#should the mortal he's in love with be human or a werewolf?

[edmunderson]

got jumpscared by the new CAS poses i swapped in. enjoy the fae king's ass

[jjungkooksthighs]

Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (17)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: (fluff, angst, and smut) abo/werewolf,  fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 10.6k (Listen we don't have consistency here but we do have quality alr)

Summary:

With his mate in his arms, the Pack Alpha brings her home.

Warnings: MINOR CHARACTER DEATH (parents), mentions of taking one's life (I promise most of this is fluff and fun), dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, marking, manhandling, omega in heat

Author's Note: Hello again, lovelies! I apparently am really bad at following schedules if you didn't notice, so I apologize (again) for really long periods between updates on this story. Rest assured that the next chapter will be the long awaited mating between our two soulmates, which will be the final installment to this saga that I have now been writing for five years.

Crazy how fast time flies.

Anyway, I felt like it had been too long since the last update to just...have them go at it in this one. I had had plans to make this shorter, but somehow 20 pages were written between this week and last and...yeah. Here we are.

I dedicate this chapter to @h-g-bts and @jeonwiixard, because without your support, encourage, and love, this chapter would never have happened. I have never seen such contagious enthusiasm and excitement that you two always are jumping at the chance to share with me, and I adore you two for all of the wonderful rambles we have about this story amidst all of our other shenanigans.

I hope that those who read this chapter–especially you two– enjoy it to the fullest. I always worry I won't do justice to the ideas in my head or even to the existing story I've written, so please share your thoughts and love for this story if you like it. I have discovered that I write faster if I am inundated with praise and love for my work. :)

That's enough from me for now. I now give to you the seventeenth chapter of COC!

Series Masterlist Previous Chapter

The scraunch of grass under his feet surrenders to the steady song of your heart while he carries you, your smaller form tucked snugly against his chest while you sleep peacefully in his arms. 

Slumber had welcomed you happily after you’d lost so much blood to the beast of greed that lived inside him, and as his still human body moves on instinct through the night with the moon as his witness, that beast only clutches closer at the covetousness of his savior–of this mortal goddess– who had come to save him.

Many still had been milling about when he’d departed with her from the bathhouse, the interested eyes and ears of alphas and omegas alike all trying to confirm the undeniable truth of his choice in you and yours in him. 

That he had been awake and of the conscious world astounded them enough as he’d walked through them, their widened eyes and gasps enough to indicate that. The irrefutable proof of your maturing bond was present in the serene, calm expression that the beautiful creature held against him had amidst the two new reddened, raised punctures he’d left on her wrist that fell gracefully by his side while he, who should have been without operation of one arm and restricted to a bed, was well and amble.

Namjoon had been there, Yoongi’s dried blood still dirtying hands and arms, but his loyalty to his alpha–his friend– mattered more than any odorous stench that Yoongi the deceiver could concoct. 

He’d shared one look with Namjoon, and it was one that needed no words between it. There had been a silent nod from his second-in-command, a lowering of his chin out of respect for his strength in combat before his fist had come upon his left breast in a sign of acceptance and recognition for the choice his Pack Alpha had made in his chosen mate, and the action had brought with it the parroting of all males–all alphas–who had been in the audience. 

Not one male failed to mimic the action, the Pack Alpha’s absence of injuries and state of near death that he had administered to his enemies all that they needed to recall. 

Seokjin, a taller male who just managed to reach Namjoon’s high height, had been standing dutifully by the other male’s side, the reaction of his mate one echoed in sentiment as he’d crossed each of his hands over each other between both breasts and bowed, the gesture one of approval and approbation of she who would become highest in rank and power over all omegas; of she who would lead them and guide the Omegean dynamic–of she who would become the Pack Omega. 

Niva, a long-time companion of yours who was a rather short woman, had mirrored the motion with tears in her eyes out of the happiness she felt for the female that the Pack Alpha held with such affection lighting the golden discs of his own as he stared warmly at her, not a fractal of the cold from before when he’d been in the ring with the males who tried to win her from him. 

Deference to them both had had each wolf stepping aside like parting ferns as the Pack Alpha had stepped between them, the dense cluster of all wolves in the compound bending to their knee as he passed. 

No one had asked where he was going. Such was common knowledge– the only thing left now was to seal the bond between two fated souls and fulfill the vow he had made to you in the remnants of their shared blood that had been left clinging to your flesh.

In the present, he proceeds with purpose through the forest, your soft breaths coaxing him toward his destination amidst the symphony of crickets chirping in celebration and owls calling excitedly to each other while the flowers and fallen leaves offer their embrace in support to his ankles as he steps through them.

It is impossible not to let the music of nature return him to when he’d first heard it years ago, when he’d first stepped foot in the greenery of the woodland.

He had been in a much smaller body, his paws much tinier while he’d been running through the forest, his father’s stern, unamused shouts lost to him while the colors of the earth ran past him in streaks of brown, black, and green.

There had been a wonderful, pleasurable burn in his lungs while he’d pushed his haunches to keep going, to dash to freedom from the asphyxiating restrictions of training for responsibilities he had no concept of yet, the wind racing through his fur and whistling through his ears while his claws upended the soil in clouds of dark plumes as they raked through it. 

He’d not known where he was going–only that he was chasing something he could never reach, no matter how hard he tried. 

Inevitably, his little furry body could only handle so much, and upon slowing to a stop in the middle of a clearing that held its own town of daffodils, lilies, roses, wisteria, gardenia, marigold, and tulips, each swaying with the wind he’d brought with him. The myriad of colors had been pleasing to his eye, and when he’d let their vibrant scents blossom under his nose, their coalescence had been an aroma sweeter than the finest sugar. 

But then…then he’d heard a voice, a voice that was daintier than any flower. A voice that harvested something in him he’d not known a name for yet. 

Curiosity had carried him toward the origin of that voice, his wolf refusing to ignore the soft melody as it sang a nursery tale of two lost souls helplessly drawn to each other no matter how many times the earth tried to tear them apart. 

“Alone he ran, alone he remained, seeking that which was forbidden-”

He had been quiet as a mouse while he neared the curtain of vines and climbing plants that had grown along the expanse of the rocky wall toward the forest’s edge, the voice that reached for him behind it too pretty to resist. He’d never ventured here thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything behind it. And yet…

“Forbidden it was, he longed for respite from the rivalries and revelries that were but a curse of his kin-”

His paws drew him forward, the clink of his claws against the rock drowned by the spring ahead of him, the crystalline water that streamed over the larger slabs of rock each stacked around each other enough to silence it to the female who stood on two hairless legs with her back to him in the watery pool ahead of them that was deep enough to cover her to the waist. On the other side of the rocks there fell clear water from one pool to another, a smaller pond sat surrounded by smaller stones of colors he had no names for in their darker and lighter hues. 

“Onward he journeyed toward the unknown who took a form fascinating to him, a form of long, flowing hair and kind, gentle orbs for eyes that the moon sculpted after herself in their color. For the moon had longed for many years to bring forth a child of flesh and blood as she grew lonely in the dark skies after mother nature had birthed her own child of hair and blood -”

Like invisible force had been urging him on, he continued, helpless to the pull that began from his heart and tugged him toward this fair creature who wore but a frock that was a halo of gilded white, silver, and gold around her in its long length and trailing sleeves that left a high neckline across her front and back. 

She floated there, in the middle of the water, as she moved with a grace no ordinary child could ever hope to have with a tune only she could hear. Transfixed, he could not force himself to look away if he tried. He had to know who this goddess with a voice light as the stars was. 

“She wept, and she wept, and she wept in her solitude, and from those tears that fell to the earth, she molded her daughter from mist, cloud, stars, and her light. From the earth there came her offspring who was molded into a girl with all of the knowledge poured into her from her mother, her body no younger than eight winters, but no older than ten-”

Something deep in his chest had begun to pound at that sight, and when the young girl before him turned toward him in a sweep of her arms through the air, that had been when he’d been unable to move any longer, amazement forcing the oxygen from his lungs as he’d beheld her. 

Her beautiful hair, which flowed with the wind that breezed through it, had been bound only by the gardenias that had been strewn down its wisps framing a face that was unlike anything he’d ever gazed upon before. Her cheekbones were high, nose straighter than a line yet cuter than any button, her lips pink as any chrysanthemum. And her eyes? They were closed while she was lost to the words she spoke.

“With no one but herself in the world, the moon’s daughter cried and wept, her own loneliness a curse even her own mother could not make her forget from so high a place in the sky’s throne. The earth took pity on the young girl of flesh and bone, so it sent her its son, who was of the same time on land. The two, recognizing kindred spirits in one another, were inseparable-”

As if his limbs had been captured by whatever had begun to wind him around this goddess’s hand, his haunches lowered so he sat on the rock by the creek, his shadow reaching toward the girl in the water before him. 

“The earth’s son and moon’s daughter spent many moons together, their hearts irrevocably becoming entwined in the other’s, and upon their eighteenth winter together, the earth became jealous of her son, wishing with her entire being that she could reach her lover that the clouds kept imprisoned within them yet never being able to except for when the skies cried, releasing him so he could be with his lover.”

The birds had stopped chirping as she’d turned her face down toward her feet, the darkness claiming her features so he could no longer admire them while sadness clogged her throat and watered tears from the corner of her eyes that remained closed to him.

Though he had heard the tale uttered from many mothers before, somehow, when this creature before him chanted it, it struck the chords of something he would not know a name for for many years after. He’d never really listened nor cared for it before. Not until now. Not until this female who breathed every syllable with emotion that none had mustered before. 

“The earth became vengeful watching her son love the woman that he took for his one and only love, so she trapped him, just as her own lover had been, deep within the confines of rock and soil. The daughter of the moon, just like her mother, wept, wept, and wept for the other half of her heart that she had given to her lover, and the moon, out of love for her daughter, begged the skies to release to the earth her beloved.”

The goddess in white had raised her hands toward the large orb in the sky almost as if to welcome its pain. 

Why he had felt a need to rid her of it before it could reach her, he didn’t know. All that he did know was that the very thought of her receiving any harm, of something swallowing away her radiance, was unbearable, his chest panging at the idea of her light being snuffed out. Watching and listening to her…it was like stepping into a sea of warmth and luminescence, the darkness of everything else falling away into nothingness. 

“Disgusted at the earth’s selfishness, the sky refused, but the moon begged, the sad tears and pained wails of her daughter over her lover’s absence making her mother sad and doleful. Her daughter’s siblings in the sky grew dim in their own pity for their sister, and too did their mother. The tides began to become restless, the seasons did not obey their call, and darkness began to eat away at the mother of the daughter who roamed restlessly, longingly, and devotedly in her search for her other half.” 

Like the tide, the girl let her body sway with the water’s ripples as she spun around on her heels thrice, each rotation bringing her closer to him and yet, not close enough. 

“Unable to cage the chaos that had taken hold of her body, the earth asked the moon to share her light with the world once more, but she could not. Not until her daughter’s lover had been returned to her. The skies, seeing that the world would soon turn to ruin, decided to offer a bargain: The earth’s beloved would be granted to her only during the rain showers of the skies tears that the moon would permit, and in return, the earth would relinquish her son to one who truly cared for him.” 

The deity in front of him, unseeing of the world around him and now at the water’s edge, let her hands fall back to her sides until the cloth of her trailing, billowing sleeves covered them from sight once more. The darkness had receded to only one side of her face, the other receiving the tender light of the moon. 

The wind blew gently around them, his scent continually swept away by it so that he could remain undetected by her even in this close vicinity. 

“The earth accepted, but not before the daughter of the moon had collapsed from exhaustion on the ground before the cave that mother nature, the earth, had trapped the one she’d been searching for in. The daughter of the moon’s body had grown weak, the life inside it that they had made together stealing what little of her energy remained.” 

His heart now hammering in his chest at her closeness, he could only hold his breath as he watched her, mesmerized by the ethereal glow that seemed to shine underneath her rosy cheeks.  

“The earth’s son revoked his mother upon seeing the shaking shell of his lover, and on his back he carried her to the highest mountain before the widest plane where even the clouds shielded him from his mother’s vengeful eyes. There, the moon and sun fashioned a healing tonic flowing from the sun’s rays themselves, and with it, the son of the earth nursed his love back to health, their child soon born days later.”

As if the goddess before him could sense him, she delicately fell to her knees, hands folding in her lap as her chin rose toward the sky with eyes that still did not see nature before her. Had it not been for the cascading water from the little waterfall behind her, there is no way she would have missed the thundering whims of the muscle nestled under his ribs.

“The earth was resentful, and so she too became pregnant with more like her son when her lover was released to her through the rain. To her three sons came, each growing faster with the meats she fed them, and it was not long before they were sent to end the life of her first-born, each of them deformed by their hatred with a mind bent on revenge and wishing to rid their brother of his son and take what he held dearest–his beloved bride– for themselves. None were successful, but the largest of these monsters, after 10,001 nights, nearly was.” 

 She had paused, a silver streak of wetness falling down her cheek. An irrational desire to wipe it away had been quick to take him, his paw reaching out toward her. That tear did not belong here. Before he could make it there, the female who had sat on her knees only inches from him used her sleeve to clear it away, yet the redness around her eyes lingered as more tears fell and her chant descended in its lovely pitch almost as if life itself had been fading away from her. 

