pelvis hits you, stimulating your clit every time in the perfect way, as if he’d glanced at your body once and immediately memorized what made you tick. His sweat drips and pools with your own, slick leaking out to the mattress and making you feel dirty in the best way as your cut-off sighs hit the ceiling. It's hot in here; nearly too hot to focus on the slide of skin and dig of your nails into his hair. It’s telling how fast you seem to hit that peak again, at the constant scrape of his veins and the push of your walls as if trying to force him in. 

Your back arches into him, and Simon cants his hips faster, biting on your chin and pulling at your lips as his eyes watch with eagerness. His abdomen bunches at the sheer pleasure he feels making you feel like this, chest heaving and large build all but swallowing you below him. 

“Simon,” you breathe, kissing him on his lips eagerly, growing desperate. 

“Let me take care of you,” the man grunts hard, getting harder to focus, “trust me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, clenching your jaw as he brushes a spot so deep inside of you that your eyes go blurry for a moment. Your lips move without your brain understanding the slurred words. “Yes, I trust you. I…I…oh, fuck.” 

He sighs and bites a whimper down as your walls flex, gripping him tighter and tighter. 

“Knew I’d find you,” Simon pushes your legs harder into the mattress, form slightly shaking. You moan high into his mouth, eyes fluttering and knot growing tighter. “Knew I’d make it right, eh? Death can’t keep you away from me, not now. I’ll find you.”

You gasp, itching cord snapping and release spilling out around the plug of his dick as he continues on as you jerk and rut out of order; eyebrows pulled in. It isn’t long after that Simon follows you, shoving his lips on yours as his mouth parts with a tight cry. Inside of you the spill of his seed fills your womb and he fucks through it, hands releasing your legs to rub up and down your sides. 

Your core floods as he stays there, resting and stationary above you, his weight heavy but not crushing. The both of you stare at one another and breathe down the heated air; all of the scents and the desire there—the unspoken bond that extends life and death. 

Simon grunts and forces out, breathless, staring through blown pupils.

“I’ll always find you.”

In the morning there’s a pile of wool sitting in a cloth sack against the wall, and the sound of chopping wood outside. The curtains are drawn to the bright rays of the morning sun as they meet your softly smiling face, visage half-covered by the newly fitted sheets.

[tpq-heritage-posts]

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@moondust-on-the-hijabi - Aylin | Obsessed with the moon

@mxnkeydo - Rithi - The Youngest

@maitaiwiththecorpses - Mat | Randomly online, drops the best oneshot ever and leaves, has majestic rizz

@izzy246girl - Isabella | She read it because of me

@autumn-equinox-04 - Equinox | Aladdin AU

@dream-of-potter | Not always online but we love her

@k3bookwormalert - K3G | Yes, like the movie

@sunflxwcrs - Persephone | Chronic slayage

@owocontroversy - Pineapple | Took a lap in the park when she read CoG

@honeyphobia - Loves Spider-Man

@anonymouscuzwhynot001 - Dolphin | Mostly on Wattpad

@windybitzh - The Lurkers

@the-ultimate-bookworm - V | I’m so sorry idk what to put here

@rosaadiazs - April | I always forget to change her url here

@kotlcswiftie - LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO

@blujaishah - LAST NAME IS SHAH

@book-girl4evaaa - Bea | Shut up Heather!

@my-life-tis-broken - Coming for ssj2’s crown as token boy

@sxturn-to-mxrs - Mini | Why did I not put you here earlier oops embarrassing for me

@strawblob - welcome to chaos

@bharatiya-naari-sab-pe-bhaari - new!!

@shrxe - Shree | WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T I ADD YOU BEFORE I’M SO SORRY IM SO FAKE

@telugu-girl-13 - Hasini | Somehow remembers every detail from the books it’s kind of terrifying

@bookworm-fangirl1 - Ali | Multifandom as FUCK there are so many fandoms she’s in I swear

Let me know if I forgot got you!

Silver has a YouTube channel called I See Silvered Stars

Grace has a TikTok called sheepishreader

This is the link to the joint Foul Lady Fortune AU concept our fandom has (and the blog @tpq-flf-au)

Official TPQ magazine @theofficialtpqmagazine

[midnightsilverchelly]

Hey so Chellen (me) made another AU because it's been rotting in her mind

Nutshell; What if Shadow Milk split himself in the past with one half being good + the other evil.

As well Shadow Milk's good side possessed Pure Vanilla's body; preventing the evil side gaining control.

Name of the AU is Fragmented Knowledge AU

In the past; Blueberry Milkshake used Dark Moon Magic when he realize he was heading into the same fates as his friends whom became corrupted from their power. He hoped the magic would get rid of the corruption as well as allow him to help his friends; bringing them back to their senses however this had dire consequences.

Instead of getting rid of the corruption; His soul was split into the good side which was shoved into the subconscious whilst his darker side (Shadow Milk) took in charge of the body. When they were sealed away and their body were destroyed; they were separated further as they didn't have the body to keep them together.

Blueberry Milkshake accidentally landed in Pure Vanilla's body when the seal on the Silver Tree was broken; falling unconscious due to the seal being shattered and feeling the effect of it.

Shadow Milk tried to possessed Pure Vanilla when White Lily repaired the tree in hopes of not being sealed away however failed due to Blueberry Milkshake already being there.

As simply put; Shadow Milk just bounced off Pure Vanilla which left everyone confused and Shadow Milk enraged when he realize what had just happened. This resulted in Blueberry Milkshake waking up as well as he felt something or rather someone slam into him.

It takes awhile for the group to figure out what happened however Pure Vanilla was the first one due to seeing Blueberry Milkshake which caused both of them to freak out.

