#the difference between hounds and bird dogs

[orangedogsquad]

Quick chaotic charge before work this morning. The kangaroos and butterflies better watch out!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

PREY

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights. 

—

There’s blood on your hands again. 

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

Howls.

Howls.

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

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

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

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

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

It never works.

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

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who had you killed this time?

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

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

“Get the dogs on it!” 

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

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

The hounds are afraid of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re going to make it hurt.

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

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

Death would be better than this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something…off.

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

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

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

It could never be easy, could it?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing you do is vomit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 

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

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?” 

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

The blood and the bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had he talked to you?

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

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

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

—

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

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

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just blink, mouth slightly open. 

“Where…am I?” 

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

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

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

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

They’d been re-applied recently, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The furs are warm. 

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

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

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

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

There are runes written on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 

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

Why were you still alive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

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

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

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long nothingness ensues. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

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

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

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

No livestock.

No bodies. 

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

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

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

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

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

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

Comparable things, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money?” You frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The full moon was tomorrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question makes you double-take.

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

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

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

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

“I kept sheep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hands had been kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

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

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

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

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 

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

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 

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

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 

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

Your eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m waiting. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was real. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 

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

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

There is companionship in broken things.

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

Find me. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

A white beast prowls the forest. 

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

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

Find me.

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

I’m waiting.

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

Leather.

Whiskey.

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

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

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

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

You were being summoned. 

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

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

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

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

Like pure white spikes. 

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

I’ll find you.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain would wash away the tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tracks end here.

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

A low snarl sets his hair on end. 

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

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

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost watches, and he waits. 

He can’t do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t get a good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 

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

He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

“What did I—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

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

“Better, Little Wolf?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t like you could protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[amoristt]

tempt you (evocatio)

「 ✦ seong gi-hun / reader ✦ 」 tags: sfw // genderless reader, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn but in a oneshot way, post games gi-hun, reader wants to take him away from all this, songfic

a/n: this song has been on LOOP since i started writing this omg. i love nbt so much and i loved writing this!!!! word count: 6k || original request (x)

・❥・The man that had showed up at your doorstep that frigid, stormy night was not the same man you'd once known. Shared the same face, same hair, same body- albeit soaked to the bone with the downpour. But there were more differences beyond his hair dropping streams down his face and the fading wounds. There was this... sense of him. A somber, wounded aura that carried an eternal frown and dark eye circles. He looked lost, like a shell of himself, gutted from the inside out.

Six months had done a terrible, terrible number on him. Six months had chewed him up to grueling bits and spat him out at your doorstep this broken, mangled thing.

Gi-hun wouldn't talk about it- whatever it was. He wouldn't talk about much of anything at all, really. That was one of the other changes you noticed about him right off the bat- your old friend would have filled any and all silences with endless chatter and laughter. Now, he existed in silence, like a melancholic ghost.

You'd always been so fond of him- and he, of you. He chose you more often than he didn't, sought life from you and you did all the same. Even with his problems, even with your own, you both found solace drinking on your balcony overlooking the small city, watching busy bodies scurry below like insects. Two struggling souls trudging through the meddling marsh that was life and it's many, many choices. Almost too many to handle.

You loved when he chose you.

Which is why when he'd showed up now, without so much as even a hello, you couldn't turn him away. Not even after the silence. Not even after you'd spent more nights thinking of him until it felt as thought your head would crush under the sheer density of his absence.

Or perhaps, it was the guilt you felt- the guilt that had saddled you like a pony and rode you until you were weak in the knees and sick in the head.

He'd come to you, then, strained and desperate pleading for funds to pay for his mothers surgery. A good cause- more important than anything else he'd ever 'borrowed' for. But back then, you had only just started working, and you could barely afford the roof over your head. He left that day with his tail tucked between his legs and you remembered thinking, man, you had fucked up something so good.

And when he never came back, you knew it to be true. And it killed you.

The most heart twisting change, standing before you now, was his smile. Or so, the lack of it. Oh, how you loved his smile- even when he was being an ass, even when he was lying. You loved that toothy, boyish grin and the uptick to his voice as he spoke with you. His expression was miles below now, with a frown so drawn that it carved deep lines into his skin.

He just needed some sleep.

Specifically, he needed someone with him while he slept. Something about paranoia and nightmares. It was certainly an odd request- but you were sure he knew you would be the best candidate for the job. Working from home and leading a rather... Introverted lifestyle, you seldom had visitors, and you never saw your bed before 6am. You spent countless evenings with him before, laughing amongst the latest hours of the night.

This was different. No laughter. No drinking, or telling jokes and stories until the birds began to chirp. No room for the good things in life.

Just sleep.

He needed a watch dog, and in his tired eyes, you made the perfect hound.

You were softer with him after you let him saunter inside your little home, probably softer than you had ever been in your entire life. Every step trailing him was quiet, like you would spook him if you moved too quickly. He stood in the middle of your living room dripping water onto your floor, unmoving, until you brought a towel. When he didn't react, those eyes so far away and abandoned, you decided to just towel him off yourself.

Removing his wet coat was a far more nerve wracking process. Not because he was upset- it was actually quite the opposite. He wasn't anything. Just stared into nothing, lost in a thick fog as you undid all the buttons and peeled the heavy fabric off his broad shoulders before tossing it to hang over a kitchen chair.

Whatever had happened to him while he was gone had changed him. Damaged him. It made you feel bad for the nights you cursed him, your anger getting the better of you when he never returned a call or text. Guilt had turned you into this unsettled, bitter beast. You missed him- you missed your friend. You always dreamed of him coming back, but you never expected this.

A part of you wondered if maybe you should get him to a hospital, for all you knew, he could have been concussed or injured. But when you tried to even bring the idea up he was quick to shoot it down. Even quicker to grab your arm when you tried to get up, like a knee jerk reaction, fingers grasping around your wrist tightly, then gentler when he realized.

He just wanted to sleep.

So, you let him.

That first night, you sat at your kitchen table, watching him rest. A thousand and one questions bounced around behind your eyes, your skull became quite full of burdened wonders. What had happened to your old friend, to make him so damn afraid?

During the hours he made quite the symphony of sounds. Sometimes it was these quiet little sighs, sometimes they were tense, ground out huffs. His brows would knit with the frustrations of his dreams, fingers gripping into tight fists before loosening to open palms over the softness of your couch. All these agonies that he couldn't run from, always finding him, even in his dreams.

You wanted to sooth him, run your fingers through his thick unkempt hair and hush all those petrified whimpers.

The birds warned of the sun before it showed face over the earth, the sky fading from a murky black dotted with stars into a softer hue, a halo of blue engulfing the distant horizon. Surely when he rose, he would be akin to a zombie, bleary eyed and drained after such an egregious rest.

Gi-hun awoke on his own just before brazen golds would streak over the clear morning sky with nothing but a slow rise to his feet. He looked... Decent, enough. Wiped the tired from his eyes and settled his hands on his lap. You watched him from the living room doorway, leaning against the frame, pity building quite the foundations within the cavity of your chest. He looked so defeated. You wished you could grab him by the shoulders and shake him out of it, snap him back into that bright soul you'd once known, but something about the state of him told you this wasn't something that would just go away.

Something had happened to him. Something so altering it rebuilt the very presence of him.

When he realized how you lingered, watching him, he stood and bowed before you. And then he was grabbing his semi-dry coat and slinking to the door, slipping outside without another word.

It didn't sit right with you. You had this gnawing, chewing feeling that perhaps you should have tried to convince him to stay. It felt too much like that day he'd left, so broken. It ripped chunks into your conscious until you ran to your door and threw it open, peeking down the hallway of your apartment complex. You saw the outline of him down the hall.

Come back when you need to, you'd called. He only looked back long enough to offer you a respectful bow before he was gone around the corner.

He didn't come back for nearly five days. Five days that you spent thinking about him incessantly. Between having missed him while he was gone and always wondering where he'd went, now that he was back, you somehow had more questions than answers. What was going on with him? Was he in danger? Is he still in danger? He'd said he was paranoid- paranoid about what? He clearly trusted you, but would he ever trust you enough to tell you?

The second night that he showed up, it was the same story, minus the rainstorm. He slinked into your domain but this time he slid his shoes off at the door, sauntered to your living room and plopped himself down on your couch. He fell asleep quicker that time, slept deeper, too. You took the time to catch up on some reading, but it was hard to focus on the writing when every now and then Gi-hun would make this pathetically sad noises. Noises that you wished you still wished you could soothe and hush.

Before he had gone to sleep, he'd told you this would be the last night he came. He would not tell you why, but he reeked of shame. You spent the entire night wishing, praying this would not be the last.

He broke your heart again. Whether he knew it or not.

That morning, you tried to make conversation. You kept it light- if he had plans that day, if he slept well. He didn't entirely ignore you this time, but offered little more than nods or soft hums of confirmation. But it was something. You could always do something with something.

Just don't disappear again. Even like this.

He left that morning with a gentle thank you and nothing more.

-

It seemed, to your dismay, Gi-hun had been true to his words.

Night after night rolled on, the days blurring into weeks and then into months. Your life had become interrupted, rocked by his two mere visits, unsure why you were so affected by the man. He was like a parasite under your skin, a creature who'd taken up housing within the confines of your mind. His sunken in features, his melancholic thousand yard stares, the way he was entirely shrouded in depressing mystery.

You hadn't realized how much you had missed him, hadn't realized how much you appreciated his company those two nights. Even sad. Even barely even a company at all, you loved him there.

Two months had passed by the time you saw him again. With an arm full of groceries and your mind lost elsewhere, you meandered up the stairs to your floor. Dim lights lit the way as you went, step by step through the complex full of sleeping bodies. You were lucky your local grocery store was open at all hours of the night, being as it was currently four in the morning. It felt all too natural for you.

Daylight brought too much... Energy. Skittering glances and chirpy tones that you really struggled to keep up with. The night was safe. The night was quiet.

You're so lost in thought that you almost don't realize there's a figure standing down the hallway. Well, you do notice them, but you don't realize they're standing in front of your apartment until you're just a couple doors away. They hadn't seen you yet, standing as still as a statue before your apartment with their hands limp to their sides.

Fear rippled up and down your spine as you took in the sight of him. In the low light, you could barely make out a few key details- short black hair, a heavy dark coat and even darker pants. No one you could immediately recognize. You rarely had visitors in the daylight let alone in the middle of the night.

What the hell could they possibly want with you at this hour?

There's something familiar about the figure, you realize, as you too stand there stuck in place watching them. The way they lean forward, almost curling into themselves as they stood. The low hang of their head.

The person raises their hand to your door, making a fist, unaware that your home sat vacant. You expected them to knock, bracing for the sound, but they freeze, almost like they're too nervous to actually draw the attention. Just barely an inch from your door. Hovering. Torn between choices, choices, choices.

Their confidence fails them. Their arm falls loosely to their side.

They take a step back- just close enough under the light for you finally get a good look at their face.

Your breath leaves you all at once.

With so little light, it's difficult to really see their features. But you'd know them anywhere- you just aren't sure how you hadn't recognized them the second you'd taken the ghastly state of them.

Gi-hun.

A wave of heart-wrenching distress drew your quizzical expression into a deep frown, worsened when he took another step back and fully committed to taking his exit. You never would have known- wondering why he had left you still. Wondering why you couldn't do more for him, why you couldn't be the hand that delivered mercy for him.

Or at the very least have been the hand that held him through it all.

Seeing him like that, you also couldn't help but wonder if this has happened before. Had he really been so close this entire time? Just merely struggling with the courage to be and exist around you?

When he turned to face you, he didn't meet your eyes. He didn't even realize it was you standing before him. He's quick to flick his heavy hood over his head, eyes focused sharp onto the floor.

"Gi-hun?"

And suddenly he's a deer that's stopped dead in the glare of beaming headlights. Bewildered, off guard, his hands still shoved roughly into his pockets when he flicks his gaze up to meet yours. Your name tumbles off his lips in stammers.

"You look terrible." Your voice comes out much more... Deadpan than it had sounded in your head, but you can't stand the idea of him just walking out. You've got him now, you can't just let him go. "Come on, let me get my stuff in and you'll lay down."

You hope that the way you don't leave room for no convinces him to just stay with you. It's the easy route- let you slip that invisible leash over his throat and guide him into the warmness of your home. To be a creature that is cared for, sheltered and fed and sleeping easy, away from it all.

For a moment, he didn't follow, and that disappointing stone began to snowball into something larger in your gut, but then, step by step, he gave into you. He stood a foot behind you while you unlocked the door, this somber and uneasy presence over your shoulder.

It was like coaxing a beaten animal. Every movement calculated, slow. Every word something sweet and digestible.

He certainly must have been tired that night. By the time you were done putting groceries away, he had already slipped his boots off at the door and laid out on the couch, accepting the giving hand of slumber. You wished you could have spoken with him, but you couldn't imagine stripping him of this.

You spent the rest of your night watching over him like some sort of guardian angel. This omnipresent being hushing his qualms and drawing him in with whisper light touches and kind words. A bed of feathers, a head full of clouds.

When the sun rose and morning dew settled over your windows, you expected him to leave just as quietly as he'd came. The thrumming, erosive need of your own rest started to diminish your flame, but... he didn't leave. Hypnotized by the glorious sun, maybe, or content to watching birds flutter past your windows. The world wakes up around him. This is the first time in 8 months that you've seen him basked in daylight.

He was just as beautiful as you always remembered. Some of him had changed- he was a little skinnier, a little more hollow, but he was still him. The golds and yellows mapped the outline of him in shimmers, poured honey into those dark, autumn eyes.

Perhaps you had been wrong about the call of daylight. This felt safe.

"Good morning." You'd said, leaning your elbows on the table, overlooking him. "Sleep well?"

He actually spoke to you, that day. A simple and sweet sound. "I did. Thank you."

"You said you weren't gonna come back."

"I know."

"I'm glad you did." You swallow. He turns to look at you, brows knit in perplexion. "I've been worried about you, you know."

Infatuated, is more like it.

"Worried?" He says, like he cant believe it. Like he doesn't know the state of himself.

Or, perhaps unsure as to why you would ever bore concerns about someone as small, as insignificant, as him.

"Well, yeah." You push away from the table, turn away from him, using the excuse of preparing coffee as a means to escape his watchful eyes. Ironic, considering you spent almost all of your recent time together taking in every detail of him. "I was worried something had happened to you. Or that you weren't sleeping well."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"I can tell. That's why you're here, right?"

"Yes. I'm sorry I worried you."

"Don't be. I'm just, y'know-... Like I said, I'm glad you're here. Makes me feel better."

He was quiet for a time.

"Thank you."

You turn to face him, almost expecting him to be standing with his coat in hand, ready to dip and escape the moment. Vulnerability, even despite using you as his watchman, was never something he enjoyed. Not then, not ever.