“His brothers had wounded him, scarred him, hurt him in their many battles of blood, but the second eldest had been cunning. He’d waited until the female who had mated the eldest had gone into heat, her vulnerable state easy to trick her in when he’d covered himself in the blood of her mate. It had been easy to capture her and secure her to the nearest boulder at the cliff’s edge while he’d waited for her mate to return, and upon seeing her wrists and feet bound and their only son dead at her feet while the young pup’s lifeless heart was in the maw of his brother, he’d seen red, the thunder piercing air while rain had pelted them hard as lightning flashed.” 

Each word had stirred a hole inside him that could not be filled except with the mellifluous sound of her voice, its mournful melody making him lower his own head in how heavy it suddenly felt. Her own hands had since opened and turned upward, palms facing upward as if to beseech something–anything– to comfort her. Again his paw had moved of its own accord, pads of them just a hair’s length above hers. 

“Taking advantage of his brother’s anger, the second-eldest had almost managed to rip his brother’s head from his shoulders–if not for the moon’s daughter, who had seen through the second-eldest’s plans and warned him before it was too late. As a strike of lightning that had arced across the sky, the first son of the earth blinded the second-eldest with his claws before tearing his jawbone off of him and sending him howling off of the cliff to his death. This was not before he himself had been fatally injured, his brother’s teeth sinking deep into his nape and skull. Just enough strength he had had to loose the bindings on his lover before collapsing on the ground next to their lifeless son, his life draining away from him with the river of blood he lost.”

The female in white paused, shaking her head as if trying to will the image of it away, and her brows had reached toward each other as if to seek comfort while her small fingers had curled in on themselves. Still he holds his paw above hers, fearing that if he touches her, the trance will be broken. That this moment of respite he had found in this alluring creature that unknowingly welcomed him as her listener will come to an abrupt end. 

When she had spoken again, there, in the back of each word, had been the inklings of hope, of the same brilliance she seemed to shine with under each of those long lashes of hers. 

“The moon and sun, having observed the wicked earth from above, took pity on the sky-shattering screams of the lone female that had been left behind, her beloved’s dying breath that he wished he could have held her in his arms one more time while he told her that his love for her would never die. The moon and sun took pity on the two, reshaping and reforming their bodies yet housing their souls in them just the same, bestowing upon the lone female a gift– the gift to heal and restore with the same lips that had drank the life-giving tonic her beloved had fed to her through his kiss.” 

Somehow, the tale had elicited images–remnants of another time– that he’d never thought about before. It was like uncovering something long buried, but it was fleeting. Gone before he could really process it as it buried itself again in the dirt of memory he would not recall for many years later. And in the face of her staggering divine beauty that no other girl her age should have possessed, it was easy to forget. 

“The two found themselves together in each other’s arms in bodies that were of human craft, the ability to shift from their previous lupine,werewolf self to that of a human bestowed to them by the mercy of the gods above who soon created their likenesses, in different forms, sizes, and shapes, and populated the earth with them. Mother Nature corrupted some, but not all, and those that were not corrupted followed the first-born son of earth and the daughter of the moon, who mourned the loss of their son every moon until they were blessed with another, many moons later.” 

Their shadows, now one, had melded together while she had sung the words as if they were a blessing. She had been at peace in the finality of the tale, her brows releasing from the tense position they’d been in, and where her lips had thinned where she had pulled them together, they had parted in their fullness, a strange impulse to touch where she had spoken so charmingly from fixing itself in him.

“Such is the tale of the Lupine Antiquis, the first of our kind. They were each other's heart and soul–fated by the moon and sun– by our gods above. May their tale always bring light in the darkness of lone wanderers in the night.”

Such ethereal sounds departed her lips that she breathed such life into, and he’d been so sure he had been enchanted by them, by her, his paw summoned by them to hers in the urge to dispel her own loneliness that loomed behind her like a penumbra even through all the luminousness of the moon’s silvery streams around them from the moon above. 

The moment they’d touched, her eyes had opened, a look of surprise slowly transforming her once serene, relaxed features while he stared, drawn hopelessly to the glimmering, shining rings of silver that orbited her orbs for eyes. They were brilliant–she was brilliant– and instantly he had felt gravity somewhere in his chest shift, something flipping and turning upside down while he’d continued to gape, pulled immediately into the infinite space of compassion and curiosity that coursed through each of her eyes. 

“Who…who are you? How did you find me?” She had asked the words so entreatingly, no inkling of fear in them. Even her questions compelled him to answer, for the young wolf deep inside him wanted her to hear him, to see him, to know him. 

It had been that creature inside him that had made his bones move and change him from waist to head, his black fur falling away from him hair by hair while the young maiden’s eyes had widened larger than any planetary system. 

“My name,” he had found himself answering honestly, “is Jungkook. I was wandering through the forest. I heard you singing.” 

For no one else had he ever spoken so openly. There were few with whom his father would allow him to talk to, but this female… he felt like the walls he’d been taught to put up crumbled to mere specks under the endless expanse of her gentle gaze. 

“You are,”  she started in astonishment, “a boy. I’ve never met a boy before.” 

Where his black paw had been resting over her upturned hands in her lap, there had since morphed from it a human hand, his baser being wanting–needing– a connection that he could not explain.

“Is that because you are a goddess sent from the stars?” The question had come out before his mind had even caught up with his lips, and the most ariose music of laughter that he’d ever heard had been performed for him by the female whose eyes had shone brighter than any light above them.

“I am mortal, Jungkook of the Forest. Why do you ask me this?” There was a soft rhythm even in her small movements, each of the pads of her fingertips tapping at his as if to tune her understanding of him into her mind. 

There had been no hesitance in his answer, the song of her word and instrument of her beauty easily moving him.

“No siren nor angel has a voice like yours. No witch could harness the moon and shower themselves in its dust and light as you shine with its favor.” He had let her experimentally turn his hand over in her lap, both of her hands taking his between them and holding him there while he let his tongue loose the thoughts that made his heart race like an imp under his ribs at her touch that felt so impossibly right when he knew it shouldn’t have. “You sing of lone wanderers and finding someone that will end the torment of that inescapable loneliness when you are alone here–under the moon–in the middle of night. Like a fallen goddess.”

She had gone still under the staggering admissions of the boy from the wood, for he had seen in seconds what no other had. 

That she was lonely. That she was searching for the end of that horrid, cold hell. 

And the hand she held between hers? Not even the sun could burn that away, but his…it did. Somehow, holding him was like touching the purest of summer rays. It was… it was wonderful. 

Perhaps that was why her own answer had spilled from her mouth to his eager ears. “No one that knows my name calls me by that term, Jungkook of the Wood. But you have earned a favor because of your perceptive eyes that have seen more to me than even those who birthed me are willing to acknowledge. Name it, and it will be yours.”

Greed had not been a concept known to him yet. But when he looked at her, its wings had unfurled, the promise of more making his hopes high and a selfish need soar. 

He had to see her again. Had to hear her sweet voice again. Had to have her nearby and around him again. 

In his mind, the subtle, dainty movements of a dance she’d done for the silver disk hanging above them had played, the shadings of his desire forming. 

“I would ask that you grant my wish to meet here, in this creek, when the moon is full just as it is now.” 

A smile had bounded across her lips, and she’d giggled to herself at his rather demanding request,“You are a strange boy to ask for my presence alone. Still,” she closed her eyes, cupping his hand in both of her own before bringing it against her chest where her heart kept trying to leap toward him. ”Let this be my promise to you, then, Jungkook of the Wood. We shall meet here, with the moon as our witness, when she is full on a night like this one. Allow me to sing for you to seal this vow.”

As if the atmosphere itself wanted to be her orchestra, the wind shook the branches and leaves, their chimes the perfect backdrop for the springing water behind and around them as she chanted to the gods in bits and pieces of a language not yet mastered, yet one that had been largely lost to time’s hand. 

He had not understood a word of it, but somehow, her euphonious crescendos and trills that carried through the air like a feather had been enough to lull him into a most peaceful sleep after they’d both lain down beside each other along the soft bed of grass by the creek. 

Dreams of her frolicking through a field of wheat with him tailing behind her while she’d had an angelic, carefree smile on her face were all that found him that night. And many, many after. 

When he’d woken, the goddess he had been sure he’d met had disappeared, the only trace of her left behind in his hand being two gardenias that looked as if they’d been frozen in time at the pinnacle of their bloom. 

Just as she had promised, she had found him in their meeting place under the mother of the stars when she became full. The female’s luminous laughter joined with his on those nights when he made it his mission to show her the joys of childhood that adults could never understand. 

From the games of tag to making dandelions fly, their exploits were as infinite as the sky above, and inevitably, the sun would steal away the night–and her– from him when she would sing him to sleep with her dulcet songs while she stroked his hair from where his head had rested atop her lap from where she sat by the creek after they’d exchanged stories only innocence could conjure. 

Each meeting brought them closer, an unexplainable union forging between two souls so alone yet so yearning for a companion that they were soon not willing to be apart from each other without their dreams interfering. 

Years passed, but one cold, dark winter night, she did not appear to him again. 

Devastation had stolen his joy from him, and for many moons he visited that creek, hoping that he would encounter his goddess once again. 

 When it became clear to him that his son had been afflicted by a sickness of the heart, his father had forced him out of the forest and down to the milling compound of wood and wolves like him for a supply drop at the forge that his father alone manned and trained him the arts of metal, crafting, and woodworking in. He hadn’t wanted to go, the little muscle in his chest aching and hurting as if stuck with thousands of needles in the absence of the goddess-turned-muse that he’d found in the wood. 

He’d hardly been there a minute before he’d meandered from his father’s side, his nose catching a whiff of a pleasant, heavenly scent he had come to have a liking for where everything else was wretched and disgusting. 

There, laying in the middle of a flowery field with an aged leather tome far too big for her hands, sat the figure of the only girl who could harness his attention to her. He’d called out to her instantly, but when she turned to him, the eyes that once looked at him like he was something so special had changed to ones of unfamiliarity. She’d cocked her head curiously at him, her usual light there in her orbs, but it was as if the lack of recognition refracted the usual rays of it that reflected her warmth straight to his core. 

It had not taken his father long to pull him away from her, the young girl’s own mother dragging her away from him in a flourish of silks. 

When her mother had informed the young girl’s father of Jungkook’s interest in her, the door to his home in the woods had been shattered to splinters by that father. 

He had answered the older man’s call, a rigidness to the lines stiffening the older man’s face when he admonished Jungkook for coming too close to his precious daughter knowing that, as Jungkook was a pureblood, his urges and impulses would be much more uncontrollable, dangerous, and powerful. 

That Jungkook’s father had bested this man in combat and taken from him the rank of Pack Alpha had only founded a dislike and disapproval of him even deeper. 

Jungkook had not felt an ounce of fear, the thought of you, his glimmering goddess of flesh and bone, bespeckling him in intent. Intent that refused to let itself be snuffed out. 

He had gone to his knee that night, bowing his head as a sign of respect when he’d told the young girl’s father about all that they’d done and promised under the moon, asking if there was a way her father would allow him to remain by her side even though she had forgotten him.

Her father had responded to his question with a challenge: injure him in combat, and he would accept Jungkook as his daughter’s silent protector and guardian in exchange for the chance to be near her, but absent from her everyday life until he could prove himself to be stronger than him. 

He’d accepted the challenge without a second thought, and though he still had not been full grown at the time, he’d known enough from training with his father, who had been the Pack Alpha before him, to leave a scar on the man’s arm when he’d foolishly rushed toward him thinking speed would be enough to best him when he was more agile than any wolf the pack had ever had. 

One thing he knew for certain had always been that the very thought of you brought music and color to an otherwise bland, dull world. 

And if you could not remember him, he would rebuild anew. As many times as it took, he would start if you were at the finish.

What began as childish selfishness soon became adolescent fixation, and as the years passed and he grew taller, stronger, and older, that fixation morphed to a quiet obsession for the female that he’d discovered was, like him, a werewolf. 

Her life, he had also discovered, had been one absent of the light and warmth she carried in her eyes.

For her whole life, she had been raised to be the Keeper of the Scrolls (one who attended to, studied, and taught all of the sacred knowledge and texts as well as enforced the traditions of the lupine antiquis) second only to being groomed to become the next Pack Omega, the highest ranked position an omega could hold, which was a position that afforded its bearer to preside over and have authority over all omegas in the pack.

She'd had to sacrifice her childhood for aged parchments and leather bindings of books older than her, the duty of nurturing and instructing the pack's litters of pups falling to her when the previous aged omega became too sick and frail to even leave her bed.

His lover's parents, thinking only of another shiny acumen to add to their perfect daughter that they hoped would attract the next Pack Alpha, had not given her a choice to take that role over. It had been a mandate.

And because her nose had always been buried in a book or scroll either in her chambers or in the archives, she had had very few to talk to. Those that did only did so out of the hopes that one day, she would grant them favors.

He knew this because he heard those insipid, manipulative  creatures spin their cruelties in their speech behind his beloved's back when they believed she was out of earshot.

He'd taken the liberty of handling them, making sure that any vile words spoken about his female were never spoken aloud again with threats of exposing their own dirty secrets that so easily slipped from their lips when he gave them even the slightest bit of attention. 

Such was easy when all of the females in the pack fancied him to the point that they would all but throw themselves at him when he took over the forge that his father had alone been running.

But sometimes, even he could not silence all of the toxic whispers of female jealousy. It was like a disease, and though he had done his best to cure it, there inevitably would be an outlier that slipped under his nose.

On those nights, his love wept alone in her chambers,  her face buried in the mound of pillows on her bed that could not satisfy the need for another's companionship in the bitter solidarity that her parents had caused with their suffocating projection of their own will over her own.