It also takes the group awhile to warm up to Blueberry Milkshake as they didn't know if Blueberry Milkshake was being honest or if it was a trick being played by Shadow Milk. Although Blueberry Milkshake was able to prove that he is genuine.

Pure Vanilla and Blueberry Milkshake can swap around with one of being in charge of the body whilst the other is ghostly. Whenever Blueberry Milkshake is using Pure Vanilla's body; the eyes appear like this.

As well that Pure Vanilla take on a ghostly like appearance (similar to Shadow Milk):

Usually Pure Vanilla will gives a head up to the people whenever they need to swap (aka whenever Blueberry Milkshake wants to talk and it's easier for him to swap with Pure Vanilla to talk rather then have Pure Vanilla pass the message along.)

Only Pure Vanilla can see Blueberry Milkshake and vice versa (when Blueberry Milkshake is in charge) although Blueberry Milkshake can appear before the others HOWEVER this takes ALOT of energy from him and he can only do it for a hour before he needs to recharge his energy.

He has a easier time if there's Dark Moon Magic presented as he can use the magic to stabilize his form easier.

When tired; Blueberry Milkshake will retreat to Pure Vanilla's mind and rest there... Although he can be rudely woken up by Shadow Milk due to the darker side being able to reach both Pure Vanilla and Blueberry Milkshake from the Dark Side of the Moon.

Whenever Pure Vanilla is asleep and Blueberry Milkshake is awaken; the latter will protect the other from nightmares caused by Shadow Milk despite the danger that comes from it.

Shadow Milk CAN ONLY interact with them from the Abyss (much to the jester's annoyance.). He can also physically hurt Blueberry Milkshake and can even kill him which is the Jester's objective as he wants his good side gone.

When Blueberry Milkshake is injured; his form becomes fragmented and if he's damage too much; he will shattered which will destroy him completely. Although lucky for him; Pure Vanilla can heal him with his magic.

[hetalia-club]

Game of Thrones AU lore- House Targaryen

Other houses: Targaryen Stark Greyjoy Lannister Tyrell

Going to kick it off with the Targaryen Family. If you've never watched GOT just know that the Targaryen family is fucked okay? It's their thing. You can't make a GOT AU and ignore that it's part of it. Breaking it up like this is also the easiest way to explain this AU with out it being crazy long.

Targaryen family for non GOT watchers- Targaryen's are also known as Dragon Tamers. Due to their old and magical blood they can link their minds with dragons. and form a life long connection. Typically just one for their entire life. If that dragon dies they will usually be too heart broken to get another. But as long as the dragon does not die in battle the Dragons life span greatly surpasses theirs. The link typically happens when the Targaryen is young and so is the Dragon and they grow up together. Usually Targaryen's have just the one dragon but on rare occasions they will have a couple. Like 2 dragons with a really close bond may attach themselves to the same Targaryen (seen in Danny's dragons)

^^ Concept Art for the Red Keep (Left) & Dragon Stone (Right) Targaryen Family Tree

(please don't take offence to any of these personality shifts. I did my best to fit them into the world and this is my AU that I use as an outline to write stories with some some characters are more fleshed out than others because they appear in one or more of my stories I've written.)

King Gilbert Targaryen- the king of the Seven Kingdoms. He's young for a king. Only 25 years old. He's also objectively a bad king. The gods flip a coin every time a Targaryen is born and this was a bad flip. He uses the gods as an excuse to burn castles to teh ground if anyone makes him mad for any reason at all. He's also a worse father thank he is a king. Which is pretty impressive. Gilbert's Dragon- Silverclaw- A smaller sized female dragon with shimmering silver scales and turquoise eyes. She is sleek and has a very large wing span. She is the fastest dragon alive currently.

Prince Ivan Targaryen- Ivan is the crowed Prince and is also the Lord of Dragon stone. He does not live in kings landing and instead rules their home lands in his fathers stead. He is betrothed to his sister Natalia and is plotting to have her killed so he does not have to marry her. Unlike his father Ivan is not mad. he does have a tempter like all Targaryens do but he enjoys reading more normal activities rather than feeding prisoners to his dragon for entertainment. Ivan's Dragon- Vagor- a very large dragon bad tempered male dragon. He had golden eyes and dark navy blue scales that look black until he is in the sun.

Emil Targaryen- Is the cousin of the prince and the King is his uncle. He lives in teh castle with his sister, and father. Emil is a young teen with dragon dreams. He has a very close bond with his dragon and spends a lot of time flying it, he’s been nearly everywhere. He will often leave in the middle of the night and be gone for months and come back with some insane stories and in a lot of trouble with his father. Emil's Dragon- Jaedor- a mid sized dragon male dragon with Oranges eyes and yellow and orange scales.

Feliks Targaryen- The brother of the king and is the Master of Whispers. Spends nearly all of his time trying to foil assassins sent to kill his brother and smooth over problems that the kings caused. Felik's Dragon- Neerhem The Dread- a large dragon male dragon with vibrant purple scales and dark green eyes. This is the dragon they send when they want a message sent. Neerhem's flames are hot enough to melt castle bricks and turn soldiers to ash. despite his feared persona he's actually a very chill dragon and likes to sleep most of the day.

Princess Natalia- Natalia is her father's clear favorite child. He and Natalia have always shared similar interests and he's found little in common with Ivan. So Natalia is used to getting everything she wants from her father. She's spoiled and makes life hell for her servants. She is still very young so she doesn't get up to much of anything yet. Natalia's Dragon- Alyrya- a young female dragon with bright white scales and red eyes. She is too young to ride, just as Natalia is too young to actually ride her but they do spend a lot of time together in the dragon pits.

Elise Targaryen- The daughter of Felix and sister of Emil. She is only five in this universe and does not really do or say much of anything. Elise's Dragon- Has not bonded with a dragon yet