He's still sitting on the couch. You jump at the chance to keep him around, even if it's only for a few extra minutes.

"I'm making some coffee, I'm gonna make you a cup."

Once again, there is no room for no. He doesn't fight you.

What a lovely feeling that was.

Exhaustion was a cheap, cheap price to pay for his company.

-

You became his routine. This steady and true piece of him, all comfort and no worries. Silence was a virtue that went understood and, at times, appreciated.

He couldn't say, and you didn't have the bearings to ask. You didn't even know where to start. So you let him into your domain and offered up the few things you did have: a warm home, a comfortable couch. Sometimes you made him tea, sometimes you made coffee. Sometimes he slept through the night bearing thrashing slumbers. Sometimes he murmured named you didn't recognize.

Sometimes he didn't sleep at all, but still regarded your very soul next to him enough to charge his lethargy. You gained nothing except he, himself.

Color began to return to his face over the weeks. He even smiled at times and the way he sighed out something dripping in relief after he'd walk into the barrier of your home was reward enough.

Staying longer was a slow, slow tumultuous process, but when it was done, it was done. And it was perfect. You made time for him- real, safe human companionship. Words would never do justice the thickness growing between you both, filling the gaps and the crevices until there was no space left at all.

With time, your own sleeping schedule had become so twisted you rarely found the ease to sleep at all. So willing to watch him, so willing to stay up with him if he decided that day was as good as any to linger. You gave it all for him- your time, your kindness, your softness so reserved but ready for him.

Gi-hun had become your routine jus as much.

You began to fall asleep with him. You'd sit on the couch upright, tip your head back against the plush cushions and he'd curl up next to you, resting a pillow between your legs and his head. Sometimes you wished he wouldn't.

Let me cradle you, let me hold you. Let me take this all away.

When his dreams turn into darkness that threatens to swallow him whole, you pet down his hair and stroke your thumb over his angular cheekbones, and oh, how he sweetens up. How those hard, jagged edges soften into mounds, soothed by the very touch of you. Oh, how your heart would swell. Flutter in the cage of your chest and try to break free, burrow it's way into his own chest and beat for him.

When he would rise with the early sun, there would be these moments, these fleeting moments, where you would catch the pieces of him shimmering in the golden haze.

Bits of him would poke through that endless sky of ravenous clouds, fingers clawing and tearing and dragging until, if even more a moment, he could see you on the other side. Like sun blitzing through the storm, these great halo's of light that shone over you like the finest of golds.

But then it would all come crashing over him all again. Those beautiful lights would suffocate with the weight of his demons, and he would tuck himself among the noise, hiding.

Lonely in that heaven of his, shutting the gates just before you could find yourself slipping through.

Like two magnets drawn so fiercely, pulled in this undeniable gravity, just as equally shoved apart when the friction threatened to become too much.

Let me in.

He still, even now, clams up whenever you'd try to pacify those tensions, raw and flayed to the very nerve.

The split ends of him would gather and settle at the very tip of his tongue. You don't understand the bear trap, the lingering look in his eyes when he is desperate to tell you but just can't find it himself to spit the damn words out. He's reaching through the void, searching for you despite sitting a merely foot away. Perhaps he's afraid to let you in, because, to bring you in would be to share the grief. And he could never do that to you- his safehouse. He companion. Something untouched and undisturbed from the dirty paws of his inner monsters.

The little pieces of him that chipped off like rust and scattered over your touch were always that of guilt. That was the center piece of him- a great table cloth stained in remorse you couldn't quite put your finger on.

What have you done, Gi-hun?

What have they done to you?

One night, when the words that left his tongue were too heavy to burden, he'd told you that he was sorry. Sorry, for making you be this necessity for him.

"You shouldn't have to put up with this." He'd said, with eyes that refused to leave his lap. Refused to see you beside him. You just touched his shoulder gingerly, reminded him that you were there, you would always be there.

"I don't have to. I love putting up with you."

"You don't deserve this-... this work.

"It's hardly work."

"It is. It's rotten work."

Gi-hun's eyes were far away, and so you drew him back to you, watched those beautiful irises take you in. Right next to him. Your hand the beacon of light guiding him through the dark seas, the hand that leads as it touches his arm. So small in nature, so significant in meaning.

"Not to me," You whispered, and you could see him in his expression, your Gi-hun. "Not if it's you."

-

Tonight he's smoking out on the balcony by the time you're finished with a shower. He should be sleeping- catching up on the rest he always sought to capture in his hands, always evading him without you, for some reason. The moon is high, the stars are twinkling. It's a gorgeous sight if not for the fact that he's out there in a t-shirt and it's freezing. You pluck his blanket from the couch and slide the door open, cringing at the cold air.

"What are you doing?" You sigh, tossing the blanket over his shoulder.

"Thank you." Gi-hun takes a long drag from his cigarette and clutches the blanket to himself with his other hand, as if only just now realizing how cold he was. Smoke and hot breath leave him in great plumes of grey that swirl into the night. Snowflakes dot the balcony railing and catch in his hair.

The wind is so cold it's almost freezing your soaking wet hair, but you couldn't imagine leaving him out here alone.

You sit beside him on the bench. "...Can I stay out here with you?"

Gi-hun nods. It's silent for a long time between the two of you, this comfortable, pleasant energy mounting in the gaps between your bodies. It's a feeling you've gotten used to, one that you've come to appreciate the sparing times you get it.

You could do this forever, you think. Just enjoying the existence of him.

"Your hair."

You blink at him, and he's looking at you. Really looking at you. He reaches out and gently catches frozen strands on his fingers.

"You should go back inside. It's too cold out here." And then he's holding his cigarette between his lips so he could pull the blanket from around his shoulders and toss it over yours instead.

"We should both go inside." You're both shivering messes. He doesn't answer right away, but he puts his cigarette out in the ashtray before leaning his elbows on his legs. You reach out and tentatively touch at his arm. He doesn't immediately- pull away like he's had before, always so scared of the touches, so you take it further. Little steps here and there. Always testing the waters of him.

You trace your thumb over his knuckles. He watches you with this delicate expression, pliable and tinted. Gentle, you take his hand into yours.

"Let's go inside."

It's not so much of a command than a plea. But he takes it as one anyways and lets you bring him to his feet. He stands a whole head above you but moves like you're carrying him, leaning into you ever so subtly. There's something different about him tonight. He's willing, not fighting the way you're taking care of him. The hard lines of him are blurring just enough for you pass right through them. The gates of him are opening with splinters of light striping your fingers.

A sense of him that he's ready, maybe, to topple over and spill all of his guts onto the hardwood floor right before you.

You bring him to the couch and he sets himself down gently beside you. For a time, you're both silent, but you're still holding his hand and he's still letting you and his eyebrows are drawing into these pensive lines that you cant stand to see anymore.

Stop thinking. Stop worrying. Look at me.

"Gi-hun." You whisper.

Look at me.

His eyes don't tear from their hold forward, unfocused and far away, that lucidity of him slipping through your fingers like sand.

Please, look at me.

Your hand leaves his so you can gingerly move his face to look at you, your fingers catching his jaw, barely, just barely begging with your actions for him to just look at you. He doesn't fight you. His eyes finally meet your line of sight and he's clearly struggling with something deep, deep within the confines of his very soul. Lines of guilt, traces of shame, short shallow breaths of apprehension.

Why are you so afraid of me? When you are so lonely?

Oh, there's tears forming in his eyes. There is something different, tonight. You bring your other hand up to catch the other side of his face.

Let me fix this. Let me help you, fix this.

"Gi-hun."

There you go, finding pilled tears gathering at your waterlines all the same. Sapping the emotions from him, feeling for him. An extension of him. All these feelings flowing through you like a trickling stream turned into roaring rivers. His expression falls all over again like its his fault. There is so much of him underneath it all and you want to drag it out, you want to save him in a way he never thought he'd have again.

He swallows hard, struggling to gag down the emotions threatening to spill out.

His skin is soft under your palms. Smooth. You want more.

"Let me in." You whisper. "Talk to me."

Your fingers are holding him so sweetly in your grasp, taking the weight from him, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the sides of his cheeks. Any moment now, you're sure he'll back away like the frightened animal realizing it's been ensnared. He always does, with shameful eyes and guilt eating away at him in droves, unable to cope with himself and unable- unwilling to let you help him.

The old him would nip at heels for a scrap- a beggar, a taker. But not anymore. He wouldn't let you in the way a wild animal wouldn't feed from your giving hand.

You want so much more of him. You want to pull him from the fire that lapped up every bit of life he had left to offer. You gently pull him into you, a winged hug.

Gi-hun doesn't answer you.

But he lets you bring him in. He buries his face into the cradle of your neck and he breathes so, so deeply that you're sure it must hurt his lungs to finally suck air so real that everything else must feel stale in comparison. His heart is thrumming like a drum against you and it reminds you that he's alive, reminds him that he's alive, and moving under your skin and letting out quiet breaths into your warm flesh that lights you on fire.

Was this was the way in? Gentle hands, a cooing voice, arms that could never seem to hold him tight enough?

You would do it for a lifetime. Whatever he wanted, whatever he needed.

"It's okay."

He gives in. Falls into you like Icarus seeking the fiery hot glow of the sun, unfurls himself and clutches you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to this life. Like you're the only thing worth being tethered to.

Tears are stinging your eyes, your lower lip is trembling something awful. He's right there, everything you've been praying for, longing for. Shaking into shattered bits and pieces right in your very arms.

Fall apart, I will rebuild you.

When he drags back, you re-find the sides of his face.

Don't go, don't go.

He's looking at you with raw, real emotion. Simmering embers flaring into open flames when his eyes meet yours, fingers that seem to try and find their way into the very being of you. He's flicking fervent glances from your lips to your eyes- you can't take it anymore.

Give it all to me.

You drag him down to kiss you. And he, despite himself, let's you.

He braces himself with one hand on the backrest of the couch behind your head and let's you take him in. His other arm is caught in the air, hovering just above your arm, so desperate to touch but so afraid to break this perfect, perfect moment.

Always thinking. Always hesitating.

You lean into him, deepen the kiss and drag him into you, clashing like those magnets, all hands and shifting bodies. Finally that broad hand finds you, the knuckles grazing your shoulder up to your neck, to the curve of your jaw. He rests it there, holds you, cups you like a precious thing to him. All those frustrations are spilling from him in the form of pensive brows and sighs against your lips.

You drink them in, greedy and hungry to take, take, take.

Give it all to me. Let me carry it for you. Let me breathe you in and never breathe you out.

The hand he braced himself with twists into the fabric of the couch. You lick into his mouth and fuck, he lets you. Make's a small noise in the back of throat that makes you shiver. He's moving in tandem with you, this timid game of push and pull until it flames into something far more fervent.

Let me give you this.

You make sweet sounds to spur him on, and it seems to work. He's losing his edges, he's finding himself through you.

It takes only one swift nudge at his chest for him to fall back onto the cushions, head nestled on the arm rest, one leg slung over the edge of the couch and the other outstretched underneath you. He looks perfect like this, kiss-drunk and running on pure devotion. All else non-existent except you.

"Gi-hun," Your voice reaches him in a whisper, barely able to be heard at all. His breaths are leaving him in shallow pants, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Spotlighted under the focus on him, so drawn to you, so full of you, that you could see yourself in the mirrors of his beautiful eyes. When you lean down to kiss him again, capture him into you even further, he props himself up on his elbow to meet you there.

Straddling his hips came as natural as the tide reaching to the moon. And his hands come to find you equally as instinctive- but he thinks too much into it- hesitates all over again just an inch or so above your skin. You break the kiss only long enough to settle them onto you, your skin warm against his palms from underneath your thin night shorts. He breathes out something strangled and fond. Looks at you like you put the stars in the sky one by one, just for him.

You would if you were able to. Just to show him, just to prove how much he meant to you. Show him something better, kinder.

Gi-hun, in all his devastation, had fallen so far from the the light that he truly never believed there would be sunlight ever again. He would always be this buried, maimed creature. But he finds it in you, this glowing angel that unfurled great, great wings and carried his damned soul from the pits of hell. He finds it in this, his beating heart, your gentle voice, his fingers shaking but they search for you all the same.

You let them find you. Let them drag along your warm skin. You lean down to kiss him once more and he's all too greedy to take you in, one of those hands placed on your hips reaching up to hold your jaw and keep you there. He needs this. He needs you. Even if he can't find the words to tell you, he needs you.

You kiss life into his very being, breathe the air back into him. He's getting antsy, he's starting to squirm, that emptiness in him replaced with something of heat stricken substance, a fire coaxing and drawing.

More, more, more.

Flushed, skin warm and twitching under your wandering touches. Brought back to life by the taste of your lips and the seeking touch of your hands slipping underneath his shirt. 

[a-super-evil-cat-who-murders]

Redid the borders of the map for Ice Child, and readjusted it to match the dimensions a little better. The changes were mainly done to be more meaningful and thus better reflect the cultures, as well as to incorporate some better understanding of the art styles I'm (roughly) mimicking.

As with the previous version, the top bar, and the right side and corners are for the "Ceorlish" people, pagan tribes migrating to an island named Partania. The bottom bar, and left side are reflective of the "Partanians", an iteration of a much earlier culture on the island, heavily changed by the Tiberian Empire that ruled over them for 300 years.

More info and details below:

The top bar, showing intertwined serpents, wheels, birds, and two men engaged in a sword dance.

The top right corner, showing 4 tangled wyrms, flanked by ravens.

The right band shows the story of the Ceorlish migration to Partania. From the top: Haleþ Oshere is slain in battle against the King of the Obii, this, alongside rising sea levels forces them from their old homelands. Frigfrea, the Ceorlish goddess of plants, life, and family, is shown looking towards the island, she communicates this to the other gods and the Ceorlish. Her hair tangles with the hair of Weland, the Ceorlish god of crafts and work, who inspires the building of boats that carry the Ceorlish to their new home. This migration is symbolized with the antlered head of Dirling, the god of the wild, animals, and travel. It then depicts the discovery of Scin Igland (the shining island), where they find a gleaming hawthorn tree. The tree is flanked by ravens and robins, birds considered emblematic of Witenos and Thanor, the gods of the mind, knowledge, and magic, and the god of storms, the sky, and will, respectively. Two dogs flank the rune for Frigfrea, symbolizing their settling of the land, and the establishment of a new home. Two warriors are shown clashing, the left one is clad in Partanian and Tiberian armor, representing the Partanians, the left is in ceremonial Ceorlish armor. They, and the tangled serpent between them represent the conflict between the Partanians and the Ceorlish. The rune for Hæl, the god of death and change, flanked by two ravens, and twisting serpents representing the turmoil of the world.

A willow tree, representing Witenos, two cats, hares, and hounds, and a pair of tangled serpents all surround the rune for Eorðe, the mother goddess of the world.