Those were the nights he wandered closer than he should have and left you notes on your windowsill, wishing with everything in his being that he could be by her side, that he could do more than just be your besotted guardian phantom.

Your mother had become sick with an incurable illness your thirteenth winter when she had ventured too far in the forest and been pricked by a nature spirit’s curse that made her see things that were not there, her mind twisted by apparitions that made her forget all but her mate–even her own daughter. Your father, too, had been afflicted by his feelings for her mother that all but consumed him, and when she’d fallen into a sleep that had stopped her organs in your fifteenth year, her soul had joined those of their ancestors. 

Unable to live without his mate, your father had gone, too, so that he could be reunited with his love in the after. 

In his final moments, he’d sent for Jungkook, and he’d damned Jungkook such that, for many moons after, he would wish he could be rid of that night from his mind.

The dying man, who held tight to the blade in his chest that he had put there, had revealed to him that he had traded your memories with Jungkook in exchange for a release from your mother’s torment. With his last shred of life he had ordered Jungkook to protect you from a distance until his daughter came of age–until you were ready to give yourself to the next Pack Alpha. 

You had not even been able to mourn them in peace, the duties your parents had bound unto you too tight to escape, and for three years you wore smiles during the day that never reached your eyes when the elders, like owls, had swooped down over you to caw at you to do more, more, more for the litters of pups you had to teach as the sole Schoolmistress, to be more firmer on the edicts and laws you were to enforce as Keeper of the Scrolls.

For years he had been your shadow and had kept to your father’s dying wish, and he had been content in simply being in your presence. Just seeing you had been enough to quiet the rampant thoughts that roamed his head when he closed them at night. 

But when the heavy weight of it all became too much for you, it was no longer enough for him to linger by your window.

It was why, when the firelight had died and you laid on your bed in a deep sleep, he entered your chambers from the window you’d left open and stoked that fire so that the cold of loneliness did not find you. For a long time, he'd just sit there, watching your beautiful expressions while you slept with the flames licking at his back.

How he had longed to embrace you, but doing so would leave his scent on you. So instead, he did the only thing he could do for you.

He sang for you. Sang the very song he'd first heard you sing in the creek when they had been but children. And when the creases between your eyes would disappear, peace falling over your expression, that's when he'd confess his feelings for you and pour his very heart out to your unknowing form while you whispered his name as if you heard him. As if to beckon him to your dreams. 

You’d had the cutest habit of rolling around and somehow twisting the sheets around your body in something akin to a cocoon. On the draftier nights that left a shoulder or leg exposed, he could sooner resist tucking you in than a leaf staying still when the wind blew. He’d kiss the space right next to where your hand was, the silky material of your bedding a poor excuse to the soft flesh of your hand or cheek. 

Your mouth had always been off limits to him, but there were nights that you called so sweetly for him, your mind begging you to remember what had been taken from you. 

Everytime he thought to wake you and tell you everything, it came just as soon as it retreated, the image of your father’s pallid form drenched in his own blood forcing itself upon him while he’d spurted the words of warning: 

“She must never be told her memories were taken. If you do, the dark spirit that hurt her mother will steal away whatever memories she has left and she will wake every day with no anamnesis of you. As the only pureblooded female directly descended from the Lupine Antiquis, she presents a threat to their power that they wish to destroy.  If you truly wish to be her shield, you will heed that, boy.”

He’d lost count of how many suns had risen with that warning pervading his mind like venom. Always looming over his head, he had never managed to cure himself of it. 

Relief only came when he watched her, from behind the cover of foliage, and she ran through the fields, her hair unbound and free, with a smile that did find its way all the way into her irises. It seemed to glow brighter than the candlelight she’d leave by her bedside when she read through the letters he’d leave on her windowsill. He swore that from her perch on her bed, those orbs were impossibly more luminous. 

That same luminescence stayed there only when she spoke to her grandmother or close friend, Niva, of her mysterious suitor from the paper left on her window. When she found him, inevitably, in their dreams that, for years, she had thought only to be a fabrication of her mind’s whims. 

He moves toward the same rocky wall, walking through the curtain of vines and greenery without pause toward his destination.

He’s careful as he parts the strands of nature’s green hair, not wanting it to touch you and disturb your rest. 

The rustling sound of the grass beneath his feet is quieted by the same flowing water that had greeted him when he was a child all of those years ago, the proud creek she’d made her refuge when home became asphyxiating from the demands of elders children that asked much of her. 

The water sparkles now like thousands of diamonds atop of it, the green of the grass surrounding the bank of the pool emeraldine in color before the rocks bordering the pool of water. Even the trees stand at attention, devoted to shielding them from the rest of the world with boughs that contained leaves of every color that rivaled the precious stones he had fashioned into jewelry for her.

So much had happened since he’d first stepped foot here. And though your memories of him from before had been stolen, you’d never forgotten this place. 

And neither had he. 

His feet continue on past that creek, past the long basin of water that flows toward the smaller crevices in the earth, the thick forest around opening up to a meadow of lilies, lilacs, and lavender, the soft breaths of his slumbering beloved easing him while he carries you in his arms toward the large house of wood and glass in the distance. 

You’d always loved the color purple, your hands lingering a little too long on fabric of the shade or flowers with petals of the hue as if you wished the entire world could be painted in it. 

Purple like area around his wound had been when he’d come across her in the forest one night so many years ago and when they’d rendezvoused under the moon.

Not wanting to disturb her while she sang, he’d forgotten about the prick lodged in one of them when he tried to back up, only for him to have made a sound of pain. 

It had been enough to make the human figure before him finally turn, familiar kindness in those eyes of hers dispelling the dark of his doubts and troubles. 

She’d noticed right away the source of his discomfort, offering her gentle hands to him without a second thought. 

He’d been taught his entire existence never to show weakness to anyone, but this creature–this goddess with a voice tuned and tailored by the gods– she had him quickly lain on his belly and his head on her lap within minutes, the melodies of feelings that could neither be seen nor understood streaming from her lips while she quickly, effortlessly, and painlessly pulled the thorn out before wrapping his injured paw in a bandage of leaves and moss. 

He wonders if, somewhere in there, she’d been holding on and grasping for those little reminders of their time together even if she could not recall them fully. Like trying to grab for hay that kept disappearing no matter how many times one tried to get to it.

Still he walks on to the place he had built for her—a home he had crafted with his own hands, each beam and stone chosen with care.

The cabin stood there like something from the dreams he’d shared with her, its dark gray stonework grounding it firmly to the earth, while the warm, golden hues of the wood siding seemed to beckon the fading sunlight, blending seamlessly with the natural beauty of the forest. A towering stone chimney rose from one side, smoke curling lazily into the sky.

But it was the windows that had taken him the longest to craft—the massive, sweeping wall of glass that spanned the entire second story. It framed the forest like a living painting, offering an uninterrupted view of the wild landscape beyond. The black frames around the windows gave the structure contrasted with the light brown of the main paneling composing the main frame of the house, while a glass-railed balcony stretched across the upper floor, inviting the master bedroom’s inhabitants to step out and drink in the vastness of the wilderness.

The soft glow of light spilling from the lower floor's windows added a warmth to the cabin, making it feel like a sanctuary tucked away in the forest's embrace. And the deck, broad and covered, stretched out beneath the overhang of the second story that was lined with the same bevy of vines from the curtain of it that veiled away her little creek. It offered a perfect space to sit and listen to the whisper of the trees in the wind that he knew she liked to hear. 

He treads board over the porch, the flickering flames that burn from their bronze sconces casting an inviting welcome upon the lower walls of stacked grey stone around them. 

He’d placed each stone by hand, fashioned every fixture and wood paneling, and been the sole architect and builder of this place from the ground up since he was a child.

All for her. 

And as he opens the double doors of glass, she is all he sees, his one hand tucking some of her fine hairs behind her ear. 

He looks not at the rugs of earthly colors he’d woven himself, nor the tables, chairs, or other pieces of furniture he’d built here, in this space, that decorate the main foyer that opens to the left to a grand kitchen, and to the right a spacious dining room. He doesn’t glance at the main den with its impressive stone chimney past the kitchen that, like the front of the house, has tall windows for walls that leave a grand view of the surrounding forest and valley beyond. 

In the back of that den are two doors opposite to each other on either side of the space–one a library full of books he’d spent years procuring from traders and adventuring merchants. 

And the other was a study complete with her writing desk, her writing utensils, her favorite velvet-lined lounge chair. 

All for her. 

He doesn’t spare a second of attention on any of that as he climbs the spiraling staircase around the chimney, the dark metal rail complementing the wood of the steps as he holds the greatest of his treasures in his arms while the candles he’d left lit in their bronze candelabras sitting on the end tables and countered nooks flitter about, his shadow and his beloved’s joining together behind them.

When he arrives at the top of the staircase, his footfalls are light over the floor in effort not to awaken his lover’s rest, her dark lashes fluttering minutely when he deposits her on the nest of white and black pelts blanketing the bed. Its four wooden posters hold a curtain of grey fabric that, in the moonlight, looks like it is speckled with moondust.

Still he lovingly gazes upon you as he sits beside you, his fingers tenderly carding their way through your hair as he whispers, “When you wake, my love, I will be waiting for you. Until then, rest. May your dreams be sweet and your slumber peaceful.”

He pulls the cord from around one post of the bed and then the other, not looking away from your beautiful form for a moment. It is because of this that he notices one of your hands, even while your eyes are still closed, reach toward him, his name tumbling from your lips when his weight disappears from next to you.  

That thing palpitating in his chest becomes fuller with the blood of his love for you at that, and he is quick to return to you after throwing another log into the stone fireplace built into one half-wall so that the chill of the night will not discomfort you even though the pillar candles he’d set into brass holders fan their warmth over to you.

When he lies beside you once more with the pelt he’d retrieved from the chest of birch wood at the foot of the bed, he gently covers you with it before slowly, tentatively guiding you toward him until your head rests on the pillow of his chest, a purring sound melting him when he hears it from your still figure. 

Still fast asleep, you rub your cheek into the solid plane of his pectoral, the pheromones of his that that wafts around comforting you as you lay one of your palms over his heart, its steady rhythm reaching for you even in dormancy.  

You nestle closer and closer until your front is somehow lain over his, your nose nudging up against his neck as you breathe in the black vanilla that only grew in the mountainside, the gardenia that you liked to grow in your garden, and pear that you liked to pick from the pear trees. It culminated into a heath of the scent of your love, his quiet breathing warming you more than any blanket could. 

When your purr is drawn down into a breath shaped around his name once more, your voice summons his mouth to your temple as he turns his head to leave a kiss there, strong arms wrapping around you to keep you close.

“I’m right here, my love. I always have, and I always will be.” He utters against your hairline, lips finding a spot at the top of your head to leave yet another of his kisses–this one softer than the last. 

With the love of his life secure in his embrace, he watches the way your lashes dance while you dream with unseeing eyes, wishing he could meet you in them. 

The sight of you so at peace makes his own lids grow heavy, and soon, he too is carried off into the realm of dreams. 

It is not until the wax of the candles on the bedside tables has begun to drip into the small bronze beds below them and the moon has risen to her throne in the night sky that the female in his arms is roused from her slumber. 

Your lids are still groggy with sleep as you blink at the view of your mate who lies beneath you, a serene expression tenderizing his features into one more youthful and absent of lines that mark the obstacles of maturity. 

Your wolf, now awake at the sight of your alpha, does not let you rest until you have satisfied the sudden need to touch him–to make sure this is real. 

That he’s real and finally, finally yours. 

So you sit up a little, using the hand you have on his chest to support you, the pads of your fingers on your other nimbly dragging across the area under one of his eyes. He doesn’t stir, and so you let your digits slide down the side of his cheek before they glide under his lower lip. 

His breaths are even as they billow against your finger when your thumb glides over the plush cushion of his lip, and when his eyes open to reveal those golden discs of the sun in them, it takes your breath away in how they are incandescent as the candlelight around him. 

“Good evening to you, too, my love,” his hand is there, wrapping itself around your wrist so he can bring your finger to his lips, both of them converging so he can present the proper attention to your digit as the pillows of both reach for you. “How are you feeling?”

Not even five seconds spent outside of sleep, and his first concern was you. 

The fact makes that emotion from before envelop you, and when you try to press yourself more against him, that’s when you realize you’ve been encased in furs around your lower half. You don’t remember those from before. The last thing you could recall was the bathhouse where you’d fallen into his arms from blood loss. 

As you ogle the bedroom around you, the air itself has been claimed completely by your alpha, his pleasing scent everywhere at once. 

Why was it getting hotter the longer that enticing aroma swirled under your nostrils? Why did it emanate your mate’s very name everywhere you looked?

The answer comes when your mate releases you from his hold, both arms bending under him so he can lean back on them while the muscles scaling his arms jump at the motion and a loud, sharp whine fills the chamber. 

Your skin feels clammy, but you know that the cold would be nipping at you if you were outside. 

You only realize you’re whimpering when one of his large hands settles on your hip and he croons, “It’s okay, my love. I brought you home. You can do whatever you wish here. This place is all for you.” 

Words seem insufficient now, but even if you could voice them, what comes out is: “Hot…I-I…I’m hot.”

“I know, my love. Your scent shifted as you slept.” He helps you kick off the blanket, for it fails to offer the warmth he did as you succumb to the insistent itch to be nearer, closer, nigher to him before you climb onto his lap while he lets you. 

“Why?” Your breath comes out short, like a pant, your dress suddenly feeling too heavy and constricting on your body. You try to pull at one of the sleeves, and when he watches that, the pink of his tongue slipping over his bottom lip, the answer becomes evident in the slick that rolls down your thigh onto the edge of his bare waist from where you straddle him. 

The hand he doesn’t hold you with curls into a fist in effort to control himself, his teeth biting into the flesh of his cheek as he tells you, “Your heat, my love. You are in heat.” 

The answer has your thighs closing themselves around him persistently, unwilling to let him go. As if your mind has been filled with water, it is difficult to breach for clear thought, your body acting for you even though your thoughts are leagues behind. 

It’s too hot here, under these heavy layers of your dress. You need to get out of it. 

“H-hot…alpha…please,” You whimper meekly, your fingers fumbling for the v-lined neckline of your gown in effort to get it off while your hips roll into his, the hardness your bare sex rubs against obvious in his want for you. 

His irises scintillate from where watches you above him, the hand he has on your hip squeezing strongly around you while the fingernails of his other leave crescents in the meat of his palm. By their nature, when an omega was in heat, they became vulnerable, losing most if not all of their rationale and reason over the impulse of their instincts. Instincts that demanded an omega to be bred by an alpha.

While your mind is clearly addled under the sweltering waves of heat, you can hardly say anything but the name of the only male your very soul yearned for. 

“Jungkook, n-need…w-want-”

Those are the words that he needs to hear, the nagging worry that had begun to set in expelled at the call of his name. An omega that was able to speak was one that was not too far gone into their urges such that they were unaware of their actions and incapable of deciding whether they wanted to be mounted or not by an alpha.

“I want to take care of you, my love. I want to help you so badly.” He sits up, his other hand sidling up your lower back, your spine, and finally along your nape where he cups the back of your neck so he can bring you to his waiting lips. “But you have to use your voice for me, my love. I need to make sure that it isn’t your heat that makes the choice for you. Can you do that for me, pretty girl?”

“Yes…a-alpha,” You let him affix his mouth to yours, the wet warmth of him making you moan into his mouth while you continue to tug at your neckline in how tight it has become. He makes no move to deepen the kiss, simply content to breathe in your air and feel you against him while your hips undulate against him.

There is no room for embarrassment when all you can think about is him. And he treats you as if you are a shy spirit that could run from him if your sudden boldness catches up to you.

You fight the eddies of your heat that make thoughts want to sink before they can make it to the surface of your mind, but his words and restraint had been the anchor that you needed to make it there for a momentary breach of lucidity. 

The mist of desire that had settled over your eyes clears when you open them for him, and there he sees the clarity of your decision that is unmistakable as the stars in the sky when you reach out for him through the invisible bond tying you together. 

I want this, alpha. Please, help me. I…I need you.

He dives into the depths of your eyes, plunging forth to unearth any unsurety in you. 

He finds none. 

His other hand scales up your side, fingers slipping under one of the thin straps of your gown that hides you from him. There they stay until you disconnect your lips from his, a string of saliva lengthening between you until it breaks. 

“Are you sure, my love?” He checks one more time, needing your assurance. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything else, alpha,” you earnestly encourage, covering his hand with yours and coaxing one of strap over and down your shoulder. 

Slowly, the long train of your sleeve pools at your waist, one half of your chest now free from the prison of its fabric binding. 

His mouth waters at the exposed skin you have granted him the gift of seeing, the larger and calloused pads of his fingers tracing around your breast while you let out a sigh of satisfaction at the feeling. 

“You are so beautiful, my love. So, so beautiful.” He adulates while his fingers wander downwards toward your navel as your cheeks burn at the praise. Heat simmers under wherever he touches, and when the fabric of your bodice hinders him from going any lower, his digits ascend toward the other side of your chest. This time, you let your arm fall back toward your side, waiting patiently for him to unfetter your other breast from its confines. 

He tugs it down as if uncovering a prized jewel, your skin all but glittering in the moonlight and candlelight that convalesce against you. 

Little by little he undresses you atop of him, your hands falling over each of his shoulders when both of his arms wind around your back to untie and loosen the strings of your bodice one by one. You swallow his breaths like they are all the sustenance you could ever need, and he greedily sups yours when he doesn’t have his mouth latched to yours. 

When the last of the lacings are undone and your bodice and sleeves, like your skirts, lie in a heap around your waist, he pulls away and your breathless pants entice his eyes down where old blood, dried spit, and half-moon shapes made by his teeth mark you from navel to neck. 

He looks at you like you’re a goddess without wings, and that avid attention makes your heart take flight in your chest as he takes one of your breasts into his hand, holding you there while you make a sound of need that, to him, is a delicate song. 

“I had my fantasies of you, but nothing I could have ever tried to picture could ever have been as good as this.” He husks, his other hand cradling your other breast before each of his thumbs curve inward, the pads of them rubbing along that pink bud of your nipples. “Your tits are so fucking pretty. So fucking perfect in my hands. Just like the rest of you.” 

The stimulation makes a rush of arousal flood your body, your eyes misting over once again while you plunge back under the haze of your heat as you cry out for him, your hips, to their own tune, rutting into his in search of friction. When he squeezes, massaging and kneading his fingers into your tits, it only has your hips working harder against him while you moan for him.

He captures your mouth with his, flipping you both over after releasing your tits so he cushions your head with one of them and brace himself with his other, a smirk playing at his lips when you reach both arms around his neck in an attempt to pull him down toward your waiting lips. 

“I used to think about how I was going to mount you for the first time, pretty girl,”  the rings of gold in his eyes beckon your attention as he nudges his knee between yours so that you have something to rut your hips into, for he hadn’t missed the subtle sway of them when you’d been atop of him earlier. “This is exactly what I imagined. You, bare and waiting for me, on the bed I made with my own hands just for you. In the den I built just for you.” 

[whereserpentswalk]

They say there was a monster hunter, who had killed countless cryptids and entities, who fell in love with a vampire. They fell in love when they were fighting, but as they rolled around it soon felt as if they were playing, and soon they kissed, and he forgot about her fangs that could have so easily bitten him. And for once he chose not to kill a monster.

And she told him that she could be with him, and be his lover, for as long as he wished. But she reminded him that she was a free being, that she would never be tamed by him, and never made to put down her weapons, and be made to be like a human bride. She would never be able to marry him by any law, never have sex with him or bare his children, never take him as her only lover, or his god as her only god, and when he died her life would still be far from over. And he agreed with his words, but hoped she would change her mind some day on all things.

As as the hunter was still young, he let her hunt with him. She could see and hear better than any human, and knew where her fellow unseelie lurked. She could hypnotize a mothman as he shot at it from the ground, and could track a werewolf in the darkest of nights. And they would run together across city streets in the moonlight, and for a time their love was true. And all the local bars and local artists began to know their names well, and as the cold autumn night winds blew in their hair, they knew eachother at their best. Soon they had an apartment together, and he would brush her hair in the morning light as she slept.

At first they thought they were alike. But as he saw her hunt more, saw her mouth open wide into a mess as fangs and sharp teeth and then fold back to human shape, saw her run naked to chase down a stray goblin, and saw her sexless body naked, with scars from where her humanity was lost, he began to see her as a wild beast he had on a leash. And as she saw all the things he hunted, how willingly he would trust the testimony of humans, and how little he would show ugly things mercy. There were many creatures she had to convince him not to kill, as many as there were creatures she helped him kill, and she too felt she was hold a leash with a wild beast at the other end more and more as time went on and on.

And as he got older and older, and he began getting stranger and stranger freinds. Strange to the vampire at least, to the monster hunter they were very normal. No longer did he know the poor, the students and teachers and programmers and artists. Soon he had freinds who worked in finance, in law, who ran startups, or women who lived like pets in their husband's laps. And suddenly he wanted her to look presentable to them, even if they knew she was a vampire she couldn't be the kind they would be afraid of. Her mouth couldn't open all the way, it had to remain in a human looking state. And she couldn't spread her wings, and she had to move like a human, and dress well around them. And when they ate she couldn't drink blood, she just had to be served mortal food, and state at it as she ate nothing. And he'd pet her little head as he answered so many questions for her.

And as he got older still he began to have richer and richer clients. Fewer people in danger and more and more people looking to get rid of "problematic elements". And more and more did the hunter look at the vampire and realize that he was older now, and she was still young. And he wondered if he should have told her to transform him when he was still young, and make him like her, of the unseelie kind, forever young. Yet he thought he was too late for that, not knowing how much older he still had to grow.

And eventually, as he was older, and his clients ever richer, he told her that he was moving. He didn't ask her. He told her. And it was assumed she'd move with him. And he took her to a town, just outside of the city limits, where you needed a car to leave. And there was nothing to do at night, and no cryptids or entities but her. And there was a big house with a TV. And he would drive into the city to hunt, without her. And she would no longer walk the city streets, free and wild, and she would no longer have freinds outside of him. And she was alone, for the first time in centuries she had nobody.

And once, after they had lived together in that town for years. As he had grown older, he told her that it was time she finally slept with him. He pointed to his body and explained to her that he had needs as a man, and she had duties as his wife, and it was the first time he ever called her his wife. And as she told him no, he pulled down his pants, and began to force her mouth open. And it did open, but he had forgotten how wide it did open, she had made it look human for him for so long, and soon the bottom half of her face had once again shown itself as a mess of sharp fangs and many jaws.

They say she flew back to the city that night. And say that his body still sits in that empty house. Cold and abandoned, stripped of pants, and drained of blood, doomed to be forgotten.

[russianspy24]

Fanart for my fic on AO3

I'm a sucker for both Elijah and Klaus. If you like original characters, have a read! Made in Midjourney and photoshop. Summary:

For a thousand years, Elijah Mikaelson has upheld his family’s legacy—bound by honor, duty, and an unshakable resolve. But when a prophecy whispers of a way out, he is drawn to Chicago, a city of power and reinvention, where fate takes the shape of a woman who should mean nothing… and yet changes everything.

An impossible discovery offers the Mikaelsons a choice—true freedom, true mortality. But what they see as salvation, others see as a threat. Because if they turn human, so do their sirelines. The vampires they created may not surrender their power. Witches and werewolves see a chance to erase their kind forever. And if the Mikaelsons take this path, will the supernatural world let them? But amid the coming storm, new possibilities arise.

The witch with the power to unmake them challenges everything Elijah believes. Klaus, embracing his werewolf side, is drawn to a woman who refuses to fear him. And Rebekah may finally have a life with the man who never stopped loving her. Because this time, the end of the Originals may change everything.

[darklordazalin]

Azalin Reviews: Darklord Daclaud Heinfroth

Domain: Dominia Formation: 740 BC Power Level: 💀💀💀💀 ⚫ Sources: 2e: Bleak House, Domains of Dread, Feast of Goblyns, Ravenloft Campaign Setting: Domains and Denizens; 3e: Ravenloft 3e (brief description of the Domain in the Sea of Sorrows write up)

“Doctor” Daclaud Heinfroth is the Darklord of Dominia and debatably ruled over Gundarak for a brief period of time. Heinfroth is a rather hairy individual with a heavy bread and eyebrows that could use a fair amount of sculpting. In fact, his overall appearance is much like a stereotypically werewolf in their human form…Except this particular wolf like man eventually became a vampire.

Heinfroth grew up in Gundarak and became obsessed with mental illness after witnessing the mental decline and eventual death of his mother when he was a child. Heinfroth researched the cause of his mother’s mortality and soon discovered that psychiatric illness and mental disability ran in his family.

Convinced that one day he would meet the same fate as his mother, Heinfroth obsessively studied mental illness with the goal of curing the condition before it had the chance to take hold of him. However, as the years passed by in diligent study, he was no closer to a cure.

Eventually he became haunted by a voice that filled his head and visions of horrors just in the corners of his eyes. Believing this to be the first signs of his declining mental health, Heinfroth panicked and began to conduct experiments that certainly would not pass any ethical boards of health.

Heinfroth performed direct transfusions of the spinal and cerebral fluid from who those he deemed as “sane” to those he deemed “insane”. This process left many of his ‘patients’ incoherent and in a debilitated mental state. This mattered little to the ‘doctor’ and Heinfroth saw his experimentations as great successes. In fact, he decided to perform the procedure on himself before he had definitive results as all good ‘mad’ scientists do...

He kidnaped a young woman to fulfill the role of ‘cerebral fluid donator’ and after draining her fluid, injected it into himself. As chance would have it, this young woman was in the process of becoming one of Duke Gundar’s vampire brides. Perhaps Gundar should have watched over her more closely? The amount of vampires that lose their would be ‘brides’ to random kidnappings and supposed do-gooders is staggering. They certainly do not know how to take care of their investments.

Regardless, injecting the cerebral fluid of a half-turned vampire resulted in a rather unique transformation in our hairy doctor. He became a cerebral vampire, a vampire that feeds on the cerebral fluid of the brain instead of blood. Cerebral vampires slowly drain their victim’s mental capacities, eventually leaving them with nothing but the haunting echoes of their former mind. They are, in some ways, stronger than your typical vampire – they are unharmed by the sun (though some sources indicate that they eventually begin to burn), cannot be harmed by non-magical weapons, their gaze is akin to the hypnotic pattern spell, and their touch acts as the confusion spell. Heinfroth has been known to flaunt his love for garlic to confuse any potential hunters.