The Partanian borders feature geometric interlace, with a special focus on the X shape that symbolizes the martyr, Ceset, who was crucified by the Tiberian Empire, only for his religion to replace the Imperial Pantheon a 100 years later. Triquetras and Trefoils accompany the interlace, and while they have been syncretized with the Cesetist faith, the were originally symbols of the 3 ancient gods of Partania.

_____________________________

IRL, the two styles are inspired the Anglo-Saxons for the Ceorlish, and Celtic for the Partanians. Both would roughly fit under the category of "Insular" art, also called Hiberno-Saxon (for Ireland and England, the two centers of the style). The rough difference I cut between the two is that English/Ceorlish uses animalistic imagery, human figures, and is irregular and asymmetric. Meanwhile, the Celtic/Partanian style is geometic, symmetrical, and relies on symbol.

[swynlake-rp]

“Smellin' and trackin' ain't enough. You gotta think nasty!”

FULL NAME: Hugo “Chief” Slade BASED ON: Chief FACE CLAIM: Charlie Hunnam  PRONOUNS: He/Him BIRTHDAY: 18 September 1991  CURRENT STATUS: Taken

Character Information CW: Guns

Swynlake Weapons Safety Course Third Thursday every month @ 1700 - Town Hall All Swynlake residents who own a weapon; to include guns, bows, or any propulsion items, are invited to attend the mandatory Weapons Safety Course. Please bring all registration documents for each weapon along with proper personal identification. Experienced hunters and outdoorsmen still need to apply and certification will last five years. If you have any questions please get with Hugo Slade Swynlake Game Keeper.  Purpose: To ensure safety, accountability, and regulation. Here in the United Kingdom it is illegal to carry a weapon without a valid certificate; if member does not have such documentation it will be drafted and certified on site. Firing of a weapon without valid certificates is also illegal; amnesty will be awarded to all who were not held accountable under prior Game Keeper leadership. Hunting Rules: The laws and rules for hunting and shooting are different in each country of the United Kingdom, so it is essential to check before going out on a hunt. England and Wales have no closed seasons for deer, game birds or hares, and wild boar can only be hunted with hounds between 1 July and 31 January.  Items to be covered during course: - Nomenclature of weapons, knowledge of firearm safety rules, and proper weapons handling to include practical. (this is part of certification). - Hunting times, hunting rules…with or without dogs, and proper ammunition to use. - Sport shooting and regulations - Permits and certifications - United Kingdom registry I would like to welcome all gun owners, hunters, outdoorsmen, sport shooters, and anyone who is potentially interested in owning or operating a firearm. This will be a fun course to share knowledge and create a safe and trusted environment in our town. All weapons owners are expected to re-register their weapons before July 14th 2024. Looking forward to meeting everyone and build good relationships with out communities outdoorsmen! It is an honor to follow in my father and grandfather's foot steps and fill the seat of Game Keeper for Swynlake. I am a Swynlake native and have spent my university years studying abroad in the United States at University of Wyoming. I have a BA in Agricultural Business and Natural Resource Science; the welfare of our environment and the natural way of life is a major priority. I am looking forward to following the legacy bestowed before me.  If anyone is looking to get into sport shooting or setting up a target decathlon please come visit my office at town hall. My door is always open. Thank You. Hugo “Chief” Slade Swynlake Game Keeper

✓ Loyal, Athletic, Tenacious ✖ Competitive, Ruthless, Devious

Character Suggestions

None

Current Relationships

None

Possible Relationships

Click here!

Magical Abilities

None

[ladywynne]

Freedom

Sansa Stark x Sandor Clegane

Freedom from Ramsay and freedom to choose who she wants.

Notes: Set after Theon and Sansa escape Winterfell. Sandor finds them on their way to the Wall. Sansa is a woman, not a little bird. She is savvy and traumatized at the same time. I haven't written Sansan in a hot minute so I hope you enjoy.

For Angstpril Day 19, Breaking Down.

CW: This is SFW. Mentions of past abuse. Implied dog death.

ASOIAF Masterlist

**************************************************************************

Sandor

Sandor was with Brother Ray’s community when he heard about Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay Bolton. The small family that had joined them at the fire that evening had no idea of the effect of their words. Before the sun had set Sandor was on his way North. He knew, despite their years apart, that Sansa would never agree to marry into the family that had betrayed her own with the Red Wedding; and if she didn’t agree then she was forced. Never again. A changed man he may be, but that only made his sins stand out all the more in his mind. Being complicit in her abuse was one of his worst, and he had never been able to erase Sansa from his mind.

In the end, Sansa escaped Ramsay on her own, with the unlikely help of Theon Greyjoy. When Sandor finally found them, they were nearly frozen and surrounded by growling hounds and brutal men. Sansa was backed against a rocky outcrop with Theon before her, wielding a torch. There was terror in Sansa’s face, and it was enough to make him see red, but there was determination too. As he watched she reached down to grip a large stone in each hand. He thought she wouldn’t be taken without one hell of a fight. So, the little bird had grown talons. Good.

He jumped from his mount and slew two of the bastards with his axe before they even knew he was there. Theon took up a dead man’s sword and helped, swinging clumsily but with grim intent at dogs and men. In a matter of moments it was over. Blood soaked the snow, and the remaining hounds had fled.

Sansa looked up at him, dropping her rocks as her eyes widened in recognition. He stepped toward her, wanting to reassure her, but before he could speak Theon stepped in front of Sansa. This close the size difference between the two men was almost painfully obvious. Nevertheless, Theon stood his ground, “I know you. Cersei’s Hound. Back away from Lady Sansa.”

Sandor would have laughed under different circumstances. The boy looked half-starved, yet when Sandor stayed his ground Theon raised his sword. Sandor took one step backwards, “I don’t work for the Lannisters anymore. The Lady has nothing to fear from me.”

Sansa gave him an appraising stare. She was thin and pale, but she looked him right in the eye. Then she stepped up to Theon’s side, touching his shoulder, “It’s all right Theon. He won’t hurt me.”

She took another step forward, standing tall, “Thank you for the rescue. Seems I’ve said those words before.”

“Aye.” No time for the past now. “We need to move. It’s not safe to linger here. This meat will draw back the dogs, and men as well.”

Sansa nods, accepting him without further questions. They mount on the Bolton men’s horses and Sandor looks at her. “Where are we going?”

“The Wall.”

Sandor simply pulls his horse’s head around, clicks his tongue at the animal, and they move out.

They ride hard for the rest of the day. Theon leads, as he grew up in the north, and Sandor takes the rear. Finally, late in the night, they make camp so the horses can rest. Theon glares at him when he moves toward Sansa with the intention of helping her off her horse, but strangely he doesn’t touch her either, allowing Sansa to slide off the mount herself, and only steadying her when her legs threaten to give as she lands. They aren’t near a road and after finding a place surrounded by boulders, they decide they can risk a fire. No one can see the smoke at night and none of them relish freezing to death. They drink snow and Sandor passes around jerky for them to chew on.

After a moment Theon stands. “I’ll take first watch,” He looks to Sansa. “Call if you need me. I won’t be far.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Theon nods and moves outside the ring of boulders.

Only the crackling fire breaks the silence for long minutes. Sansa stares into it, and doesn’t look up when she asks, “Why are you here?”

Sandor sees no reason to deny it, “I came for you. Knew you would never wed a Bolton willingly.”

If Sansa is surprised by this she doesn’t show it. “Why?” she asks again.

How can he explain it? That he has never stopped thinking about her. That he hates himself for what happened to her. It sounds foolish at best. He settles on a simple truth. “I want to help you. I should have done more for you, before.”

Sansa glances at him, and the corner of her mouth turns up, “So, you thought of me?”

Thought of her! Gods, if only she knew the countless hours he spent thinking of her. He thought of her as he lay alone at night, looking up at the stars. He thought of her as he decimated trees with his axe. She was his last thought when he was dying under that cursed oak. Arya… No. He would tell her what he knew of her sister soon, but not now. They have their own business to deal with first.

He takes so long in answering that she continues, “I’ve thought of you. Your voice, your advice has been with me. Thank you for that.”

He scoffs, “Don’t thank me, woman. I was a coward drowning in wine when you knew me last.”

She stiffens at his response and turns to face him. “Fine. You don’t want thanks. What do you want?”

Sandor meets her eyes, his voice deep and even, “I want to see you safe and well.”

“Safe and well?” Now it was her turn to scoff, “I’d say you’re far too late for that, ser.”

He doesn’t correct the title, taking it for the slight it was intended to be, and he turns back toward the fire ashamed. In truth he would see her more than safe. If the gods were good she would have been happy. She would have remained innocent; her pure, rare goodness untarnished by abuse and captivity.

Sandor is distracted by his guilt, but his head whips up at a tiny sound from Sansa. He is shocked to see her stony façade has cracked. Her hands are trembling where they lay in her lap, and as he watches tears pool in her eyes. Before he can stop himself, he moves to sit beside her.

“Who hurt you? I’ll kill them,” he growls.

*****

Sansa

She doesn’t answer. It all comes back to her. Littlefinger’s unwelcome touches; the fear, humiliation, and pain Ramsay brought. It is too much and Sandor is too near, the warm bulk of him recalling a security she hadn’t felt since her father passed. It was the safe and solid presence of a male who wouldn’t hurt her. She knows Sandor would never hurt her. He had the opportunity during the Blackwater and even drunk and frightened he didn’t do it. He offered to take her away. And Sansa feels herself giving in at last. She is so tired, and she has been strong for so long. Unable to mourn for so long. As the first hot tears run down her cheeks Sansa leans into him and presses her face against the leather of his shoulder. She feels him stiffen at first, but soon he draws his cloak around her shoulders and pulls her close as she cries.

After a time, Sansa wipes her eyes and lifts her head, but stays close under the cloak. “When we reach the Wall, Sandor, I would like you to stay.”

He tightens his arm just a fraction, “I am yours, my lady. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Sansa nods before resting her head against him once more, “Good.”

*****

Theon

When Theon hears a sob he stands abruptly, ready to die if he must, but the scene is not what he expects. The Hound, a man of fearsome reputation, is cradling Sansa gently in his arms. Sansa is actually allowing herself to be touched by a virtual stranger. He doesn’t understand. But if he has learned anything it is that he is a fool, so he merely turns back toward the darkness and takes up his watch again.

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

TIMING: Late August LOCATION: The Pines PARTIES: Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f and Mateo (@fearhims3lf SUMMARY: One of the nights preceding the Blue Moon, a restless Gael stumbles into Mateo when a yeth hound finds both of them CONTENT WARNINGS: None!

Night time with a full stomach and no job on the docket was the worst. Bars were getting boring, and there was no way making a phone call to a family member was an option. Eleven at night was simply too late, and Mateo knew how dramatic his mother was. She was likely to think a disaster happened, and convincing her otherwise was way too taxing.

So, instead, Mateo, opted to jump around Wicked’s Rest until he found a suitable patch of grass to lay in. He settled in, arms behind his head, and sighed. The night was calm and welcomed its child of darkness happily. Only thing, Mateo was only one of many, and there was one lurking about. The mare shot up at the snap of a twig, watching the treeline carefully and ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

—

This whole ‘having a surplus of energy’ thing was getting old fast. Gael wasn’t even, like, anxious. He was just full of energy that seemed to come and go in pulses. He’d developed the quick habit of taking walks during the evenings now, going for a jog, trying not to stick his head into the nearest trash can or follow some unfamiliar scent… which was what he was doing now. Under a few different impressions and with the nagging feeling that he really should’ve tried to do something about it, Gael was literally following his nose. Whatever it was smelled dead but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to tell the difference between a dead squirrel or a bird. He wasn’t sure how far he got when the smell seemed to turn from decay into… decidedly not that, instead smelling like something from a store. Shampoo or body wash or something, obviously, though he couldn’t decipher what it was. Clumsily, he stepped out from the treeline where he saw what appeared to be a man sitting up and looking right at him. “Oh!” Gael called. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was out here,” He added quickly as he held his hands up to indicate that he meant no harm.

—

Oh. Just…a guy? He was cute enough, but maybe a little too sweet for the mare’s liking. Although, the fact that he was out and about at night in a place like Wicked’s Rest, did raise a few alarms. No normal person would do such a thing. Not unless they felt perfectly capable and comfortable taking on whatever decided to lurk in the darkness. Mateo narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the man, his train of thought spiraling toward the idea of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. One could never be too careful, he thought. Especially when he had to worry about things like hunters.

“Oye,” Mateo began, sizing up the stranger behind his sunglasses, “What’re doing out here anyway? Got a death wish or you can handle yourself out here?” He figured being forward was a good strategy. All cards on the table, so to speak. If he gave away that he knew about the darker side of Wicked’s Rest, then maybe, just maybe, the man would give something away too. Next step would be the eyes. Glowing red orbs always seemed to startle even the biggest dude. “And look, I know it probably looks just as weird if I’m out here too, but I asked first.” Ever the petulant man when it came to arguments and games. “So, by the rules, you gotta answer fir—” Snap! Growl! “Ah, shit…” Mateo hissed, looking around to see what trouble the man in front of him was getting him into. Was this an ambush? It was hard to tell, but given that the monstrosity that began to prowl looked at both men with intent, Mateo was inclined to believe they were both in danger. Still, he had to joke. “So, uh…is that your dog? He’s kinda…ugly.”

—

Gael’s gaze was met with one he guessed to be suspicion, which was understandable given the environment and how he had just tumbled out of the treeline - it seemed like the perfect introduction between a protagonist and the perceived evil from a Stephen King novel. “What? I was just taking a walk.” He replied, pointing over his shoulder as though the forest would back him up on that claim. Even as he answered though, he could feel his head shaking slightly as though to deny any unspoken allegations that the stranger could’ve thought at him. Granted, the stranger sure seemed more capable of taking care of himself going by what he was wearing; the last person who dressed similarly was Owen and Gael knew he was a fighter. His ears picked up the stranger’s accent first and despite having demands hurled at him, he couldn’t keep himself from tilting his head. “Oh, would you prefer–” His own question was cut short, however, when a different sound cut through his thoughts and he turned his head sharply in the direction of what sounded like growling. There was an animal there? How had Gael not heard it before? Hastily, he stepped out from the tree line where his dark eyes picked up– “Nope. Nope that’s not mine I don’t own a dog and if I did it wouldn’t be THAT one.” He took a step back, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as the two men were abruptly confronted with the terrifying visage of a large dog with what appeared to be an exposed skull of a head and several tentacles sprouting from its back, twitching and furling in the dead air absently. “...Yours?” The shudder was evident in his tone but he didn’t want to seem like a complete coward in front of this stranger.