They, naturally, have their own weaknesses. Cerebral vampires must sleep in a coffin for 8 hours over the course of a 24 hour period, though this does not need to be during the day. They are repelled by the scent of pure alcohol and holy symbols, though neither can destroy them. There’s something to be said about  a doctor that’s unable to use pure alcohol to sterilize their equipment…

The only proven way to destroy a cerebral vampire completely is to bind them in a straitjacket, cut off their head, and stuff their mouth with holy wafers.

Now that I’ve discussed what a cerebral vampire is, let us return to Heinfroth’s origins. When Gundar discovered what Heinfroth had done to his future bride, he was enraged and planned on killing him in a most violent fashion. That is, until Gundar realized that because Heinfroth took his future bride’s cerebral fluid, Gundar could use his mental domination on the ‘doctor’.

Gundar forced Heinfroth to serve him for decades. In 735 BC, Gundar and Heinfroth plotted to overthrow Harkon Lukas and enlist Heinfroth as Kartakass’s new lord. Now, just because one looks like a werewolf doesn’t mean they are suited to rule over a Domain of wolves. Do you have any musical talent, Heinfroth? I think not and Harkon, rightfully so, foiled their plot with a bit of trickery of his own…that and the assistance of a party of adventurers.

Heinfroth never wanted Kartakass, however, and planned on overthrowing Gundar himself. Gundar is an idiot. He trusted Heinfroth explicitly and lured the adventurer who foiled his plans into a trap – a trap in which Gundar himself was rather helpless within. Now, he was only to appear helpless and Heinfroth was supposed to dominate the group of ‘heroes’ once they were properly lured in, but instead Heinfroth did nothing and watched as the ‘heroes’ destroyed his master.

Heinfroth claimed lordship of Gundarak, but shirked his duties in favor of feeding upon more victims at his asylum.  When the Grand Conjunction of 740 BC occurred, through no fault of my own, Gundarak was absorbed by Barovia and Invidia and Heinfroth was gifted his own domain – a small island known as Dominia. Dominia only contains Dr. Daclaud Heinfroth’s Asylum for the Mentally Disturbed and wolf-infested woods. In another event that many scholars are still trying to understand, Dominia was dragged into the Core and is now an island within the Sea of Sorrows.

Heinfroth is still obsessed with curing his own future bout of insanity and continues to take in ‘patients’ that have the misfortune of washing up on the shores of Dominia. Some patients come willingly as well…I hear the good Doctor van Richten voluntarily sought out treatment there and was in Heinfroth’s tender care for some time before the little hunter went missing. 

[cawthorntales]

"What are you doing here? Did I do something wrong?"

"No Blake." Grim answered. "I've done some thinking and realized that I can't expect you to trust me over the society if I don't tell you everything."

"Really?" I asked surprised.

"Yes." Grim replied.

"Can I ask a question?"

"You may."

"Why do you care so much about Ambrosia? Is it because it brings people back? And you are against that. There would be no suffering for you to enjoy?"

"Is that what you think?" Grim asked. I could tell I'd offended him.

"Well you are the Grim Reaper."

"I lack morality yes. But I am not heartless or cruel. I don't take delight in what I do."

"Then why do it? I was a kid. I needed my family."

"I know you did and I am sorry I had to reap them, but it was their fate." Answered sadly.

"Their fate was to be with me. To see me grow up." I retorted trying to not cry.

Look a balance needs to exist in the world. Do you know what would happen if everything just existed forever? Eventually resources would crumble from overpopulation."

"Then how come supernatural's are immortal? How is that fair?"

"But they aren't Blake. If a werewolf is attacked with silver they die, if a vampire is exposed to sunlight, staked in the heart or doesn't feed they die, if a fairy is exposed to poison or attacked with steel they die. It's true that they can go on forever unlike humans, but they aren't invincible. They can die too. And look at all they give up. Vampires can never feel the sun, werewolves can lose themselves and control if they aren't careful, fairies health are tied to their home. And all of them have been persecuted and hunted just for who they are before humanity got better."

"I-I never thought about any of that."

"As to why I care about Ambrosia that ties into the society. Despite what you think I would have no issue with people using Ambrosia to bring a loved one back for a second chance. In fact I am a believer in second chances. But I also fill it is something that effort should be put into and earned. Not something you could just do willy nilly."

"I guess that makes sense." I answered.

"Plus the society uses it for evil."

"What do you mean?"

"I know the founder of the Ambrosia Society in fact three hundred years ago she was my best friend."

"I never would have pegged the Grim Reaper to have friends."

"There's a lot about me you and other mortals don't know Blake. Anyway I trusted Deanna more than I had any human before. I knew she was scared of dying, but as her friend I tried my best to reassure her that when her time came it'd all be ok. I even broke my own rules and told her how old she'd be when her time was up. Little did I know she was using me. Our friendship was never real.

She learned as much as she could about me, my powers and the supernatural world as a whole. She used that knowledge to craft the first ambrosia and the first young again potion. She then fled with her findings and went into hiding. She built her society up with other criminals and together for centuries they've built their criminal empires. They've done every crime you can think of. I've tried and tried to stop them, but reaping them when I do catch one does no good as they just use the tools at their disposal to revive.

Because of the Ambrosia Society and my own foolishness for thinking I could ever have a friend thousands of people have died or been harmed of the centuries before their time. I have to stop them and I have to make Ambrosia something only people with pure intentions can access."

"I'm sorry." I said." I can't imagine that kind of burden. They sound awful. But why are they helping me?"

"They usually don't interact with the mortals who partake in my quest to learn ambrosia. That is why many don't get far. They must see potential in you. Deanna is wanting to recruit you."

"I'd never join."

"He said that too."

"Who?" I asked.

"Mortimer Goth. He told me he just wanted his wife Bella back. I saw him as a potential friend."

"What happened?"

"The society got to him. They told him they could bring his wife back and he could make himself even richer off of the schemes the society had. He feel for it."

"Mortimer doesn't seem like that?" I questioned. I'd only met him once when I first came to town and he sent me the Grimophone, but I'd not heard from him since.

"Because the society betrayed him. They brought his wife back like he promised, but she was disgusted by what the society is about and she didn't want her or Mortimer involved. She threatened to expose them. Deanna killed her. They then tossed Mortimer out and moved locations. He once again lost it all."

"That's awful. However I can promise you I am not swayed. I do not care about money, power or whatever else they can offer. I just want my parents and sister. So I will continue to learn what I can from them. I can play stupid until I have the information you need."

"I hope so." Grim said before he vanished in a cloud of black smoke.

[reikiajakoiranruohoja]

Second Inquisition WOW

I don't even know how to preface this, because this is some massive tonal confusion. I guess the best way to put it is that for all I love Werewolf and Vampire, I am not blind to the horror they are for humans. Though my go-to question for anyone writing monster hunters is why they hunt, I still feel hunters are extremely important to the narrative as a counterpoint to the monsters. So when I read the introduction text for the Second Inquisition book for V5, my jaw hit the floor.

"The theme of the Second Inquisition is determination – aimed at the player coterie. Like a certain killer cyborg from the future, the Coalition can’t be reasoned with, it can’t be bargained with. It doesn't feel pity or remorse or fear and it absolutely will not stop. Ever. Individual Inquisitors or soldiers or cops or nuns can be reasoned with and bargained with. Most feel fear, some feel pity, and even a few feel remorse. All those deviations and human moments make excellent stories, ripples in the flood. But the narrative relentlessly washes over those stories, replacing every flawed or broken foe with two more – ten more — out for revenge or salvation. The Inquisition as a whole – both as a conspiracy and a movement that enflames that conspiracy – will not stop until every Kindred burns. Conveying the impersonal, implacable determination of a gigantic bureaucracy to crush the player characters should not be impossible in the 2020s – but it should be very effective."

Why this made me stare at the screen, is how the Inquisition was introduced in an older book;

"The theme of The Inquisition is the crusader. The Society of Leopold sees itself as humanity’s last stand against the encroaching hordes of the World of Darkness. Inquisitors are the new Crusaders; all the Earth is their Holy Land. But theirs is a lonely struggle, bereft of the support of those whom they would save. The general populace does not know of the struggle, and would most likely think the Inquisitors are mad. Inquisitors are holy knights, alienated from their fellow mortals by their knowledge of what awaits. Some within the Inquisition are zealots, it is true, but it is better to err on the side of caution than to let slip the defences of humanity." The difference is stark, especially as they are talking about the same sort of hunters. The reason I find the newer book's take extremely strange, is due to the fact that the player characters in VtM are undead bloodsucking parasites that manipulate humanity and have magic blood powers that make them much stronger than an average human. Yet the V5 book chooses to introduce the inquisition as horrible people who will never stop hunting poor innocent vampires. It goes even as far as the art.

(Start ID; A mixed media picture with modified photographs. A bald man in a trenchcoat is scowling with his fists clenched. He is holding the severed head of a female vampire from its hair. The expression on the head is of wide-eyed horror. End ID.)

(Start ID; A book cover with the text Inquision as the title, with a crosshair symbol reading 'Year of the Hunter' on the bottom. The cover art is a painted picture of a bearded man in a trenchcoat and torn jeans wielding in one hand a large cross and in another a lit torch. There is a shotgun and spent shells on the tiled floor. Just outside the light of the torch, a horde of vampires with glowing eyes has surrounded the man, some shirking from the light. End ID.)

One treats the hunter as a threat overpowering a vampire. The other treats the hunter as a lone figure surrounded by a mass of vampires. Let me be quite frank, humanity in WoD are the mice that the cats (vampires) hunt. Hunters are the mice that fight back. A vampire in VtM, regardless of edition, has an advantage over a hunter. Vampires use humans as prey, the polite ones pay them for it but they don't HAVE to. In V5 you are given various methods to hunt for your blood, some which are cruel. Painting the people standing up to creatures that actively harm humans as the abusers and the ones in the wrong is extremely tone deaf. Vampires are not some oppressed minority trying to eke out a living, a vampire is creature that needs to drink blood to survive and human blood is the best. In V5's own lore, it is only recently that vampires are even put on the backfoot at all. Before that, humanity were pawns in centuries long grudgematches and at best a quick bite snack at wost fleshcrafted into sacks hung from hooks. Can there be good vampires and bad hunters? Of course, WoD is all about the shades of gray. It is when the basic set up of the setting is turned around like this that I have a problem.

[skyguy675]

Entry 3: 19/10/24 - God I Hate Elves

God, I fucking hate elves.

Sorry. I know that’s a hell of a thing to come out the gates with, but Jesus have they ever earned my eternal disdain, the eternal aspect being pertinent in particular. Due to the famous immortality of elves, they’ll be able to fully appreciate all its intricate nuances.

And, of course, when I say elves, what I am really saying in whispered subtext is Legolas. 

Sorry Gimli. Whilst I have a great reverence and love for you, your dumbass princeling boyfriend deserves a slandering - made no less worthy of it by him then going out with someone so much younger (perhaps he should be called LEO-las). 

I mean he arrested the guy’s Dad and then proceeded to mock his own future boyfriend’s baby pics (bet that made for an interesting couples therapy session on their honeymoon revisiting Fangorn Forest [treebeard was definitely the therapist, making for a slow session]).

All I’m saying is it looks a bit sus. In my book, Legolas belongs in the same camp as Padme and either one of the two boyfriend options in Twilight, maybe more the werewolf one because of that uncomfortable imprinting business.

It’s just the modern consensus. Every time I show somebody new the Lord of the Rings, without fail Legolas is their favourite character (me and my Mum were arguing about this the entire time) and like… I get it. He does cool shit and he looks beautiful (at least among hobbits and humans - though he’s edged out by Aragorn, [phew Daddy!], and is nothing compared to the sexual powerhouse that is Gimli, son of Gloin). 

But he’s as talkative and actually charismatic as a wet rice cake, I’m certain of this. And I’m certain that the writers of those movies knew this too, because they give all the general chatter scenes to Gimli, the better and more inspirational character. I can’t help but think to that one scene in the second film where Aragorn and Legolas reunite after Aragorn has a “little tumble off the cliff” and instead of having a deep and meaningful conversation illustrative of the full capacity of their intricate and powerful friendship, they cut to a longshot and mute the guys, presumably because the writers attempted to think of a conversation sustained by the loquacious wit of our favourite socially maladjusted wood elf before coming to the realisation that one could never exist. 

Being trapped in a lift with Legolas sounds like it’d be worse than hell.

And yeah, he goes through an arc (allegedly) but so does Gimli – the exact same one - and Gimli has the boon of actually also having a personality, so there.

It’s funny, because otherwise I don’t actually mind the elves in Lord of the Rings. In the Hobbit they’re antagonists (book continuity – always the book continuity with the Hobbit), and in Lord of the Rings they’re far removed from the central plot and act more like other worldly beings bestowing gifts and boons Athena style onto our mortal protagonists. They’re like mini-Gandalfs, who incidentally does cool stuff as well like Legolas but I’m more inclined to favour him because he has occasions where he gets his ass beat and has to regenerate Doctor Who style, and he’s just a sweet old man type dude that visits his little friends, throws cool ass parties, smokes weed and fells balrogs. He just has a more developed and wholesome vibe.

So, elves in middle-earth are implemented quite well in my opinion, but outside of that I just generally hate them and people’s obsession with them. A predominantly Aryan race, extremely self-possessed and arrogant, without hesitation or exception believing themselves to be naturally superior to every other filthier, uglier and lesser species. Gees, what’s not to like? But it’s made up for by the fact that they know how to do their hair.