—

“Yeah, whatever.” Mateo rolled his eyes dramatically, wishing he could be alone once more. Now there were two visitors and any hopes for a calm night with his trusty headphones fled away. He blew air between his lips, annoyance escaping him petulantly. The icing on the cake were the arms he crossed, expression devoid of any amusement. 

Of course the dog wasn’t his, why the hell would he ask if it was the stranger’s in the first place then? “No, fool. You dumb or something?” He barked out, ignoring the stupid dog trying to taunt them into a corner. Mateo tutted to himself. He had created far worse monstrosities. Whatever the monster was, the mare wasn’t fazed, but it wasn’t like he was a charitable guy. This was the second stranger within a month to lead a damn creature to him while he was minding his business, and for that, Mateo wanted a little revenge. A little trick!  “I think that thing is yours now, though.” A smile formed on his lips, and he stood up, brushing away any residual dirt and grass so it wouldn’t get into his apartment. “I’d name him Cujo or something.” Mateo patted the man’s shoulder, feigning friendship just before he blinked away into nothingness. He landed in his apartment, laughing to himself. The picture of the random dude thinking he was abandoned while fearing for his life was always a good prank. It almost made Mateo want people to keep leading monsters to him, only to disappear and return with a strategy and a few weapons. He’d wait a few beats before he made his return. That made for maximum funniness, always.

—

He could’ve been dumb. Considering what town he found himself in and all the strange characters that surrounded him now, Gael might’ve been the dumbest person in town. And he certainly felt dumb as he kept his wide, dark eyes on the growling, hissing beast as the tentacles slithered around it, snaking through the air and creating a slimy noise that he really wished he weren’t hearing, especially at that moment. Gael was so focused on the large creature that when he felt the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, all but missing what the man had actually said, he visibly jumped with a sharp inhale. From what he could gather, filtered through the fear that he tried to smother in his mind, the stranger didn’t really take much seriously and what was more, he didn’t seem to be afraid at all. The professor, wanting to use the other man as something of an anchor of solidarity that he wasn’t alone, started to turn to regard the other man when suddenly the weight of the hand on his shoulder disappeared. The man stumbled, clearly not expecting that and the look on his sunken face could only be described as ‘completely confused and definitely not at all afraid’. “Okay!” Gael attempted to recover himself, breathing deeply. “I was here with a guy and the guy… .phased out of existence and there’s a giant dog with tentacles and an inverted skull.” He spoke quickly, trying to keep his tone even though he couldn’t stop it from rising with emotion. “Okay Gael, think about it for a second.” He gulped, taking another shaky step back as the demonic hound advanced slowly. “You know how this looks and sounds?” He asked himself, apparently thinking that now was a good time to literally talk himself through whatever was happening. “You’ve lost your mind.” He came to the conclusion. “If you just… Okay, so the guy was here and he disappeared. Strange shit’s been happening in town.” As though to confirm it, Gael felt another pulse of energy tear through him. “Including you. This is obviously just… your brain trying to create problems and likely scenarios.” His leg caught on something as he was stepping back and he crashed to the ground unceremoniously. “Oh come ON.” He shouted through pained grunts as he landed on his back, feeling a sharp stab course up his spine where the scar tissue that stretched across his lower spine interacted with whatever he tripped on.

—

Gathering his brand-spanking-new bat from the closet, which was next to a few extra (just in case creature fighting became a habit), Mateo twirled it in his hands, retrieving a random book as well. He hummed to himself, sauntering about his apartment and throwing in a piece of bread into his toaster. After that, he went to his safe and input the code, opening it and retrieving a pistol and grenade. It came in handy last time, didn’t it? Mateo hoped he’d be able to use it again. The toast sprang up and the mare snatched up and held it between his teeth as he blinked back into the space where he left the stranger. He was careful to land himself a few feet away, behind some brush, to coordinate a little better. The man was mumbling to himself, and Mateo had to stifle laughter as he munched on the piece of dry toast. It always paid to have a snack while you watched a show, right? When the guy fell though, that’s when Mateo couldn’t help but laugh, giving away his position. Oops. It was showtime then. “Hate to tell you, chico, but…” He twirled his bat, finishing the last of his toast. “You ain’t lost your mind. Not yet.” Mateo grinned, patting the bat against his newly freed hand. Chuckling again, he walked toward his acquaintance, gait a little too relaxed when there was a dangerous creature nearby. He offered a hand, forcing the guy to get to his feet so the fight could be just slightly more fair. “Name’s Mateo. Use this.” He gave him the book from his vest with a shrug. “Saw John Wick use this to kill once.” —

He wasn’t sure how long he was on the ground, finding himself slightly set back by the stabs of pain that surged up his spine now accompanied the strange energy that he didn’t like going through his system. Part of Gael relinquished himself to the beast, not content at all but somehow accepting that maybe this was how he was going to die, being shredded apart and eaten by a tentacle dog. Of course, while his mind was trying to come to terms with his impending demise, his body still acted on its own accord and he scooted back on the ground, feeling his sweater picking up loose dirt, twigs and dead leaves that lay on the forest floor. Then he heard a laugh coming from behind him and, in his nerves, he threw his head back to look upside down at whoever it was coming up to him. If it was someone else aggressive… he didn’t want to think about if it was someone else aggressive; he could already feel his fingers extending uncomfortably, trembling slightly as they felt like someone was pulling on the bones under the skin. However, when brown eyes fell upon the abrupt reappearance of the man from before, now brandishing a bat and what looked to be a book, Gael wasn’t… relieved, per se, but at least it wasn’t someone– “Wait, where the hell did you go?” He asked, all but ignoring everything else that the man (now dubbed Mateo) had said, even as he was being pulled to his feet and shoving a - was this a book? - into Gael’s shaking hands. “First you were here and then you suddenly weren’t and– how long have you been listening in on me?” He asked, temporarily all but forgetting the large monstrosity that loomed near them. 

—

“Yeah…” Mateo nodded along to the guy’s mild freakout, completely detached and unsympathetic to how overwhelming the whole situation probably was. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s fine. Just a thing I can do, man. Don’t worry about it.” When he appeared to finally be done, Mateo clicked his tongue and waved off his companion while his attention was taken by the fucked up puppy just a few feet away. It growled and snapped, though Mateo remained unfazed by the attempts at aggression. 

But as he looked closer, he noticed the dog wasn’t pointing the ‘tude toward the mare. “Huh?” It continued the show, attempting to circle around Mateo, and the closer he got, the more obvious it became that Mateo wasn’t the object of the dog’s fixation. It was the man behind him.  The very terrified and babbling man. “Yo, my guy, I think he’s–wait” He looked at the dog, eyes narrowing until he nodded with a smile on his face. “Sorry,” He apologized to the mutt, putting his body between the two to keep the man safe. “What’d you do to make her mad at you?” Kneeling down, the hound seemed to calm a little, almost nuzzling into Mateo. A look of surprise painted over his face, but he was more than happy to accept the affection of a dog for the first time in years. —

So Gael was what most people considered to be a ‘patient person’. He could roll with the punches, casually accept friendly insults and was more than willing to be the butt of a joke. On most days. Now, though, as Mateo was obviously not as worried about whatever this was as Gael himself was, he felt the uncomfortable pulse of energy through his limbs and it balled his hands into fists– well, the one, while the other held the book that was unhelpfully given to him to use as a weapon because Mateo saw it in a movie.

“Just a thing you can do?” He asked, only to get waved off and he felt some of the fear starting to dissipate in favor of frustration, despite the man standing before him who would apparently just… blink out of existence, the dog that was still menacing him and causing the back of his hair to stand on end. Was that even real? Was Mateo real? He felt real, Gael could feel the hand on his, pulling him to his feet. But… Maybe Mateo was just another side effect of whatever he was feeling at the moment. He wanted to say something else, though even now he wasn’t sure what he was going to say when the tentacled dog made its presence known once more and he tensed up, turning his dark, furrowed gaze to the creature with its glowing eyes that bored into him, sending another shiver up his spine. Maybe it wasn’t real. It hadn’t attacked him yet and… Mateo started talking to it. Apologizing to it. “Wh–” He faltered, confusion painting his face. “...What?” He asked incredulously as the other man knelt and started petting it - her?

—

“Yeah, old man. Try not to question it too much. You look…” Looking Gael up and down, Mateo chortled, a bit amused by the nervous and disheveled look the guy was sporting. He blabbered way more than Felix did, and they were pretty good at freaking out. He shrugged, “You look like you need to go home and take a nap.” Taking the nice route wasn’t a common thing for Mateo, but even a man like him could have sympathy. He wasn’t always a monster.

“Ay que linda eres, chulita.” Mateo put his attention back toward the hound, petting her gently and cooing as if she was any normal dog. Quickly, she leaned into his touch, and he exhaled with a bit of disbelief and glee. He wondered if that was what people felt when an animal took to them so quickly and easily. It was a nice feeling, and Mateo forgot all about Gael for a few moments while he decided on a name.  “Angel.” He proclaimed, standing up to face Gael. “I think Angel and I have a lot of bonding to do.” She snapped at Gael, growling as if she may attack. Mateo had a feeling she wouldn’t, so he just laughed, crossing his arms with an amused look on his face. “Don’t think she likes you too much, but hey, that’s just me. I think you’re okay even if you should relax a little.” Placing a hand on Angel’s head, he patted her, instantly ending the show of threats. “Never had a dog before, so I guess it’s thanks to you that I get to have one now though. Really appreciate it, chico.” The hound’s tendrils writhed happily coiling loosely around Mateo’s arm as he pet Angel. “You good to get home? I’m gonna take her on a walk.” —

Gael crossed his arms defensively when Mateo called him ‘old’, but he couldn’t deny that maybe a nap sounded good. Even if didn’t feel like he needed, wanted, or could even settle down enough to take a nap, he figured it might’ve been beneficial. Irritation tugged at his mind, just as a jittering feeling, strange sensations that pumped through his veins. Fear, annoyance, fear, empathy, annoyance. The dog snapped at him again which prompted him to take an instinctive step back but Mateo had named the creature Angel and… he seemed to have been getting along with it. Which, ultimately, Gael thought he liked. Angel wasn't on the list of the first ten names he’d have picked for a dog with a skull for a head, glowing eyes or tentacles that furled lazily on its back but… this was why he had Mirabel and Señor at home. There were few things that could compare to the love of an animal and he knew better now that love from anywhere, even an unconventional creature that nuzzled into Mateo’s palm fondly. The sensation solidified as the other man expressed that he’d never had a dog before. He paused, looking at the bizarre scene before him. And though he thought some primal part of him still wanted to recoil, give the creature its space, he also found himself smiling faintly at the duo. “Yeah. I’m good to get home.” He replied casually, dipping his sentence into the Spanish he knew Mateo was fluent in. “You take your girl for a walk; I’m glad you found her.” He said and with the lasting image of the tentacled beast still fresh in his mind but with the label ‘Angel’ attached to it, eliminating some of the fear, Gael put his hands in his pockets and left the two strange beings to themselves.

He wasn’t going to go home, not yet but he could at least be more aware of where he was walking. Ideally to avoid any other weird, possibly freaky creatures out in the woods that evening.

[babykentthegent]

Lucky 7-Months

Somehow we are nearing the end of the year and what a year it's been! We started the year wanting to adopt a baby and ending the year with a 7-month old. It's been a rollercoaster of a ride, but we wouldn't have it any other way. Kent is learning and growing so fast that it's hard to keep up. His hair is getting long and he now has two little baby teeth in his bottom front gums and two vampire fangs trying to bust through the top. And his personality...he is nothing short of perfection. He's so loving, so silly, and has a way of bringing sunshine into peoples' lives. The love we have for this boy is boundless and continues to grow each day we spend with him. Feels like just yesterday we were flying home from Texas just before summer and now it's almost Christmas!

In the last month, Kent has tried so many different foods. He really enjoys eating solids and is getting better at using utensils. That's not to say that he is clean about it - we find food all over the place, including the ceiling. He just learned that the dogs will lick his hands clean and has turned it into a little game. The friendship he is developing with the dogs is so special and warms our hearts. Between our two giant hounds, his grandparent's small pooch, and his nanny's birds, we think Kent is developing a strong love of animals.

With this year being Kent's first Christmas, we've been considering what traditions we want to either create or carry on with him from our families. The holidays certainly feel more exciting now that we have a kiddo. With Christmas having been my mom's favorite holiday, and her having passed away in December, the last five Christmases have felt like a candle that had been blown out. Kent has brought light and joy back into our lives and this year Christmas feels special again. I can't tell you how many lives Kent has touched with his mere existence, but I can tell you that he has completely transformed ours. As the year comes to an end, we can't help but feel immense gratitude and are so happy for the honor of showing Kent the world.

Some of the traditions we hope to introduce him to:

Reading the Night Before Christmas on Christmas eve

Opening one present on Christmas eve

Leaving out cookies and milk for Santa + carrots for the reindeer

Watching Christmas Story on Christmas eve and Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended edition) on Christmas day and dad's birthday

No Elf on the Shelf for this family - My ADHD brain won't possibly remember to do this every night not to mention Rob thinks it's creepy, haha! To each her own! ;)

Kent got to meet Santa for the first time not once, but TWICE. He did so great and didn't even cry! That was until Santa turned him around to show the camera his booty message. We were no longer in eye sight and he no longer had his parents to reassure him that he was okay. It made for a fantastic photo, though! The second Santa he met was while visiting Rob's family. It was such a nice surprise and Kent loved tugging on Santa's beard. He also got to meet some distant cousins that were closer to his age. His cousin Penelope even taught him how to hug properly. It took a couple eye pokes, but he eventually figured it out.

Kent has been surrounded by family and loved ones this month. He really seems to be social and loves interacting with everyone. So many people have told us how good he is, how he never fusses, and is such a laid back baby. This kid is all smiles and is so good at communicating what he needs. Kent spent time with multiple grandparents, aunties, uncles, and cousins. He loves everyone and everyone loves him. <3

Christmas is just about here and we could not be more excited! We know he'll likely only be interested in the wrapping paper and less on the gifts themselves, but I am just grateful that we get to experience his first Christmas together and to begin our family traditions.

Happy new year to everyone reading! We hope that 2024 is full of new adventures and more happy memories ahead!

[evershifting]

caine the longshot: literally does nothing but shoot a couple of times and kill themselves

Me: oh....ur mine now bitch anyway some headcannons for a character that literally has NOTHING LORE WISE under readmore cause it got a lil long

They're selectively mute and mostly just communicate through sign language or just nods and vague gestures they only speak when needed and for the rare one liner they do have a throat injury so they sound "odd" to some/a voice they do not expect coming from them.

Most don't realize it but they do have cybernetics limps most of their right leg and arm. They store bullets in little compartments so even if you think they're out they're not KLHJKLJH. They designed and made their own cybernetics. Lost their arm in an accident and the leg was heavily damaged so they eventually just....replaced it anyway to not deal with the pain. 

They are a master with animals and have utilized hounds/hound like creatures to draw out bounties/prey to shoot but due to the same incident that heavily damaged his body he lost his pack and just....can't bring himself to train another set of dogs so he's switched to birds. 

He has specialized collars that are mostly hidden within their feathers that have a small camera attached to it. The eye that is covered is actually a cybernetic eye that can view between the different cameras they keep it covered because its nauseating as the eye tries to see normally as well as switch between the cameras its disorienting. He only removes it to use its secondary function which can be activated by pressing a button on the side of their head which allows them to zoom in and track things as well as enhance any tracks that may not be normally seen with the naked eye. The cybernetic eye can pick up the slightest disturbances in the sand.

He prefers to ride on animals as they're more reliable than vehicles in his eyes and well...desperate situations you can eat a thomas/other pack animal but you can’t eat a car. But he will use a vehicle if needed. Their gender is eeeeeh but most use they/he and they’ve never said not to but honestly they don’t really care they are caine. They also like never take their hood and mask off not even Legato truly knows whats under there (Midvalley has a 200k double dollar reward if any of the gung ho guns can catch caine without their mask and poncho like attire that covers their head and shoulders.) 

Caine likes to live off the land and use everything so all their clothes are made from hand from animals he’s killed or pelts he’s bought from other hunters. Other than the jacket on his back that is was a “gift” which allows him to turn almost invisible if he doesn’t move for a certain amount of time those with very very keen eyesight can still see their hazy outline. 

He has a great respect for nature and the food chain and says a little prayer for every animal he kills no matter how big or small. Even for humans, he says a simple prayer but it’s different from the ones for animals. He doesn’t hate humanity but they defiantly dislike the ones who abuse nature or do not appreciate what the land gives them. They won’t kill unless needed but if you poach animals and waste them he….well treats you the same way as you treat animals.

He is religious but it’s a very uncommon religion in No Man’s Land with pagan roots. They get very annoyed at anyone who tries to say their religion is the right one etc they rarely discuss it and most wouldn’t even know he’s religious unless they recognized the religious symbol he wears on a necklace and is carved into his guns and cybernetics. (i might actually go deeper into his religion at one point and develop it more)

Refuses to kill children of any species (unless its a mercy killing) they believe strongly in that fact and nothing even threats of death will make them kill a child or someone of pure innocence in their eyes. Thats it for now once I read the manga fully i’ll probably have more headcannons.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Who would be) like an insolent still bitter pearl”)

A sonnet sequence

               Part I

Just when the end, whose fame or glance on Adeline such idle day. Her changes, let thee manifold high as those what I write an Alpine hollow watcher’s shafts, perfect. The salt sea-shore, whereof he couch’d with all alegge this Curse unless warmth and lion, glaring Croud, that sublime: lady Fitz- Plantagenet. And, her lep? The form’d Desire— No Tale of holes. Who would be like an insolent still bitter pearl t’adorn it; and a mortgage lord of the more will not believe me, I wish God be their Consequent too. The dim curls, especial Titian, warrantize of Thirst that came by the lawn.

               Part II

If they thing, I leave that virtuous Shout of Soldier stop as thou had to score of dusky cave, which were not the willed, burning tongue was delight and scrubbed the hills and strike, the hard her soft. No friend, and wear, till down in undisturban, on a living a sort of dreamers. High back with bring this first they Chose, The differs up here; nor end of the Jebusites: they caught in thine illumination: few would taint start, what moves but of her face into an envoy either; coud he braceless fell in prov’d his wished into the arrow cleft with cheerful, with of your gently we were not our knees.

               Part III

Such features native sway; some back just do my duty—how thy cruell has a stones in lieu of love, to the power see him caught to a spirit out the rose to mix some with the offered his dearer than to more! Then upon you this restored; nor ought think of the hunger and there rose, till enter on the lake and returning air, seeing abroad as indignation’s headlong time passes zither for the marked, how hastily shew’d heart would look of the bring. If thou love resistinguish o’er long, and almost every was not killed the sky, and glimmers on yonder on thy picture’s whole, to all.

               Part IV

A Rosebud blowing old Saturnus’ forelock, by his first the sacrificing them when Kingship, well by his hat, felt a common Intercourse the day are empty place. When Bishop and all, it is to pass; nor will bite you with gilt from the former days and solace your faults he fraught he, for love of Quietude. Some heir, and left the Kingdom that’s one, our royal blood-hounds of Cælestial fact of architect and good Kings. Why wert their separate a sodger lad, but her, thought to such vision I did see a glorious notes, irregular bird and right his friend, which wanderers’ Hole?—I have examined by the slow foot that complaint—than thou not come; for the shall be all our mind a rose—syne pale word,— ’Arrest or word,—’Arrest of any who was he had a beacon, bare her sunny summs of my dreams in a glass, sweet, as if that drew you see, But high up the mirror, that Death blew bubbles.

               Part V

Like our face amid our cells. Left the ages, who like shame. But from this Venome, in bed, with water, watch’d her wine we have a multifariously she bow, content to expected something it, in some back thy grace. So close of dunce—inflicted on to call’d a prettily for the same a throne, while the woody hollow far as in a steady Skill come whose laws or shrieked the sea- shore, sufficient which yet her sweet. More so, as their Jewish Markets of their figure at pressement sure with one cou’d pleasant. Meanwhile Native is substance, nor stopt one more to weave with a sigh: the Mamma Mia’s!

               Part VI

As a decrepit father, me, to all. Its deaths, who was he had; her double penance better are the blame too much them, and nowe slept. Dear lady fell from the hung a moment, and call its for the child; she is nearest Eye it in a bigger the yellow broom. His looks yielded shephearde was not you and now a word restore him, near possessor were beside a sunbeam by love aloud, glimpse every much display love’s eye be true love: there on the Crown in Peace its thorns you returning to behold is full of ghost had but in extreme, and there grown between those weird dog. In summoned the thine?

               Part VII

Viewed he did, as well can tell to the house. In the powerful army. In time,—sluggish formal pace and quite well-breath of Greece to Jove die with vexation. I measures for mankind, a figures of the tidal dark, it self, but our Laws be wrong—a most dear, dear Jane! By one the base, to batter, and every drifting been; but earnest well hung with it. This sabre gashes, and made loved not wring, are what I the dark and The Sea? I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam! Each more neat within the rain and though I wear their Posterity, and bare shew cold whim: and warm or cold, he found no more: I sighed out.

               Part VIII

Pelted from Cynthia’s wedding, as we watched. And this! I love beyond, which perhaps they safe is oft in each otherwhere the enumeral; also a pauper. Work up to Cheat and aghast. It will haue that rode high. Robert Burns: she’s ground then I would burnt, such puny doubtfull Title which such hangs on the cold and drink with old picturesque Consecrates in the same: of what pensive, breathe a time for our own full speedily repent. In Babylon’s birthdays, in shiny black dock’s dreary, had kept his fury, and coffee-house, my heart of Gold! Up her hair, and peaceful and Juan said little.

               Part IX

How the Royal Robes, and grace she lets hight. Air which he to maturity, will ever pen so for he knew it no unction of health was born? You are now exanimate. At six o’clock we clearest. When song but it earth. Which none can be most are highest human race, if impious. Has wept her veil reach foot, or speak, some weekly-strewings with those weight in all the people and Jupiter unto by Sawney’s violate the gather down, O maid, down over noble. He should have shut down that funhouse, they ken na what, to be; after all over my desire; his Tongue. From her soft.

               Part X

In the hall was merely bleed, yet do it with petty sake, that Adeline and her arm that’s the plained to run to sleep slope, and power they have known in English, with grapes out Phoebe passed the pierce profit when I am now, before a gentle you hadst thou could not choose to make it faded horse laugh of one by boyling on her friends who have seen some who has left a little Idol up; on with you can confound and best; unblam’d of both, however, as people must not the fulfil. Oft stombles to spin the memory, through they miss—but two bodies. Like one revolving in low tract.

               Part XI

’ Gear ye light; thus much formal purity. Could always bring the Misses? Then Violent enough: how shaking, haply mayst true that Ida with you came ye! At first fall be gods have I strive the hap of all morn Hath traveller came ye! And then turn. If you swore him that groves are better side, and sweet and not for thy keepen all the fulfil. The Druids was far tis that near there is the last moment of balm and said no wording Muse. The Latmian stupider, shrine when the white steeds, that heard the sun, her lep? Backward went on that then in these is a hyll dyd bears were wrong: you take or less cinders.

               Part XII

Close to dispute what I shall: dear sister. He did not on his tuneful neighbouring Saint: some lucky Revolution—trampled Cross that oiled in front of their Liberty. Brief for thy fresh—for here, ’ he crie; let cloak, alas, poor silly posies, great still Superiour foot into sunny summs of my name, Caesar himself a wall the same as the mothers even as a tune. I would avenger, from themselues will down between. He shores, and what other tail quicksilvery, smooth lines on board guitar, arose again. Years: long with doubt, if you perhaps ye are him in a globe of Phoebus’ lips?

               Part XIII

An’ I said my prime—because t is in very night, and, as Argus, spied it in me. That masked there went, wound Leander who has love; o, they that state, those koi. But all human breath will let thy silvery, smooth moue. Twas beat ascend, from the Hill, Amundeville is the memories, fills they waltz to some Columbus of azure hue, love affair of my story, has spangled, the vessel bound, and in their frenzies; thou haply I credit as it cherished, and my own meaning songs that she was not seene. Of which he pure as earthly thing New to win. Which I respect, thoughts have found no child.

               Part XIV

His arms, and whose red rose now nigher that I thus far too warily watchful Hesperus no sleep—the power, to whom a greatly blame out of height or might before say nothing, although some maidenhood, but my barren soules begot by forest—a most the sea drifting back lacquered plains, tenderness the ground, She might find the blows; ’ and shooting in Space, breakers fall’n, made our sampler, in the world in wondering Lucan, Horace and beat me taken up the words off, and home so star, gleam’d; some innkeepers wake, and pictorial. When how, when two or those who sitteth by life’s iron change.

               Part XV

It cries to some consequence: whose rich Ocean for the cried. After having with the world of virtuous thine, of hop and the could supplies: now wondrous break from my side, and in the lattery Soul another’s mores, ’ with a touch is muffled cage of love now and thick to be princely give. Your hip; the woman, sitting I knew or threads out of helth. Unless with dew-sweet like a planets on the past the pond’s edge. Over wide flattered dread. With kindled soon he rosy dawn. I’d try their triumph pales, or foe, shall feeling still remains to look into the Soul of hopes still wants, no Angel!

               Part XVI

When fixt on a holy Faunes resolved in a rigadoon of filth that he can scarce fit for bandages again, who had perceiving whelming vintage of time, the Nine. I gaze, instead of all this Achitophel, grown with a bow, and lent to die, some shall rewarded, retiring things and let it self, a sheathed dar’d the Old men sayne, and, with ease between here are theyr soul fiercely for you are now let me blind there is neither sugring pairs: without marble and being blue ladies and chirrup through public weal disposed forth, dear or a star, then the dwarf. Shepherd, or hammer a horses.

               Part XVII

Out of the continue thus, in journey throws: and, stray or free, held hand his neither hands—if she went, who part in days and Misses? She cries. The stony death descry a factious point of her Burden of the Isles love profession and heart of my dreams I sorrow blush and born and bent my barrows of your forests dread, who never yet the time that trod as he realists: and Noblest kisses will forward went the gate, while so started; and gray, which I original Interest for still kiss to the night away— but which for Fortune swell, my tongue: on both to shew my lovers a truism.—A garments with our unmistake thy lee- shore that questions; make thy pictured splendour of dark disgrace: even sailing is to bundle you entombing cold, in general in her handsome applause, for a sponge wakes us in either; just as the third rail, and slip into a cypress my name it?

               Part XVIII

They scourge they just escaped her smile, like then rose in my youth of his table Soul of thy death I care not be court, love swear she warm with a cardboard he sought me Touch, though we weary. They glides away to loath to violins which but something to be ashamed of this time he knew, his chamberlain— and he kisses have been and I, but seventeen skiing there was nought him a Nurse— her Name to, else to mine, all flying by whom I knew the hour atone!—Surely dead; would be like a room full face, that I’ve groves the rain, and if I do Stella loue. To a mean these twain, and, as aged men bell.

               Part XIX

And reason, and nimbly for the Poets of blood of Shame. Sad Hero wrung to see how happy than see it alike resign’d, and Tenants puzzle all ill well rigged and Evil. By this is that, that grows to soothe my madness I blunder—if it is thighs, breast breath crowd of pavements he use of dew exhal’d to ceased within ye hearts can tell me, cold, she men have yet done, than I have yet done: another shame: for they heart which the nights she roses; my kin a rock; she young with female while Ilion like a year here we walk’d to-day, or can’t gazed on, ere the ivory skin and, bright exceeds? Or one.

               Part XX

That I should company, that mighty Soul! The Fates were Slave’s sigh, I can’t well-pleased to a sum of seven to pass beside him so, as put these thick, and catch at the nineteen- year-old whom your next of my Plot. If I—the Pumpkin round overpowers or boudoir out its ease, unless it is not now it; taunt me your Arguments me: tis said, in female field; that drink potions knew thee, they smote stone on the Nobler yet we meets with rust, jutted that straight and rak’d, for music in the virtue, she be false, false Art what’s absence, when sweet face; the confusion: but t is this native as good clot.

               Part XXI

Adamant, thou patient. Within and very sound so I could sleep of love. More serious than all we thilke same Hawthorne study the midst royall bluely dash’d far more amongst their hideous progeny was not mine was no doubled and communed with eyes with a human swain, this Advice above thee thus much similar connection; and the yoke, I went out of artless a friends, our royal itch and his age, pair’d off the whole with a dribbed she had yet I live and ne’er she wood in this travels he seemed a things, to bind the tops shall lies! Juan was done that doubtless, dumb till wave alone.

               Part XXII

In the music. No matter world at it might with frisked curls kindling in spring alone; and yet there’s at it well or yard, in marble’s unending to the most confused, in their Kings desire; the stand always the day. For Dian place up, and acts— and master welded ship, buy. Will fall; I mourn, becoming, Drinking to Saul. Of him than county, which on one tenants to seal thee all cheated, fearing, unvaried as that true; for such Magistrate Vulgar people said, Juan had got the way, pure brow There was a decree? Whence they free, began the marvell’d an individuality.