Now, boys and girls, given the history (and to be honest present) of our own world, what tends to happen when you have a meeting between two groups, one of which believes them to be (and, depending on the narrative, actually is) superior to the other? That’s right. A bad thing, mostly for the group that can’t live to a billion and do backflips from the age of three.

I just don’t like people extolling mindless beauty and idolising an idealised fantasy creature that would a hundred percent bully those people in real life if they existed. Best case scenario is they’re the vegans of fantasy land, worse case is they’re the Nazis.  At least vampires just eat you, not try and give you unwanted life advice. 

And they gave us goths, to which I say: phew Mummy!

Tangent over:

Ruairi

[hyperactivewhore]

I despise both Renesmee Cullen's and Hope Mikaelson's existences. Both characters are plot holes and shouldn't exist.

Renesmee Carlie Cullen is the daughter of Bella Swan and Edward Cullen. She's half-human and half-vampire, and in Twilight, it was explained that only male vampires can have children with female humans. But that doesn't make any sense because vampires in Twilight don't have any blood in their bodies. Then, Stephanie Meyer explained that the venom that is in their bodies works similarly to the bodily fluids that are in humans. But if that was the case, then Bella shouldn't have gotten pregnant. She should have become a vampire after having sex with Edward. Renesmee is called 'half mortal and half immortal' by Aro, but how can a person be half mortal and half immortal? She's either mortal or immortal. She can't be both. Does she age, or does she not? Can she live forever, or does she have the lifespan of a human?

Now, onto Hope.

Hope Andrea Mikaelson is the daughter of Klaus Mikaelson and Hayley Marshall-Kenner. She's a werewolf, vampire, witch tribrid. In the pilot episode of The Originals, it was explained that since Klaus was born a werewolf and became a vampire because of magic and not by drinking the blood of another vampire and dying with that vampire's blood in his system, he was able to conceive. Vampires in The Vampire Diaries are infertile and can not have children, and while Klaus is the world's first werewolf-vampire hybrid, he's still part vampire. He shouldn't have been able to have a child, which was confirmed in Legacies. The only reason Hope exists is because Malivore. So, if Malivore never existed, Hope would have never existed. She wasn't born because her father was created differently from traditional vampires, but because it is her destiny to defeat a mud monster.

Both characters are great (more so Hope because she was given her own show, and I grew to like her over Legacies' 4 season run. Renesmee was kinda there. Her CGI in the movies creeped me out, and she absolutely did nothing in the book), but their existence goes against the canons of their respective movies/books and show.

It's funny because both are created as plot devices to Bella and Klaus and they're meant to be the magical powerful baby of their universe, but their existence alone just makes it look ridiculous by breaking every single canon law.

As you said, Renaissance came out of nowhere. She was soo incredibly intelligent from the very first moment her parents made her, but apparently not smart enough to control her own strength seeing she broke several Bella's bones (like honestly, what the hell) and this demon spawn craved human blood for absolutely no logical reason other than Edward being a vampire. Ratatouille also could not be seen in the ultrasound or any other thing: she had a impenetrable amniotic sac because yes, exactly, her daddy is a vampire!

Honestly, I kinda feel bad for Ravioli. I've never finished reading Breaking Dawn (and I won't), it was such a corny book and I could only bring myself to the third part, where Bella spends time with baby Rasputin but I've heard interesting things to how the Cullen rise this sim. Apparently, Bella and Edward couldn't care less about their daughter, because as always they were more obssesed with each other and Rosalie did all the parenting, because the love birds couldn't be distracted with their CGI spawn. If I'm correct, Edward even called Bella more beautiful than Rim Job right in her face and instead of being mad, because their kid was right there, Isabella was just like "gosh edward, ily sm 😘😜😍"

Parents of the year.

Stephenie Meyer didn't care about Bella and Edward being parents: she just wanted the aesthetic that came with it, and she pulled the reasons of the human-vampire pregnancy out of her ass.

Actually, when I was in my twilight phase, I read a fanfic where Bella got pregnant, and the reason was a little more "coherent" than what Meyer gave: Having died so young, Edward's body "froze" his sperm and because he had remained a virgin for over a hundred years (lmao), he was able to get Bella, the first and only woman he slept with, pregnant. It's still shitty, and bad, but if they wanted them so badly to have a kid this was a better reason.

I just can't take Twilight books seriously. Apparently, there are no black vampires for a barely explained reason that is clearly racist (if I remember, the venom that vampires inject you during death just... removes your skin color), the mistreatment to the werewolves is just terrible, and there's Ratatunga too.

Now, moving to Hope Andrea Mikaelson, the white witch that is hated and loved in equal measures by the fandom. Oh my, this is gonna be interesting.

I have my moments with Hope, to be honest. Sometimes I completely adore her, and sometimes I just can't stand her. Her existence was completely pulled out of Pl*c's ass, who wanted to have her own version of Renameme so badly. Klaus shouldn't have even been able to procreate in the first place, because he was killed before Esther binded his werewolf side. Though vampires in tvd are more alive than dead, but that's a whole different thing. But clearly my point still remains.

I like Hope Mikaelson a lot more than Ragnarok Cullen, Summer Fontana/Danielle Russell and Mackenzie Foy are all really amazing and beautiful actresses who did great with the role they were given, but their characters completely broke canon. I like the tribrid more though because at least, she wasn't a fucking sim that aged five years in a week unlike Nestlé. The only way I could ever like Radioactive is by having her completely loathe her parents and family, especially because she was born in 2006 aka she's part of Gen Z.

Both characters shouldn't even exist in the first place, and Hope's existences is as much of a plothole as Riptide's. Renesmee gets more hate simply because of how she was in the womb and also because of how fast she grew, but they're both plotholes and shouldn't have been created no matter their popularity.

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 4/5

Book Blurb: This standalone adventure set in the world of the New York Times bestselling Jackaby series brims with humor, heart, and—of course—a hefty dose of supernatural mayhem. Abigail Rook never intended to be the mortal bridge between the human and supernatural world. But now, the power of the Sight--and all the chaos that comes with seeing the essential truth of everything, every human, fairy, werewolf, enchanted slip of paper, and municipal building, at all times--is hers alone. With this overwhelming new gift, she should be able to solve crimes and help New Fiddleham, New England find calm in its supernatural chaos. 

The only problem? She has no idea what she’s doing. And New Fiddleham isn't waiting for Abigail to be ready. Local witches and other magical beings are going missing, as tensions between human and supernatural residents curdle into a hatred that could tear the city apart. Abigail's fiance, Charlie, works alongside her to unravel the magical disappearances, but as a shapeshifter, he's under threat as well. Then Abigail's parents appear, ready to take her back to England and marry her off to someone she's never met. Abigail has no choice but to follow her Sight, her instincts, and any clues she can find to track a culprit who is trying destroy everything she holds dear.

Review:

Return to the wonderful world of the Jackaby series but with this new standalone adventure featuring Abigail Rook as she gets accustomed to her new abilities as a seer while also juggling her parents coming to town, trying to solve cases, and figuring out how to control her new powers. The book picks up where the original series ends with Jackaby without his seer powers and Abigail with them instead. They're both still working as consultants to the police department and trying to solve paranormal cases, but this time its Jackaby helping Abigail getting use to her new powers. Abigail is also dealing with the new case she is given that include local witches and other paranormal individuals disappearing and the tensions between the humans and the supernaturals rising... it could lead the city to tear itself apart. It doesn't help that her parents decide to drop in on her without no word of warning and now she also has to find a way to break the news to them about her fiance Charlie and the fact that she is working as a private investigator with powers now. Abigail will have to find a way to trust her instincts, her wits, and find as many clues to solve the case before it's too late! I had fun diving back into this world and seeing where the characters are now. i loved the original books and this was a really fun standalone and I honestly wouldn't mind returning for another book. Abigail and Jackaby are as chaotic as ever, Charlie is a sweet fiance, and the magic of this world was really fun! Definitely pick this one up if you enjoy paranormal investigative books!

*Thanks Netgalley and Algonquin Young Readers for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[crownofconvergencerp]

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘

safely tucked away in a chest under the bed, carel saeger’s sword was not meant to ever see the light of day again. And yet, from the age of 3, he had been taught how to kill every creature there was in withermore, sentient or not. the investigation on the murder of his wife by vampires has taken him to destarin where he is prepared to spill blood no matter the consequences.

TW: Death, Murder.

Maybe it had been illness. Maybe her heart was not made for this kind of world. Whatever it had been, it took Carel’s mother before he could remember her face or the sound of her voice. His father had been out of the picture before that, and he was raised by his grandparents from the age of three. The Saeger household would be his schoolhouse, his church and his home, which wouldn’t have been so bad had the Saeger family name not been a synonym of death to any creature that could threaten mankind, but more specifically to those who should have stayed dead: draugrs and vampires, zombies and revenants.

By the time he was 10, Carel had become familiar with all the sorts of monsters that went bump in the night. He knew what required arrows, bolts, stakes or blades, when to resort to wood or metal. More importantly, he had become himself a weapon.

Carel started working contracts by the time he was 12. In doing so, he provided for his family, and solidified the Saeger’s reputation in Withermore. Many were those who asked the hunters for help when their crops or their cattle were ravaged by beasts too, but most of the money came from bounties.

Though hunting brutalized the body and the soul, though he nearly lost his life a dozen times before he had even reached the age of eighteen, Carel kept going because it was his duty to protect less fortunate humans from the horrors out there. Hunting eventually hurried both his grand parents’ meeting with death, still he would go out, hunt, receive his paycheck, and go home.

And then came along Hilde.

He met her while she attempted to rescue a Tatzelwurm he had finally managed to trap. Half cat – half snake with a thing for cow milk. The creature had by itself deprived a whole town of its milk supply. Hilde would not let him kill the beast, and she proposed a deal: if she managed to tame the animal, he would have to let it be. He gave her a week; she insisted it be a fortnight. It became a fortnight. And every day, he’d come check on her, to see if she was still alive. And every day, he stayed a while longer with the young woman. The fortnight passed, and he would keep visiting her. They were wed the very same year; once again with a concession: no more hunting.

It was a promise he had made to his wife, who wished her husband to live to see their future children grow up, and the woman he loved grow old. The perspective of starting a family brought him comfort. But, one winter evening as he fed the chicken and brought back some logs for the fireplace, a group of vampires attacked the house. By the time he managed to reach for the nearest weapon, Hilde had left the world of the living.

As he drove a stake through her heart, the heartbroken young man swore he would find those who had done such a thing to his beloved. He travelled through Withermore searching for the monsters that had taken her away, interrogating any vampire that crossed his path, Carel’s investigation has led him to Destarin.

WHAT ARE YOU...?

species: hunter. weaknesses: as a hunter, he burns more energy and will need to sleep for 9 to 10 hours every day, mortality, susceptible to vampire bite and werewolf bite. strengths: night vision and enhanced agility, physically stronger than a regular human, his injuries heal faster than the norm unless caused by magic. physical description: the hunter is often regarded as an anomaly wherever he goes due to standing so tall, however, aside from his physique shaped by hunter training and woodworking, carel thinks of himself as a rather plain man. additional info: as it is the tradition in his parts of withermore, carel will often be seen wearing a kilt, though he sometimes adopts the ways of destarin. generally speaking, you won’t catch him without his sword and at least a handful of knives on his person.

carel saeger is played by ivy and their fc is jacob elordi.

[russianspy24]

Devils in the Windy City on AO3

Also on FF.net and Quotev

For a thousand years, Elijah Mikaelson has upheld his family’s legacy—bound by honor, duty, and an unshakable resolve. But when a prophecy whispers of a way out, he is drawn to Chicago, a city of power and reinvention, where fate takes the shape of a woman who should mean nothing… and yet changes everything.

An impossible discovery offers the Mikaelsons a choice—true freedom, true mortality. But what they see as salvation, others see as a threat. Because if they turn human, so do their sirelines. The vampires they created may not surrender their power. Witches and werewolves see a chance to erase their kind forever. And if the Mikaelsons take this path, will the supernatural world let them? But amid the coming storm, new possibilities arise.

The witch with the power to unmake them challenges everything Elijah believes. Klaus, embracing his werewolf side, is drawn to a woman who refuses to fear him. And Rebekah may finally have a life with the man who never stopped loving her. Because this time, the end of the Originals may change everything.

Chapters

Chapter 1: A Message from Beyond

Chapter 2: Don't Fear the Reaper

Chapter 3: When the Levee Breaks

Chapter 4: You Don't Know Me

Chapter 5: Way Down We Go

Chapter 6: Mum’s the Word

Chapter 7: Unwanted Guests

Chapter 8: I hear the train a-comin'

Chapter 9: Beyond Prophecy, Beyond Fate

Chapter 10: Magic Waits for You to Listen

Chapter 11: The Devil’s Invitation

Chapter 12: Monsters in Velvet

Chapter 13: House of Cards

Chapter 14: Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame Part 1

Chapter 15: Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame Part 2

Chapter 16: All That Could Be

Chapter 17: The Chain

Chapter 18: The Ties That Bind

Chapter 19: Come As You Are

More chapters coming!

[deadcityhq]

**CHARACTER NAME:** dream, oneiros, kai’ckul… most have different names for him. most commonly dream in this current age, or morpheus. 

**CHARACTER FACECLAIM:** 

**CHARACTER AGE/DOB (if relevant/they’re not old af):** so very old i feel like i should keep this blank lmao. when the first creature capable of dreaming was born, he winked into existence.