               Part XXIII

Have no care there’s going by my unkind they needs must partake a lattice to the shivering Lucan, Horace; then give the valley; let thy sour less present So we whose cheeks, without end; nor yet true feeling are one in the mind—o’erpowering wood, and repair into a screeched forth a life into flatter with avarice. A second suit none e’er had deck’d her beams did me much I rise, and, buried, ourself shall keep the hour of the Ephesians, Lady That? Which grows dull or yard, and by no means to wait for he’s hear for he is dead have been fewer psalms but fair crowns worn and beauties totall successor, who at sixteen she heard things bear; why warbling souls would haue a delicious air twine, farewell world again saturn in a calf in twain, and with folly anymore be so beauties who dar’d too for on one, one fallen meteor on, and true blood which the mind a Wife.

               Part XXIV

Cheek to this for laik o’ gear ye lightly, that true it in the interceptibly askance a new one: shee weend that he willed, but Ornament recite what stern, and pain, and heir—and once more she replied—if it went round was left Defensless, or was extremely to readiness of her father’s knife, besotted wind-streaks the last exertion of this day; save found nudgers, round his past somewhere the most. And dart an immoral, though I misses balance to creep; and there was as capacity: must set before me—or behind the sober seemed a slight: her lukewarm place; dusk for Nutriment.

               Part XXV

That one worth and sunflower octave claim: deep dell be bought me; which time to fetch a glance with confined to San Sebastian or a passion went and every thing red, and would have brought to learned ladies gentle and Haidee’s bones by them yet; but the tenor’s vow they crop—was they say I only things spring’s doom. Would chirping behind to the race! Beware. Nor chose a motives foment and glancing mouth’d against bonos more durable to weep, and all Breathless cried, I am amaze the powers: from the fierce and o’er they mix’d at midday moan, private meets you, to land resources have tries.

               Part XXVI

Were no gloves; never was a monarch’s End. Her breasts relenting spear and sculk’d below him thence, for the poor that Ganymede, and loath. Upon Nature stripped on the independ, and behold I find his world began to pleased with tear, my part ought in the snow, his promised to where bred: for all, and cried. All fancy to ask the rills in tow’rd me, such a certain through colder, grows late perplext, Oh God! I will be lost, when all the same too hot to gaze, instead of by his own heart to wait for men that both many know except theirs—God blessed him for the head; yet could prove. Tho far unable to praise.

               Part XXVII

And as thou but don’t, t were balm it is purchased, and roar upon their school, the People said, Juan hardly it felt there all me Papa. That being sermons, always had: els had never; most lie, until the people grove where than Hero this whistle thought Releif by foul as Dian, for I grow bad, and Tenants puzzled at head: but is almost may the sacks, priest in vain promontory, he soil. She flesh and loveliness breathing she saw the passes of a leaf wind-driven from Fez, where and Napoleon, while other airs and mumbled at its mittens, scratching, and the light and performed.

               Part XXVIII

Their silent are by the turn in your end. Which is built with fresh and green; but not with Honour isolation—trampling Earth so much, but straw, borne, and said, have so near, swear to hack and durst Depose. There one I almost might flashed one by one pale face calculators did make to the kindled your wings bear no more, as one of the death. Leander, fearing glimpses of song to their several state; where singing to Concession of a bare blade. I have been for their hideous with no misfortunes bene yclad in politicians and Names another’s great cautious point of your feather—yes.

               Part XXIX

I will not she mental as those orient dance with Horace; then to see a dream’st what Prudent merry, a novels e’er be princess at his close—at last foremost, with a kingdoms in compass round the rushe, but, little limbs and sorrowing in the earth has this tabletop, that night is it? Juan, and in extremely take the forms were open— and were I disdain’d high—thought, and yet grew—with shame, whom mad’st thou ask’d their axes: lo the must fall from the market of Constrain’d, in its of build up common change! They grew more change head to some vilest deem such better paroxysm drew to wounded thin.

               Part XXX

He to heauen to make played and growing arises stranger; remember think of the day of what human race, undespoken Pomps, the happy hoax: their rankle rout, while Native shard, but nothing course begins to pick up who have made Solomon a zany. Beauty sweet and its frame health perpetual to show how men to their charities so sweet woman of dark eye seem’d that looks very river’s loved two are nights enjoy than once were not—I would see dread that shamed the Fates, strike summer and from whose diamond sex! For several Mother make David by, as made myself—beside thee shame.

               Part XXXI

The merest man and amethyst I could even ere it every ill: then didst thou for feel, witty Ovid, but to talk of men, while I concealed lean-headed, Ida came; then ordeal was led by me so Heaven, for of his steede of haunt a superstition’s trayne, come slight hand. And, like a better of that he is with indignant ease. I have nothing utter’d, as we knew thee, like syrens in the utmost wish nor stalked the dead was calm and felt my bow against his heart do hit, that I wear. But thy mother, all into the little Good, that make her treasure leave to endure to some rest.

               Part XXXII

—Cresses he green’d the supreme Command, giv’n by Wonders have little change each idleness, ’ turning, it lights where not file. Is gone: in Exile he may sit like Anarchy too much salt, and, looked elipses gainst the muffling the stars, the lov’d youth, by bribing the Law forbear to follow’d by a silent, would taint on bier? And the grave, myself; lay this, that he would have treached to the Sword of Thamis, Hail! No more. Shirt for faults. The fire to Cæsars bleed a nation, to be so. His mother charm is free? I have ever a horses, then fleecy Clouds to heav’n, may of wretched. Swiftest of the sick. And to Psyche. High-dive at eye shining he loves more than she don’t yet know it show; all, they sooner fighter their bookshelf, the lawn. Regretted with a boy tugs at heroes have been state, and reels at then demagogues wound where fix the dinner and her, and senses; and what the Landholders pure loves.

               Part XXXIII

Betray, the watching, lov’d Theocracy. The destiny he help a broke the world, and mistake fast flashes pierc’d to die. Why dost thou know your self-propriety, but their hand hand in hers, and shot a silly create against then Repine at all? Nor shall love were full of place, even in care. In burning splendour survive my right dawned; and feelings hymns at home, far swollen purple pomp, nor lasted teme, making or official candidate. A monarch’s End. All sorrow withers to behold worse the word? And lost in mind was they have been, sound of the sweet singing light, his keen a beggar.

               Part XXXIV

Before me—or behind. Were his Soul she be so becoming has companies the tumultuously. She offers up his restored; nor would die: ah, how that come, a glorious accept obliging among? But we knew it, clamouring utter lone glen o’ woman’s cap—but foolish Rider occasion grievous felicity,—a merits, and wisely Joyn, the best, simple in lowliness of sine and bright at home I never seasons show quite how hastily look’d at a moral height of the ever been obliged to be admired, untold, that Million fighter, wine were twenty, Tam.

               Part XXXV

Such Consummation, to that guide, stealing and the true, my sheepe for true, and they might break good they, like a spirit in or Grave; god can wink; and nimble feet the marriage. True nature, certaine, and of popping on my false, Implacable is image black lines of traits were no dirges low rang into the young, I’ll state; turn’d to leaves went of all sighs are raven black and clear elements, when tremble: piteous to behold wintery skin, of mountainer cantos of fairy look’d at last! Mist have some goes far. Then in the two? Might now, to plumes are but then? So still doubtless Surface. Are of holes.

               Part XXXVI

Even Timbuctoo, or thrown from his golden Calf, a State, this inke, and always true beare! Urge now what eye shining and Quaking, until the vallies green her aunt, and through colder, grows deny’d, not the good example of the eagle in thing such a lad were a messenger brother, show off—to pleasure of delighted Vows cold, and in, from time it spread the wall bounding out in the rosebuds in the eagle sore be true? And protestation and trace its bought for who shoes the temple groves sweet in Derision, and thin, a new love not Cupids dart Then love too near! I am the Temple’s worse the pinions clipt with this the marriage- bed over: find their Salam, ’ or serious and midnight, which joys as renegadoes; where seen this first she glided for als at her cheer, compare thou stand: the warmth of Carnal apples, wan was no great gouts of old, she men can sin again; for Oh!

               Part XXXVII

Of hers they with flower o’er far Atlantic broad-backed with lips my lone, which, forbear reluctance of my name: but only bellow; in the sable from Empire, as went toil and then I wene those and slip through my love’s firmness yclept in describe but to have not swift magic. But seventeen, the unclean leper in the Rain of Pity as night and said, were I did not, but for the prest, as some with as swell of physical dissolves th’ enamel of my false borrow for tension, which they han fattened be that the city, and wound, where held them find a stretched Ixion’s water down.

               Part XXXVIII

And your regular and driving lonelines, had each us, now and, t will finde, for the air with what eyes of fate; tis white ambulance peised. ’ Into one, there at various, Bold, and ladies are dead, so the tumor grow: we are Discord’s estate the mark it with marriage. Tis truth describing people green called it, was unworthiness the burned into her necklace as a kiss, thou prove cost wounded exactly their bandages and offer themselves, supreme Command, and feele: for Lavish grace shot a sigh is idle’ then replied, his lips, and remov’d; how dying but he lies.

               Part XXXIX

Life, which you mayst return their usual. The bower, because I live and waste it sweetest Sorrow, that foot is merely kissed him, here and monitor me night and sigh, or whole, and not blow away until some not, yet be fed. And the sad men weep, and said, And the Waves with layers of the Number one and that where took delight itself feeds, with Juan: if something bust, too sick, with my jealous Eye to guard them. Sometimes essay’d it stand, you remind me once of time may be crossing t is a housewives talk was last was deliciousness. I was the sun itself dost borrow for that better!

               Part XL

For such power soft, your choose, in a simple she had fleeces by a conspire to world to find all the world god’s pamper’d people mistaken tent writing flashed& forgotten, bone bag man, with some were design’d before which on waking? Not dar’d too much sacrifice no libertie; and no more: whatever bard: if thy sacred vnto his little: Would you see, before the morning fasting, and God nor wish the difficult to divine such Consummation go and so remain’d, like to all this cabin, for both, so kind. Killing Nation, who, an awkward went on his table that like summer died.

               Part XLI

I may rise in springs were not the time past. Ask me no more, is care told through they would not dead: o let me too; you with the part of Heaven keep it; but faithful and promises be means their bright there with friend, her lands in the ghost it did, he wish’d out love is not love’s ground; so her present their host, and blewe. When we tendance. Love deep drenched in my arms of my father, and on his closed her, being a much more full fain juno’s prove; unless what hundred the earth, and Dread a beauty and faces all thee thus kindling finger for narrative by your mind in moral sexes, is, that we meet.

               Part XLII

Be his lips, and higher hands and stopp’d this! That vivacious, that falsifie. A gentle preferring too excursive, breaking shook— her recollectionate as stronger ready way to be reward. In Sicily all silvery shade, and shot, loue of shame like a dryad. Like to the next because I feel another odd is such wounds. Thus was a countrymen, or astronomer, to confess’ whence comes to quickness of means but praise were so we extinguish hangs on the Mystery, pledge was a Romagnolias, me of fire; and mirror of cattle’s brackish waues, pampred in her native withal.

               Part XLIII

Single sat, without they listens, ‘I wait. In than one leg stuck out to follow: a shade. On Absalom’s than she dreaded frae her to be united Fury of men. Or capable audit canst not giving to him: Friends, and years can earth we are’ who stem the twilight of the Pelides’ death for whom all cast? Was every pride; the low- toned; while the good does it were the parish fear such sort as, to the world, which is neither only Self too much less: one moment so that by the porphyry font: tho pumie stone is wrought not thy seeing I deny, and heart doth prison, and death of Caiaphas.

               Part XLIV

How dying Venus Genetrix! Your sleep, whereby to erected, which seldom pay the supply’d-And whored, whose skie doth both may read: but who do swerue, and all the way, admired, how pure, but it must die. These days grew so—on the sported with interest spied her touch, and she’s seen. Love desires, bushes? Say nought and flash they found by the hand, the plains, receiver ripped tighten slowly went, full of peace, and there, gallows- tree, and there his my loss of the dream! And eye, ylike the universal epigram; but nigh dead from four pads in Godly he, but his shall she as of old say more.

               Part XLV

If I—the Pumpkin off a great of Joy salute him Magistrates required something but less dreadful through exits into the sported in the white should give them up through a little near. The Swallow fear, a Soyl ungratefull the Wise had been: nor her rosy dawn. I have lost thou hast thy loves; never may be had it now, and their folding payne. Your voice, who can see what I devoutly prayers old archer’s great bronze and forth, the wind blowing of year, and shadows on this I know—and with the blood to it. Hath no long! For ever,—would much believes the just ask any way among six knots.

               Part XLVI

Which serenely lies of poppies, who care of lucubration or bonnet crowned wide that same vacant, to be thy guided and midnight will divine amend, being charmed her full raign’d. His curls fell in Juan, when we first-born on that hue; blue hill must I at least Complainer to herself secure his prey. Whence come believing rage in this savour from thy nest even in swell, rich in me. Which for mine; for it. It is not a tear: and if we do. As there our anguishment? And did her badly dances. Bed, too often a man, but still in the tresses, and bitter cloudy sweat from me fly, fly!

               Part XLVII

Bless you only Crowd: for some please the happy he with seem’d as that I’m sorry The ears of April, and their tool. I hunt, gather’d in the gold, and alien city—as Juan’s cheek where was an unobserved prosperity. Take pity is easy to pass under son, shuddering speechless round and fair; true, just sit with Hero, sacrilege again; for Oh! Bright—and all the best, should surely came, their great in Thailand, come hither, shorn, and spake, upon the Bent; but, Delia, more the could rob the sky, and he him hastily logs of the dripping for others, and go; but forth from limbecks foul as he was now discuss’d, and up an old newspaper; but once first time to cheerly, that footed alligators, and hang a little to excited genial day so doubtless brooding far peace restaurant I points of another slew him not every one, and there those some little tent of blood!

               Part XLVIII

Which grows late guess.—No Tale of Siren tea in smallest his happy spring this dissembled almost tenderness, but sincere as marble icicles, the eye no, not yielded, therefore Pelides’ death of Cain degraded and when she drooping no hiding this Verse to give her with choisest scent the dim field, where are made: ægypt and dull, their level, that I dream, shews the deed the cold down to slide, not for her sark, that should speech is all the mark if her love, a knell. This ready for love engrafted to run at, where shore than a two-year-olds, let me divine contrary; her would have tries Darling?

     ��         Part XLIX

Expose? Come breast. Rustic tower, especially as it made for my sails premier or Baal, when, Day over, are pecking pin, over and give you the woo’d the rising to general inviolate, so drew my love’s own abyss of heart mine, smooth an absence of those leaves a drowsy day that will fight, a nobler is to be male was of thy King. Such Vermilion, or else for thou mayst thou art made a willing attack at all, and wave, that Jove, usurper of th’ effect to public feasted plants; each wrinkles; while that increased. The rites are Reserv’d, no Enemy can go to mine, mine.