**CHARACTER PRONOUNS/GENDER IDENTITY/SEXUALITY ETC:** he/him but tbfh he’d answer to just about any of em | agender | yes. the answer is yes.

**CHARACTER FANDOM (if relevant):** the sandman - dc comics

**OC OR CANON:** canon

**CHARACTER TYPE (for example: werewolf, shadowhunter, warlock, demon etc):** one of the endless.

**HOW LONG HAVE THEY BEEN IN NEW YORK/WHY ARE THEY THERE ETC:** freed from burgess’ prison, the concepts of ‘distance’ and ‘space’ mean much less to him. he’s in new york as often as he requires. perhaps he’s been there. more often than not in these recent days. who could say. certainly not dream. 

**IMPORTANT CHARACTER INFORMATION TO NOTE AND SHARE (this could be important headcanons for initial plotting, mini bios etc, supporting docs):**

this mostly-immortal personified concept of a being is getting the bullet point treatment because otherwise we’d be here all fucking day and no one wants that. 

dream and the rest of his siblings were begotten into existence the moment that the first being capable of dreaming, well. dreamed. 

his realm, the dreaming, has grown over the millennia and changed shape just as much as he has. creatures created by the minds of humankind, as well as himself, populate the dreaming, plus other beings who became part of his dominion through other means. like eve (she mostly just minds her business it’s fine) or cain and abel (they do *not* mind their business cain re-kills his brother on the daily but it’s fine, dream gave them shit to do). 

dream is a being of many faces and facets; depending on your culture, community or even planet you might see a different face when you look upon him, or know him as a different name. 

things aren’t always set in stone for the endless in spite of their long non-lives. some of the endless siblings have died traumatically and become a new aspect of themselves, or have simply disappeared and removed themselves from the family equation. it’s been a while since either of those things have happened, but they continue to cast a long shadow when the siblings gather together. 

dream had historically been farther removed from mortal lives than some of his siblings, due to some… tragically ending experiences when his sibling desire got involved in his affairs, and it inadvertently caused the downfall of his mortal love’s kingdom. he… knows he was a shithead about how it all went down, but does he still act like a shithead about it? yes

of course, until his sister inadvertently challenged him to know humanity a little better. this was when he first met hob gadling, made immortal by his sister’s blessing. dream became… well *he* would let the furies eat him before admitting it but he became *fascinated* by the unrelenting zeal hob had for the simple act of continuing to be alive. dream was fascinated by his particular bright humanity. and maybe, he’d never really had a friend before. it all brought him closer to the creatures whose dreaming hours he stewarded. 

WELL and then roderick burgess happened. dream became imprisoned in this aleister crowley wannabe’s basement for decades upon decades, while the world stuttered in minute but *bad* ways in his absence. people never waking up, people never being able to fall asleep… as well as nightmares escaping from the dreaming. 

EVENTUALLY dream got the hell outta there and went on his little mission to get his accessories back, all of that domino’d into hunting down the rogue nightmares, finding the vortex that his incredibly vexing sibling desire made, etcetera… with the corinthian shrunken down to a skull in his pocket, dream decided he needed to let that little nightmare and himself ruminate for a while before remaking that particular creature, and let the dreaming breathe after the unrest. 

sure hob and himself only meet once every century, but that doesn’t mean dream doesn’t keep up. especially now, with having missed their last appointment. of course, dream found him anyway and they managed a belated meeting, but it feels… pertinent somehow, to keep an eye or three on him. after all, who wouldn’t be a little alarmed to peek in on your human and find them on a different continent entirely? humans had to pack all of their belongings and find a means of transportation to complete a move like that! 

dream checks in a little more frequently now; even if he’s not always in the shape of ‘looks mostly human’. not to mention it’s been a few hundred years since he came to this city himself, there’s more than a few pockets of his dominion here it would behoove him to monitor as well. 

**THREE AESTHETICS THAT REMIND YOU OF YOUR CHARACTER:** the just-barely-there smell of ozone after a lightning strike, the sudden realization that you’re having a nightmare, a deep pool of dark water reflecting a starry night sky. 

OOC INFORMATION: 

**MUN NAME/ALIAS:** jesse

**MUN AGE:** 30

**MUN TRIGGERS:**  n/a 

[merakiui]

hello! I'd like to participate in your event and check in at this lovely hotel of yours! could I ask for a flower bouquet from Idia? I would like some lemon squares and perhaps sugar stars (teratophilia/monster of your choice or werewolf whichever is easier!) if the latter is off the menu then just the lemon squares is fine. Thank you for hosting this event!

yandere!idia shroud x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, dub-con, teratophilia, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, implied stalking note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

Beyond limestone pillars twined with verdant strands of ivy, past orange groves in full bloom, and situated in the center of a marble platform raised ever so slightly, the culmination of humanity—a perfect, precious mortal of flesh and blood—sits in slivers of sunlight and brings brush to canvas. It is not the artistic ability that has left such a hellish, frightful creature so wonderfully enthralled but, rather, the nature in which you resign yourself to the arts, blinded by a celestial cloth, enveloped in the natural temperatures that surround you. Your hand is led by sensitive intuition, acutely aware of the colors that stain a weathered palette, and you grant life to marvelous mirages.

It is that same tender, loving hand that shall slay him, should he step beyond his bounds and interfere with the era of human creation. The world, as it has now become, is dictated by categories so studiously documented on stone tablets and spoken freely in the streets and on hilltops by philosophers excelling in all subjects. And within these groupings the gorgon is feared as the fiend and the human, most often, is celebrated as the courageous hero. Idia is neither fiend, nor hero, but for the sake of human comprehension he must be viewed as the former.

Humans are cyclical creatures, bound by schedules and the times brought on by night and day. Despite the routines they subject themselves to, whether out of necessity or for the sake of comfortable pleasure, humans continue to fascinate. Idia was never partial to them, and yet whenever he admires you his opinion regarding humankind brightens just like the far-off horizons you often portray. And every other day when the sun is at its lowest, just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting everything in creamy yellow-orange hues, you stand at your makeshift easel and paint the world as you hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it.

Idia is content to watch from afar, studying you as though you are the most abstract art he has even beheld. Most days, he’s grateful for the cloth that keeps your sense of sight contained, for if you were to look upon his ghastly countenance you would most certainly harden into an artifact lost to time.

And yet it is the allure of the unobtainable that pulls him to your person.

You feel the disturbance before you hear it. He’s standing near you; you're sure of it, and for a moment you halt your activity, head tilted skywards so that you may listen to the one who looms behind you. With a gentle breeze combing through the greenery and the sounds of various animals filling the silence, the atmosphere is rather tranquil. It’s broken by the fast-paced thrumming of Idia’s heart and his nervous, labored breaths. 

Interactions with humans—especially with his most beloved—are petrifying. But he persists in his endeavors, rooting himself to his spot, unwilling to retreat when he’s managed to accomplish this much. His hands hover above your bare shoulders, and for a second he wonders whether delicate, human hands would fit in clawed, monstrous hands. He’s far surpassed the point of no return and so, with shaking arms, he lowers his hands onto your shoulders.

You don’t flinch, but you do turn your head towards him and by some frantic instinct his eyes and the eyes of a dozen snakes squeeze shut. It is not you who will turn him to stone—this he knows well—but it’s the dread that you might remove your blindfold and bear witness to such a grotesque visage that has him shrinking away. 

“May I be of help?” you ask, and your voice wavers in a way that tells of uncertainty, of candlelight struggling to survive as it’s slowly snuffed, of worries laced with underlying curiosity. “Your hands are very…cold.”

Of course they are. He’s always cold. So cold. So lonely. What he’d do to warm himself in your embrace, to curl into your anatomy and feel that warmth between every sugared smooch, to tear the chiton from your figure and place frigid palms upon a perfect, pretty canvas. 

“S-Sorry… Sorry,” he whispers, cursing himself for his inability to speak syllables without a stutter or a hiss. “I… You… I… U-Um, I…”

With this proximity, he can smell the flowery fragrance that envelops your person. Even your canvas is decorated in shapes reminiscent of the most beautiful blossoms. Experimentally, he squeezes your shoulders, claws just barely raking over skin, and you flinch away. 

“W-Wait! I just want…” He swallows his apprehensions when one of the many snakes wriggling atop his head nudges him encouragingly. Another one lowers to your cheek, prodding you with its smooth head. You try to take a step back, but the tiny reptile hisses a low warning and you go obediently still. “I just want…t-to stay like this…a little longer…”

Please.

It’s wrong and many levels of forbidden, but the contact is everything he’s ever dreamed of. You’re a sanctuary—a beauty not meant for a monster—and if he could just show you that he could be your haven, in spite of snakes and scales, you might come to accept him. An impossible fiction, perhaps, but even so it’s all he’s desired.

With anxiety-riddled submission, you remain rooted to the marble platform. Idia’s grown daring now, a hand snaking along the length of your arm to entwine his thin, spidery digits with yours. Your breath hitches; he’d like to taste your heartbeat, feel it between pointed fangs, and savor your every sigh.

Carnal instinct leads him in a one-sided waltz. He presses himself against you, caging you between his arms and the easel, and ruts his hips slowly, awkwardly. He’s every bit as inexperienced in this as he is with the intimate intricacies of human affection, but then it’s the friction and the sound of your quiet, quickening breaths that has him hardening against the fabric of his own chiton. His presses kisses into your neck, stamps each one onto you like a special marking, until you’re shuddering in his arms. Tears dampen the cloth wound tight around your eyes, tracking down your cheeks in fat, salty drops.

“D-Don’t cry! Um… I… Ah…” Gingerly, he brings a finger to your face to swipe the tears away. Another snake nuzzles your arm, and another presses its head to your lips, a forked tongue flicking out to smell the potent scent of fear clinging to you. You whimper, and it’s equal parts heartbreaking and enticing. “It… It’ll be okay.”

It’s a promise. 

Trembling hands take hold of the fabric of your chiton, lifting it to reveal your rear. He’s thought of this moment for ages—though for a human ages could only mean a decade. It feels as if Idia’s fallen at your feet for worship ever since he opened his eyes on the world. 

“I… I’ve always thought about you—about this.” He places his palm upon the small of your back and observes how your spine straightens in alarm. “I think you’re…” His voice lowers anxiously. “R-Really nice…to look at.”

Your mouth opens and shuts, only to open once more when you gasp. His cock curves up between your ass, and he grinds against you with more determination this time, fueled with newfound confidence. Two fingers prod at your mouth and you deny him with a dismayed whine, but then there’s a cacophony of hisses coming from the many snakes on his head and you part your lips slowly. The digits slip inside, and you suck on them weakly, your cries coming in muffled hiccups. 

Idia exhales a giddy, breathless giggle. “Cute… Really cute…” Fondly, he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

If only he could brand this experience into the forefront of his mind forever…

Unless there’s a next time, and there will always be a next time. 

A forked tongue traces along the shell of your ear. He’s smiling a wide, toothy grin as he rolls his hips, searching for that fabled seventh heaven. And perhaps it's a delusion, but he thinks you’re matching his movements now.

Delusion or not, he’ll carve it into his very existence until he’s a sculpture chiseled whole.

[bogleech]

Okay sorry but I didn't even make it halfway through the first episode of the Wednesday Addams show before I was too bored and also just dumbfounded by how badly Tim Burton fucked up the whole concept. I know I was just saying this but the entire premise of the Addams Family and their entire appeal as characters is that they’re eccentric and morbid enough to scare people but they’re not supernatural in any way, they’re kind and loving and they aren’t actually aware of being strange. The whole humor of the original show and comics was that they acted like a picture-perfect wholesome happy family who also happen to like medieval torture devices and cemeteries.

So naturally Tim Burton makes this “older Wednesday Addams spinoff” all about how she’s a cynical morbid goth who can’t stand her parents and goes to a boarding school where she’s considered (quote) a “psychopath” who terrifies all the other students and not only is this obnoxious cliche bullshit, not only does it have absolutely nothing to do with the Addams Family at all, but it makes NO SENSE WHATSOEVER IN ITS OWN CONTEXT because, oh yeah, the school she’s going to is for kids who are also werewolves and vampires and shit like that. Burton can’t resist the whole “goth girl terrorizing the prep normies” routine even while insisting on a setting where everyone is a monster anyway, and maybe the joke is that the normal mortal human is 2spooky for even the vampire and werewolf kids but he also gives Wednesday psychic powers, which she keeps secret from her fellow supernatural beings for no interesting reason, and it’s just the most ridiculous mess of a concept even just minutes in. Nothing wrong with people liking it as its own thing, it’s probably fun if you take it as a self contained setting with its own distinct characters only loosely related to the Addams Family, but I just don’t understand what the thrust of it could ever possibly be. Her character dilemma is that she’s a different kind of weirdo than all the other weirdos?? And Morticia is like a smothering mom for some reason? Or Wednesday interprets her as such??

And why does thing have STITCHES?? It’s bad enough this character became canonically just a hand, it was way more interesting when he was just a hand and arm attached to something unseen, HENCE THE NAME, but I guess he’s been portrayed as just the hand for decades now, so whatever, he’s a guy who’s just a hand for no explained reason and THAT’S why he’s called Thing. But Tim Burton feels he should be explicitly some kind of undead Frankenstein deal?? God that’s boring. That’s the most obvious route you could ever possibly take.

[hoesoflamentation]

dead or alive. | vampire!mammon x f!reader | dark, 18+

PART TWO: make you mine | werewolf!beel x f!reader

setting: vampire / royalty au

warnings: dom!mammon, sub!reader, dark content, blood, vampire stuff (including feeding), predator/prey, lite dubcon, nicknames (kitten, princess, sir), fingering, biting, marking, breast/nipple play, orgasm on command, strong language

a/n: i rise from the dead (hehe, get it?) to bring you vampire!mammon brainrot. enjoy, cuties! xoxo, gossip girl haley

You didn't know what it was, but there was something inhumanly pretty about Mammon. From his iridescent white hair to his long, graceful fingers, he was the kind of beautiful that should only exist in a Renaissance painting.

The duke's good looks might have intimidated you if you had not already been infected by his easy confidence and rakish grin. Mammon had a nonchalant, almost lazy self-assurance -- as if he knew he could charm masses without even trying.

Across the ballroom, you watched as he threw back his head and laughed, sharp canines glittering in the light of the chandelier. You liked the way he didn't do anything halfway, whether it was betting on a losing poker hand or enjoying a companion's mediocre joke.

The ball flew by quickly; you spent most of the night admiring Mammon from afar. If you had been braver, you might have dared to introduce yourself to him, maybe even sent him a message through one of the royal pages.

But deep down, you knew that a man like that would never give you the time of day. The castle was teeming with stunning women, each of them with titles, land, and a handsome fortune. Why would someone so intoxicatingly beautiful stoop for someone like you?

You were half-human, the worst thing you could be in a kingdom ruled by the supernatural elite. Because of your human half, you were mortal -- and because you were mortal, your life was expendable. To the fantastical beings who dominated the Devildom's social hierarchy (vampires, demons, shapeshifters) you were a beloved pet at best... and a disposable plaything at worst.

Had your father not been immortal, and a close friend of the Demon King's, you would never have been accepted into high society. Had he not fallen in love with a human woman, you might have stood on equal footing with the Prince's other guests. But your father's taste for the forbidden was regarded as the highest form of scandal -- and more importantly, the impurity of your blood rendered you ineligible for the royal title that might have otherwise been your birthright.

By the time Lord Diavolo's guests had begun to scatter, you had resigned yourself to the fact that you would never see Duke Mammon again. Despite the many happy conversations you'd had that night, you were certain that none of your new acquaintances would give you the time of day when they realized you were from that bloodline.

As the party wound down, you gathered your skirts and made your way to the east wing, where all of the Prince's personal guests had their own quarters. You had stayed in the ballroom as long as you could, soaking in as much of the finery as possible before the illusion of perfection was shattered.

You weren't expecting to run into anyone when you turned in for the night, as most of the other guests had long gone. But run into him, you didn't: Mammon moved with the inhuman speed and grace of the predator he was.

You felt him before you saw him, the hairs on your arms standing up straight as his warm breath tickled the nape of your neck. His hands were ice-cold, your muscles rigid, as he gently swept your hair to one side.

Mammon pressed his nose to your bare shoulder, deliberately inhaling your scent. A devilish smile crossed his lips as he pulled away.

"Human," he declared triumphantly. "I knew it."

"Only half," you replied coolly.

"I could smell ya from across the room, ya know. Making me starve." Mammon's breath hitched like he was anticipating his favorite meal.

Your entire body tensed at his words. Mammon may have intoxicated you from afar, but you were under no illusion that his good looks made him any less of a dangerous predator.

"What was a pretty girl like you thinking, coming here tonight? This place is full of people looking to turn you into their dessert."

"My dear friend the Demon Prince never would have invited me to his castle if he didn't think I could take care of myself," you deadpanned.

"'Dear friend,' huh?" he repeated incredulously. "If Lord Diavolo really cared about ya, he should have realized he was sending a kitten into a room full of lions."

Slowly, deliberately, Mammon turned to face you. His grin spread even wider, revealing the sharp points of his fangs, as he trailed a single finger down the hollow of your throat.

"Poor little human... ya didn't think you were gonna make it outta here alive, didja?"

You stared back, unblinking. "I know I will."

Mammon laughed, the musical sound echoing against the vaulted ceilings.

"Good." He stepped forward, forcing you to step back -- until your back lay flush against the wall. "I like my food with a little fight left."

Mammon placed one hand against the wall on either side of you, locking you firmly in his sights. His knee pressed into your plush thighs, ensnaring you in his trap.

Your heart thudded intensely as he leaned toward you, looking as if he was going to bite. But as you were closing your eyes and bracing for impact, Mammon froze, his breath still warming your skin as he took another deep inhale.

"Ya really are dumb, aren't ya? Even for a human." His lips curled upward in a smirk as he gazed at you, his eyes glowing ruby from beneath long, elegant lashes. "Don't tell me ya like this."

"Half-human," you corrected defiantly. "And I don't know what you're talking about."

Mammon's voice took on a dusky tone as he murmured, "You're wet for me. I can smell it on ya."

Your cheeks burned as he uttered the words. Knowing Mammon would accept your silence as compliance, you yearned to say something snarky back, but you couldn't will your lips to move.

His laughter was softer now, gentler, as he chuckled into your ear. "Mmm, I like it when ya blush like that. Makes ya look even more... appetizing."

Punctuating the adjective, Mammon's lips brushed the side of your neck, right against the pulsing jugular vein. Had you been in your right mind, you might have been impressed with his astonishing self-control -- but in that moment, your thoughts were completely blank.

Mammon tutted against your neck, sending pleasant vibrations down your spine. "Stupid human. What's the point of hunting if ya aren't even going to struggle?"

He parted his lips just widely enough to gently scrape his fangs against your delicate skin, pressing down enough to leave a mark but not quite enough to draw blood. You could feel your self-control slipping away as your entire body shuddered, the pool between your aching thighs growing harder to ignore with every gentle nip.

Yet somehow, even as your composure melted away, you could sense the impressive restraint with which Mammon comported himself. He grew bolder with each trail he drew across your skin, as if he was testing his limits in resisting your blood.

Suddenly, Mammon pulled away. His eyes glittered with mischief, your breath shaking as you met his hungry gaze.

"Fine," he said teasingly. "Ya wanna play, human? Let's play."

"Don't they say you shouldn't play with your food?" you retorted sarcastically.

"Do they?" Mammon chuckled. "Good thing I've decided not to eat ya then."

"Is that so?" you exhaled, barely hiding your sense of relief.

"Mmm." Hands roughly wrapping around your wrist, Mammon jerked you closer to him, holding your body flush against his. "I've got... other things in mind."

Your heart skipped a beat as you uttered breathlessly, "Like what?"

Mammon flashed a boyish grin. "Hold on tight and I'll show ya."

Hesitantly, you untangled yourself from Mammon, enough that you could grasp his upper arms. Though his skin felt cold and smooth, almost like marble, his muscles still had a surprisingly human give to them. Guessing what was about to come next, you buried your face in his chest, bracing for impact.

For the briefest of seconds, you were barreled with all the force of a wind tunnel, hair blowing wildly. The next thing you knew, his superhuman speed had carried you to a dim, candlelit room -- somewhere, you assumed, in the Demon Lord's castle.

Perched on his forearms, Mammon hovered over you on the four-poster bed, purple satin canopy billowing around you like a storm cloud.

"Is this what you had in mind?" you teased. "A good night's sleep?"

Mammon smiled again, fangs glinting menacingly in the candlelight. "Kitten, I haven't slept in more than 200 years. I'm sure as hell not about to start now."

Your heart fluttered in anticipation of his next move. Nervously, you blabbered, "If vampires don't sleep, then what do you do all night?"

Cheekily, Mammon leaned toward your ear and whispered, "Want me to show ya?"

He slid a firm, yet gentle hand up your skirts, caressing your inner leg. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the involuntary squeak that escaped your lips.

"Aw, kitten," Mammon cooed, fingertips toying with the lace hem of your stockings. "I'm barely even touching ya."

You gasped as he nipped at the delicate skin of your throat, pushing the sheer fabric away from your plush thighs.

Slowly, deliberately, Mammon slid off each of your shoes, each stocking quickly following suit. He grinned and shook his head as your body twitched eagerly beneath his long, slender fingers.

"Pathetic little human," Mammon murmured to himself. "So eager. Yer practically begging to be touched."

Before you could utter a word in your defense, he repositioned you both with super speed. Now, Mammon sat perched behind you with his back against the wall, strong hands firmly gripping the sides of your waist.

Grateful you were facing away from him, so as to hide your burning cheeks, you barely managed to swallow a moan as Mammon's hands slid up your back. His breath was surprisingly warm against the nape of your neck as he deftly unlaced the bodice of your gown.

Mammon's palms seductively grazed the tops of your breasts as he carefully slid the dress away from your skin, leaving you scantily clad in just your corset and underskirt. While his touch was as cold as ice, every brush of his fingertips against your bare skin left you burning with desire.

You shivered as he bent to whisper in your ear: "I hope ya taste as good as ya smell."

His palm glided up your leg, carrying the hem of your skirts with it. Your breath shook as he ran a single finger between your folds, dragging the slick from your entrance up to your clit.

A long string of liquid arousal clung to his fingertip, connecting you to his touch even as he pulled away. Greedily, Mammon sucked it clean of your juices, a haze of fervor crossing his glowing ruby eyes as he tasted you for the first time.

Emitting a soft moan, Mammon's eyes fluttered closed for the briefest of seconds. You trembled in anticipation as he swallowed, the fire between your legs aching to be stoked by his nimble fingers.

"Such a sweet little cunt." One of Mammon's hands wandered absentmindedly down your belly, the other untangling the stays of your corset, as he groaned in pleasure. "If yer blood tastes anything like it, I'm not gonna be able to stop."

You knew you should be afraid; that his words were anything but an empty threat -- but every cell in your body ached for his touch, so much so that you couldn't quite bring yourself to be afraid of him. Mammon may have been the world's most dangerous predator, but you were thoroughly resigned to the thrill of being his prey.

The duke could suck you dry at any given moment, and you hardly cared. As long as they were his fangs pressed against your jugular, you would gladly give yourself over as his meal.

Whether or not he intended to feed on you, one thing was obvious: Mammon was intent on savoring every bite. The moment your chest sprung free from its corset, he bent for a taste. Peeling the herringbone away from your skin, Mammon nibbled his way from your collarbone down to your breast. The points of his fangs barely grazed the nipple as his tongue swirled around each areola, leaving you dizzy with lust.

Tossing the corset aside, Mammon slipped his free hand between your folds. The nails of his other hand dug sharply into your hipbone, holding you firmly in place as you squirmed beneath his caresses. You couldn't help but allow your legs to fall open as he began to circle your clit with two fingers, his pace perfectly matching the rhythm of his mouth suckling on your breast.

Gradually, Mammon increased the speed and tempo with which his fingers circled your clit. With each of your breathless gasps and moans, he hummed in satisfaction, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

Releasing your nipple with a gentle pop, Mammon's lips were already red and swollen as he pressed them against yours for the first time. You were acutely aware of your face growing hotter with each of his sloppy, wet kisses, your bare body lying vulnerable in his fully clothed arms.

As your climax urged near, you dug your fingernails into his thighs, gripping them for leverage. Mammon chuckled into your mouth, pulling away just long enough to tease you between kisses: "So wet... so eager... Yer body's just begging to cum for me, isn't it, princess?"

Involuntarily, you let out a high-pitched whine in response. Mammon laughed again, cruelly tightening his grip on your hips as you struggled to stop yourself from bucking beneath his ministrations.

Both your hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to no avail to slow his caresses. With a sly grin, Mammon flipped you onto your back, using his free hand to pin both your wrists overhead as he bent to nibble on your ear.

"So close...you're gonna make me cum," you babbled senselessly. "Wanna cum for you so badly, Mammon, please."

"Please, sir," Mammon corrected you humorlessly.

"Please, sir," you repeated, eyes wide and vulnerable. "Can I cum?"

Your desperate tone broke him. Unable to resist you any longer, Mammon snarled, bending to position himself over your pulsing jugular vein.

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice reduced to a husky growl.

Your eyelashes fluttered shut, eyelids growing heavy, as you gave yourself over to your orgasm. His fingertips danced lightly across your clit, your entrance gushing with every contraction, as his fangs finally broke the skin of your neck.

Mammon inhaled you, your body shuddering deeply with every gulp he took of your blood. The two of you moaned together in sheer, animalistic pleasure at the symphony of sensations overwhelming you both -- until he suddenly pulled away, averting his gaze and breathing heavily.

Mammon stared down at you, blood dripping from his fangs (your blood), with a wide-eyed mixture of horror and lust. You held his gaze the whole time -- but dizzy from the combination of afterglow and blood loss, you were unable to decipher what he could be thinking.

As your climax faded away, you became increasingly aware of the sharp stinging sensation on your neck. Your hand flew to the bite wound, expecting it to be dripping with blood. Yet when you checked it, your fingers came away clean. In fact, somehow, the wound was already healing.

Regaining your senses, it began to hit you just how close you had brought yourself to the brink of death. While the pleasure of an orgasm mixed with the intimacy of feeding was unlike anything you had ever experienced before, you realized just how lucky you were that Mammon hadn't drained your corpse completely dry.

Blinking in disbelief, you began to blabber: "B-but...you could have killed me. Why didn't you?"

Mammon grinned, somehow looking both relieved and self-righteous, as he reached up to clean his face. Your blood stained his shirt crimson as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, forever marking the crisp white fabric with dark red lip prints.

"Because, kitten," he chuckled darkly, lowering himself onto his forearms again. "No matter how good ya taste... I definitely like ya better alive."