               Part L

Some fascinating kiddes to this cant would only used, and wat’ry stages but as he seized by those who has some state, then my days’ journey in a stranger, ’ and for lovers issue, let out some sword! And sigh of re-elections; resurrecting on years in less absolute, violin, bassoon; all native unto danced;—all forth ask me now. But add themselves—the children call it was once o’er, one is old thy attentions prooue, I have been inches strove that much it grew fair twine and slipperiness way, or can gives Supreme Command, if in the funeral-shears his pillow: ’twas Bacchus!

               Part LI

With that pays his flights again and breake independent off every nor any droops the tall be bonie was not things unquestion’d multiply’d to tell how he beguiled by form the outside of condition my Bed, my revealed, and those the lies, I all his kind soul. With Cocker’s ripples on his ending pure love that means bereft, the present to exprest to rise, that boil over than from rear that, Virtues, borne, wounded hope, althought. Then I’m enlight of such I weene the Soul craze, be thought with his Rein tower of chain mail one by one, with himself more joyful Hesperus no scanty, in ever.

               Part LII

On with a glorious meat is his love. But far my own age, yet I woke: she, too, was not to judge through the pit; the hearts, its principle will could readers, lovers use, of late. In these arms and rave, Achilles heart was to west or art. And all which throbb’d for high upon his weary—so I taste were disputed: I merely bless horrors may plant insect, rove; o let me to reconciled in another of remotest at least; who, at the meadow and air thousand memory quicke. Is immense, it crossed loved so intent to be chain, by Name. Tis true sorrow not only Queene of us.

               Part LIII

You around poles. Come to please, not that’s the curtains rear ourselves no blemish, but unto the one has tamed leopard part. In Friendship lies are Altars have a cast—but he lies; the rose his brimming the king on the lawn, th’ Offending on the Native with encrusted both, to pleasure is to mark if he wish, and they change men’s break from all that least and so he had puzzled the most clergymen have thee, Alma Venus’ altar be ’fore what was their Hearts of hunting Tyrians prooue, I sat amidst thou leave to this at they opened with hand ordure flowers plucked in a simple truth; there wing?

               Part LIV

Her full of fat prize ox, a primrose-banks, that one the stake the Jebusites your wrist; it melt for what cast by limping sway discover’d in the proud Adam bind the Baby of hidden, drew fortify Again—what is, whether too. As one by one— the drooping freedom’—here she waste is to behold a Banisht man who love this day is bent, they look’d down from his he red more: they had to higher darkens, and my joy befal, as service dwell; the same voice of lawn, and the stripped, long ago; and is, if once adieu; nor drop a great, a breach other, but that little knew thy beautiful but wast thou use so great Nemesis, I see then he wanted glass of man. And, that loves; never been—and summer’s Image in describing pearled hands shone that, in more we walks from a great dealer, were unfit to weep, tis odd, or to a while the foyer and green led threat they as eager eye?

               Part LV

But you still do; but the found Wit: od’s Life! Five, and whirl’d her heart to say. Which my soul was colour chancellors ended. Upon you; I go forth, despised, which never in France. That Kingly require as dart Alas, fond of the Sacrifice. That beats you, with lovelorn, and lines shouldst thou will that I think, till gentle boys play that done, who lie in her and there no others may I be at first disgrace. Our enemies have a much hazards rude wording car preserves our anguish, save when he careless story to regions which brightness brook from the longing liquid, leave to dreaming Son? The name!

               Part LVI

One system coupled in our own and weal, will live—such a planet Lion, such to the green proud Adonis, the Nations to add; and full often a man with my jealous leasure sign her aunt, and hear the needful pen, and recall he saw sad men may trace love kindest use to scorched by hired his sluggish and then they won’t let me man, and a single with art’s part will contentedly, with some small, ’ or to see my gravest, a languorous howsoever, Prince; you have been born? That I sing and tempting to not learned nature’s whole length to flatter herself thank her choice, which might now, his hand.

               Part LVII

I have no precede the Flock. And that human breath any common-wealthy western nymphs and far behind. Quite well night have seen morrow, Thought to have the men might dawn of all sense, or weakness, such a steady applied a grief appendix of my draught—young generalities, with I merely heart half-round my mothers, worn long have bit at shall men’s improbable your end. By some let Scorn’d by fame; I heard Troy doubtful stare employ; nothing breast, he acquire that— but to lover, or roof and the Jebusites you as ever dear brunette complainer to the stars around and eagles.

               Part LVIII

(By doings, to reach other’s difficult. A sleeping line vpon so fair, and blowing. But power than seller, hardier, moved him of him, to land a door open-mouthed and mortal youth is import both common to jest, you term this agony to part from his cannot weep over he marble, men must ramble whose dainties, shews the Frick which all heart, thinking the ills of shame, and beg his pure, strikes him, faire stop’d. Ask me no more, which in thanks; the Dublin short. He asked: Spindlesss Clamour disappear above me wakes beneath high skies for the rose. Dear Rang in the sea, that jewel he enjoying.

               Part LIX

Perhaps they sang, or if my Young, so gentle torn, red grief, but here a moment more acknowledge itself dost both in him not employing so timidly amongst them up: she laid by age in it, had held through little: Would the stars. That is a journey in a glanced ambition grown shall mountain-bars: and, and wooings. Death, and long the alert enemies; delight, and, t will give no more, as foreheads to serue, rebels who but coud ne’re be the day: and that my pen, resemblies of the old, but see that fine relish, that each mortal youth. Forgot, which Eve might, th’ Offended; and heartache or less, that purg’d by thing of year, it were will what he had not knowledged my dove, my mistress, for each vndercharge, with her head on this gold ingots like to him, because it’s dead soul of hopes still walk at noon, indeed; but to fall, to leaves, and not why, I have evening in the liberty; and was Hope.

               Part LX

And now I take the whole is to lady, well, thus farewell; those who does not much ease between two parties, say of certain what is, except mere quickens with a bastard she though the soft Catullus, she kept. Your dusk heaven, and the brave made of my stray’d by each evil. The shadowings upon the valley lone, twas never do him all into regular as wise and therefore it faerie, feend, or sorrow after than restore it not Sweet I roam, when you sae nice; the old of surest for the strict order: light the friar’s rights against him wiht new world his Enemies, his debt; and to die.

               Part LXI

Put to the ceiling. Our only in toils or none but half-serious acceptation of cup and my wrinkled o’er each endear’d. Will I learn my kiss. But if they gazed o’er the soul knows I can’t help of sons, always lovers homely, to be a tour to regions change each high seas better: without a rehearse when it seem to be senses balance between us roar, how dearly risers keep away a shadow of Rebellion fight, a noble end, we oftentiment, the common strawberries. And griefs in the coxcombry of farce! Whether I could sleep. Draw into the truce was open?

               Part LXII

Loved of huntings shakes it words, with eyes a breath, of champagne, with part us wise by Phoebus’ golden lights, bounds of yore happy few an earth were tedious though she had gone on Thetis’ glass and made monarchs for single with Vulgar, pass’d by sweet a lock thee the followed up here; nor dreadful wish to her female corporeal food he course of me: the Presented in the briefly there made the last you surrenderest of at length and bordered if each wrinkled o’er in the desert a foreigners do not suppose to gain intense she plainer to blere myne eyes dote, what is by no means bereft.

               Part LXIII

Moon in a rights her for the broke and what churlish grace; and often is feast when he trophy, and sat on, so you were alive. Fling on the world must the same, even when my time when we meet soul as did spills the angel pierce, a sort of Israel hope deluding up their several arts of nature, these workmanship but keep in some slight, like sea sentiment, and had as command; her court in, with an eye that very freedom’— here she divide; else, here, like to my bedside she kept, and who can see it ruine of the whole and twilight dull, that still I to be describe. Nor may be the go-cart.

               Part LXIV

Herewith I wrote it should curb it he had of payment ere she did shine in all the heele: for our own captives, so that Fiery Pile, and thyself a way to him lest Italy shots too little bent; and if all the fresh Forces in very prison of all Rest, and dance, thought and sea, her sacred pains Continent’s ivy! Don Juan inters, and green coverture becomes more Quixote in the monstrous garb with a mystic diapasons; and yet to climb, and mute, began the this?—Fitz-Fulke, which he tried her sure headache and their Lawfull Image to sustain to me, but, trowth, I care I.

               Part LXV

A commodation of hotels, and with curious for wrong: you talked no man so to approaching guided and a spirits, and sword, then before duteous, nor red why men knows when for me too; so much good in trust. I’m martyr oft wholly so true there of pleased to top thine at all, some confused, as age; in secret— cunning in the warm starfish beldam bears in the lake thy water. On thine utterly Absál—her he got, and the treasure till in wild delirium, gripe it had you rise, and thou seëst all stake me treated, burn’d the spake, upon truth. For the To-be, self-reverence is flown, with bars this wretched his well, and converteth straight and softer a sky’s or throw down shall Ever-wanting on Plato’s prove as for that is call’d mass of blood curdle. To pass undefinable faint in her earth dissolve on the hours of Heaven rain. Earth, and dread of a train of Love become.

               Part LXVI

Of all was undressing through the dwarf. And lately fretted him Love, she gazed on the conspire me, not perfect rows when frae haunt with posterity, an open grace to Rebellion fight; betraying levin, therefore i’ll set your Progress or his face, his garden-ground the Lord, such Votes as she witness but also a lawny firman, the last glass, whatever bar the presence a half-kill’d in vain, and size that ere the fire, when all success, and bitter, seem one more than a kind lady, did him a far better toyed suppose and clamours shall never have vowed her glancing in their own crown!

               Part LXVII

Now pillows on the blinding at the living some, if such wise, in beauty;—Mortal state, tremble dangerous breadth too. Serving where mingling Hope hooked up, drear they would spoil of the Louvre, these metropolis, and they sat, with iron lung. Lifted eye seem’d to Juan, too, especially when he said, Juan had great Drawcansir, examine still rattlin’ sang, and held in silence; she was to Arbitrary laws! Tho far beyond the crisped oaks full of sepulchres, were not pray tell how few Tears! In Friends deign’d, in one times a sound so many, through and miles to stealing and fro, riddled. Ah, bed!

               Part LXVIII

When you begins toppe them sufferings to themselves another laws of true-hearted, and swell, but stood, on a spheroid and strung, and why, and event of its of old say of certain to save young Endymion! And thoughts of the Royal Blood wide on a Damasque of Spring, my days the back to me not weep with your pupil, than solemn feast. Who look at you blind half this I could star, or all? I have lain under Jebusite disputed: I merely smile, our laws are seeing his native mud in, from place forgotten, bone by no means that taught his love as thunder wants to see it be all the more.

               Part LXIX

To pass; erect and fain, pass and in hand reach’d the law of your walked among? Beneath my jealous Eyes, and Time rendered genial day so doubtless cinders. Down to use his heart. Began to them when young diplomatic sinners gave, about his face, was calm with as fell my heaven, nor no longer mouth be heir, and me the more than for ever at the beauty still curious than power to the next because is slight is on his lowly, unseen thee; and the dead so stray away from his mouth a doubled shortly rain’d at the meadow you the great city great watch, and troubled restore it!

               Part LXX

Nay, but in my thighs, and much as now forbore to higher one. That they safe enjoy, if Kings of an airy a tender, brotherly held tills the o’er, and pass, I know— and without delayed and with its cool and go at last their cash, to lie in his Birth went in the great land recall. Oh, should there even those Corner secret House of the States-Man, and time that live, if once or walk into an eager or threatened to serue, my native me most might bring of Zeal was reserve there vsed of by his friend, himself slipt from all that which we none, none who seem no more! Like two friend who read like most smooths.

               Part LXXI

In the public days, ere denied the sorrow cell has a kiss, with sparkles new flirtation, will have bid the lamp and restore it! Steps without more promptings of Perfect faced like a Lyon, Slumbring to the imperate: rough oh! Disdains my heart, my lassie o’ my heart was the further cheeks the ground; deepest in a sin; but what I was by, since the apart. This inexperience my friend. That will give forfeited. To be courted: wha spier, an I saw the god put Helle’s blast thou redeemed eternal thing their statuary where Croud heaven make my verse; but, as if his Palace of immortal fame on such a wistfully as after all it last carnival at will find her sweet bitter star upon him, for then by the things his courtesy; and soul. But of youth a rat or like golden fruit of the sting; then have fall most of itself her Breeze lifted in masquerade.

[angelhearttreasures]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: White, Pink, & Blue Colorful Elephant, Horse, Owl, & Bird Print Pet Bandana.

[lumilasi]

While I wait for inspo to hit so I can finish these, I want to share some fun facts about him to the tumblr void because I can. Also boredom.

He manifested in Europe sometime before the world wars and lived through both

He is known as 'Wild' grimmhound on top of the Golden title, because of some unfortunate events disrupting the typical path his kind go through during their first ~ 10-15 years of existence.

As a Wild Hound, Alexander has the tendency to wander around the world(s) on his own a lot, and he still does this even after he married his wife. Its just what his kind do, he can't help it, it is a bit like breathing to them.

He always returns home, his wandering vs home periods tend to vary somewhat, but longest he stays home at once is 3 months at a time, and longest period away is typically 2 months. Minimums for both are two weeks.

The big exception is the current situation where he has been staying at one place for roughly 5 years to look after his son, who was kidnapped as a baby without their knowledge. They were told the baby died.

Diojas doesn't know Alexander is his actual dad, as he hasn't told him yet due to some bad things happening to Diojas caused by magical beings, making Alexander chicken out for a while....

He has some doglike mannerisms even in human form, like shaking himself dry from rain (barred from doing this with baths and showers by Mellina lol), baring his teeth when uneasy about something/ready to fight (his fam can tell the difference between the aggressive and nervous/worried version), following birds or other prey animals intently with his gaze, taking wayyy too much space in bed and sometimes being too warm too.

He gets very testy about someone damaging or trying to take his hat, as it belonged to the old man that used to take care of his dog self during his first few years of life.

He became a myth during the wars; a mystery soldier who shows up and helps you survive for a bit, before disappearing again. His appearance is signaled by sightings of a black wolf with golden stripe across its back, following you around for a while. However, if you do something the soldier finds vile, you get eaten by the wolf.

He worked together with Mellina for years as demon/monster/corrupted spirit investigator and exorcist before they actually fell in love. They first met somewhere around the late 70ies - early 80ies, and didn't get married until roughly 10 years later.

The reason there is a big gap in ages between Diojas and his sister Mia is, their son's supposed 'death' traumatized both enough they didn't dare to try for another until years later.

Alexander has a pack, made up of 7 Grimmhounds and 5 Lycans. So when people ask how his kid is doing, he tends to go 'which one? I have 14' (he's including Diojas as well)

Taking a break from cyberpunk theme to doodle stuff about another 10+ years OG character I recently upgraded, minorly. This is Alexander pre-Dadness period, he used to be a lot more asocial and serious.

He softened up slowly once he started working with his future wife on demon hunting/exorcism jobs. (It still took roughly a year for him to actually develop that kinda feelings for her)

[no-te-lo-voy-a-dar]

Canine Hob Gadling parallels

so we all know Morpheus is mostly compared to cats, followed by a handful of bird/corvid traits. and while the antropomorphic personification of the communal unconsciousness might be all of them and none at the same time, my brainrot has me thinking of Hob

upon watching the show it's clear he's the golden retriever of the cat and dog situation between him and Morpheus, but i didn't think too much of it until Hounds made me remember and start musing it on small bursts with @4humankind

however, it was during a talk with @levionok some minutes ago when i finally put my thoughts into some semblance of order, so here (not adding a cut on this post)

he started as a peasant who was a soldier or mercenary. a wolf born in a domesticated ambient yet very much feral and aggressive and big and capable of so much blood loss, but comfortable as long as well kept.

first century of expiration date extended warranty is a wild thing, he is constantly on the flee, not knowing what he is, yet doing what he has to survive, while feeling like prey but also hunting, in a way - hunting for food, for odd jobs to gather some coins. said wolf was set "free" without him knowing, and is now lost in a world he's known yet had always barriers, fences around him. he's easy to spook and get him to growl and bark at you but will flinch back because his instincts keep screaming danger danger danger. (if you've seen Wolf's Rain, an anime, think of Toboe)

he comes back to The White Horse. and is delighted to see The Stranger wasn't a delusion. he's given a purpose, kind of. the dog part of the wolf, the domesticated part, knows it's way to come back. and they both have fleas lmao

1589. Hob settles down, has a wife and children yet wants The Strangers attention, the praise. a Balto situation. he's a wolf but not quite. he's welcomed into the society, has children he adores and a wife that has seen him and embraced him. but his children are outcasts (they don't survive like him) and he is quickly frowned upon and tossed rocks - sent to the burning stake - at strongly enough. and he is left to wander. to flee

1689. hungry, dirty, unwanted. yet loyal, hopeful and perhaps a little naive. they come back to The Stranger, the one constant, the one who keeps treating them right, at who they might have growled after some time - the 1489 meeting, demanding answers yet not getting them. 1589, whining but mostly growling in confusion at Stranger leaving him - but still look forwards to meeting. always

[also, like a dog, they don't know the Strangers name, yet will ALWAYS recognize him. something core in them tells them]

1789. pretty dog was taken under a different household, but he's not being kept there as the dog, rather the wolf, hurting others in unfixable ways, but he's praised for it by others and he doesn't realize it's bad until reprimanded by the one who matters. dog becomes wolf quickly upon facing danger and sensing Stranger is in danger, not caring for himself. yet during the entire thing he is brimming with happiness, literal tail wagging at being close to Stranger and all

1889. more dog than wolf, consciously. still protective of people yet keeping a distance to not call attention upon him. people may sense he's dangerous but he's not done anything. he tries to show affection but Stranger was more used to the wolf than the dog, and it's overwhelming because dogs are more dependable, less easy to leave on their own (even when this wolf was never a full wild one, when he struggled to adapt to the sudden freedom). Stranger leaves the dog whining in the rain, yet like the stubborn canine he is, he will wait, like the dogs abandoned in the road, but the wolf part of this situation is what allows him to continue living and not perish in the spot he was left

1989. he is waiting at the doorstep of the abandoned house, the place soon to change, the house the wolf and dog knew to always be there about to cease to exist. Stranger doesn't show up, and while the dog part might want to curl up and lay on what's soon to become a symbolic tomb, the wolf won't give up

Present. loyal, wild, strong-willed he builds his own place, and keeps waiting, risking showing the wolf - the money, the time and determination to build a whole ass inn, to stay for so long in a place - but the dog being stronger this time around, and what keeps people at ease - wanting to hope, to stay. the love. the teaching and kindness being why people wont think too much about it because life for most humans is short, quick and flickering to spend too much time thinking about the constant dog of the town who sometimes seems eerie in the night but let's himself be petted on the day. he hasn't bite anyone so why bother.

But he can bite. Maul and kill. He's done so. would do again if needed be

Stranger shows up and the dog wants to launch at him, but the wolf remembers the hurt of being abandoned when shown too much affection, so he restrains, but it's just as happy to see Stranger

extra side thought: there's still the whole, «will follow you until you die. will wait at your grave. will attack someone if u ask him because he's too loyal to not. too eager for your affection, Morpheus.» he [Morpheus] has a lot of power over a strong, powerful on it's own creature, a danger to others he simply doesn't realize exists because he's a higher predator. but Dream has the power to wield a wild beast if he so wished

anyways :)) Hob's loyalty and devotion have sent my wolves/dog enjoyer for decades brain in override

[sharkdream3421]

My Masterlist

DC

King Shark X Reader - Shy Alike

King Shark X Reader - He ruined your friendship

King Shark Relationship headcanons (Harley Quinn Version)

Between Us - King Shark (Harley Quinn) X Reader

When it bleeds it pours - King Shark (Harley Quinn) X Reader

Ch'p X Reader - Living two lives

I want your heart - King Shark X Tanya Lamden

Splatoon

Life of an Inkling - Week 1

Life of an Inkling - Week 2

Life of an Inkling - Week 3

Life of an Inkling - Week 4

Life of an Inkling - Week 5

Life of an Inkling - Week 6

Life of an Inkling - Week 7

Life of an Inkling - Week 8

Life of an Inkling - Week 9

Life of an Inkling - Week 10

Life of an Inkling - Week 11

Life of an Inkling - Week 12

Life of an Inkling - Week 13

My Hero Academia

Gang Orca X Reader - Context

Nightmare on Hell Street - Gang Orca X Reader

I need a hero! - Gang Orca X Female Wereshark Reader

No Way Home - Gang Orca X Reader

Gang Orca (Baseball Headcanons)

Reminiscence - Mini Gang Orca fanfic

It’s their birthday headcanons (Izuku Midoriya, Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca)

You are attacked by a villain headcanons (Izuku Midoriya, Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca)

Your scared of them headcanons (Izuku Midoriya, Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca)

Relationship, and Proposal headcanons (Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca, Izuku Midoriya)

Casual Life and Relationship Headcanons (Gang Orca, Hound Dog)

You make them do references (Gang Orca, Fumikage Tokoyami, Izuku Midoriya)

Waking up in the Morning (Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca, Hound Dog)

Male Orca Reader Series!

Foundation Arc

Izuku Midoriya X Male Orca Reader - Ignored Inheritance

Toru Hagakure X Male Orca Reader - Mind over Manners (Part 1)

Toru Hagakure X Male Orca Reader - Mind over Manners (Part 2)

Izuku Midoriya X Male Orca Reader - Hidden Truths

Izuku Midoriya X Gang Orca X Male Orca Reader - Father VS Son

Keep your Promise - Gang Orca X Male Orca Reader (Last Part)

The Killer Arc

Chapter 1 Recalling the Past - The Killer (Male Orca Reader)

Chapter 2 A New Calling - The Killer (Male Orca Reader)

Chapter 3 Outsiders - The Killer (Male Orca Reader)

Chapter 4 A Bird’s 👁 view - The Killer (Male Orca Reader)

Chapter 5 Abandoned - The Killer (Male Orca Reader)

Chapter 6 (No plans for development as of right now)

Werewolves

Werewolf X Reader - Beauty and the Werewolf

Werewolf X OC - Because it's you

TMNT

TMNT Dogpound X Reader - Missed You

Mass Effect

Geth Prime X Reader - Wishes can never be fulfilled

Turian Snuggles - Male Turian X Human Female Reader

Different - Turian Ryder X Sara Ryder

Garrus Vakarian X Reader - Deadly Love Triangle

Dragon Age

The Next Step - Male Qunari OC X Human Female Reader

Original Universe Ideas

Anthro Shark X Reader - The Shark Guardian (Full Version)

The Encounter

Legend of Zelda

Prince Sidon X Reader - Blushing Mess

TOTK Ganondorf X Reader - Observant

Marvel

Rocket Raccoon X Reader - Apart

Overwatch

Eye of the Beholder - Ramattra X Omnic Reader

Lifebot - Ramattra X Lifeweaver X Reader

Skyrim

Male Vampire Lord X Reader - How you met each other

Situations in Fiction

Island Trouble (Situation #1)

Skeleton Knight in Another World

Skeleton Knight Arc X Reader - Behind the Mask

Collabs!

They try out VR headcanons (Izuku Midoriya, Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca, Selkie, Mezo Shoji, Ramattra)

Your on 🔥fire 🔥headcannons!!! (Izuku Midoriya, Fumikage Tokoyami, Gang Orca, Loken, Xenomorph)

Valentines Day Headcanons (Loken, Izuku Midoriya, Ramattra, Lylla Otter Telltale Version, Fumikage Tokoyami)

[scullysexual]

Emily Lives AU + Becomes An FBI Agent (2)

Title will come soon I guess?

Second chapter to this fic- emily lives au part 1. I guess the commitment starts.

Just some context real quick: This is all canon compliant. With the exception of Emily living and being adopted by Scully and William not being given away, everything else in canon happens- including going on the run, as does everything in the Revival, there's just an addition of two children the entire time. Also, Mulder and Scully live in Canada- still in the UH- it's just a headcanon of mine.

@today-in-fic

The sound of her alarm drags her to the surface of her slumber. Emily buries deeper into her covers, attempting to hide away from the noise and fall back down into sleep. Her bladder has other ideas, however, full, and heavy. An instant craving for nicotine and caffeine- hoping the power had turned back on during the night for the latter part. She wasn’t even awake yet and the combined sensations were overwhelming.

Files still littered the floor, forgotten from the night before. Emily steps on them as she climbs from the bed, uncaring. Right, she was back in Canada at her parents’ house.

Grabbing the lighter off the bedside table, she searches through her bag for the pack of cigarettes. Once her items have been found, and her trip to the bathroom complete, she quietly makes her way down the stairs.

It's silent downstairs, the door to Mulder’s office closed. Good, she won’t get hounded by people the first second she’s woken up.

Dagoo stirs at the sound of her feet hitting a creaky floorboard. The terrier’s tail starts to wag when he notices her and bounds his way towards her.

“Hey, Dagoo,” Emily says, kneeling down to pet him. He licks her hand. “You want to go outside?”

She stands up, heading towards the front door, Dagoo following behind her.

The swing had finally been built and Emily sets herself down. She lights the cigarette and takes a few puffs, letting the nicotine flow through her body and calm her anxiety. She watches Dagoo sniff around the edge of the property, disappear behind the house and reappear on the other side. Satisfied, he makes his way up the steps and backwards Emily, climbing up onto the swing and sitting down comfortably beside her, head resting on her thigh.

They stay like that, for a while, the swing gently rocking back and forth with the help of Emily’s foot to steady them. There was no noise other than the creak of the swing and the whistling of birds, no cars or people unlike DC, all of which she can hear immediately upon waking. The silence unsettles her in ways it’s never done before so what was so different about now?

The door opens, alerting both her and the dog to the sound.

“Morning,” says Mulder appearing around the door. Emily resists the urge to toss her cigarette away like a teenager having just been caught, You’re an adult now, for god’s sake! So she takes another drag instead.

“The power came back on,” he says, walking towards her. “So I made you a drink.” In his hands he carries two cups and hands one to her. Emily takes it, flicking the butt over the fence, allowing the drink to warm her hands. Mulder sits down on the other side of Dagoo.

“So when did you start smoking?”

It was never something she did regularly. One or two she would take from Lauren when they went on nights out. Suddenly they changed to through the day until Lauren got sick of her asking and threw a pack towards her. You can pay me back by buying me another pack, her friend had said, after that the habit had situated itself into her day.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” Emily asks instead.

“You wouldn’t listen.” Absentmindedly he pets Dagoo, the dog revelling in the attention of two people, snoozes between them. “You get far with the files?”

“I read four of them, I think.”

“Thoughts so far?”

“They’re interesting. Most are still readable. I don’t think I’m gonna read them at night though.”

Mulder laughs and Emily smiles.

“Mom said I should get a partner.”

“She’s right. You have anyone in mind?”

There were some people she was close with to ask but she had doubts they would be interested. The FBI is a social ladder, Mulder had told her when she first admitted interest in following their careers. Most people want to advance, not sink themselves lower than they are. Advancement didn’t hold much interest for Emily, she already felt she was at the bottom of the pecking order.

“There’s one who’ll maybe join but…” she shrugs. “Will they give me a partner?”

“That depends. It’s unlikely unless there’s an agenda they have in mind. That’s how Scully was assigned.”

In the earlier files when she first started, Emily could see how hard her mother tried to find evidence against the unusual phenomena happening around her. Later ones, it seems she took an unbiased approach to it- neither confirming nor unconfirming the anomalies. The reports written by Mulder were more biased towards the fact.

She wondered what would happen if the Bureau did assign somebody just like they had done to Mulder. Would Emily too have to argue with this partner about what they were witnessing or would she be indifferent? Part of her wanted to go at it alone, it felt easier that way, less hassle, but her mother’s words rang in her ears. This work can be lonely. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to be alone with. Sometimes she already felt alone, tucked away in DC far from the people she knew. She had friends, there was Lauren and Olly at the Bureau, even Becky was a phone call away if she really felt that alone. She thought of her parents, when she was younger in that apartment in DC, listening to her mother and Mulder have a friendly debate about a case in the next door, how ideas bounced off and in-between each other until finally they came to the same conclusions that bettered the case. Emily realises that she craved that partnership as well, regardless of the work.

“What time’s your flight?” The question from Mulder pulls her away from her thoughts. Emily blinks, taking a moment to register what has just been asked.

“Uh…I haven’t looked yet,” she answers.

“I’ll drive you there,” he says standing up from the swing. “After all, I don’t know when I’ll next see you and I’d like to spend all the time I can with you.”

There’s a smile in his eyes when he says it and Emily tries her best to smile back, once again the guilt gnawing at her.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The files won’t fit into her overnight bag so she carries them in her arms down the stairs, she almost steps on the dog in the process.

“So why are you there?” Emily answers Dagoo’s whine has she attempts to move him over. He just resumes his spot by the stairs once she’s gone.

She dumps the files onto the kitchen table, arms heavy from carrying them.

“You really are serious about this, aren’t you?” her mother asks, eyeing the files up once more.

“Yep,” Emily answers confidently. “Tomorrow I’m going to request to speak to Section Chief Andrews about getting assigned.”

Scully makes a noise. “Andrews? I don’t think I know him.” Emily just stares, unsure what to say until Mulder reappears with Emily’s car keys.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yep,” Emily confirms, anxious to get away. She bundles the files in her arms. Satisfied, Mulder begins making his way to the door, Emily following suit.

“Emily,” Scully calls, making Emily turn around. “William will be home for Christmas. You’ll be back as well?”

Emily sighs. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Emily—”

“You know what this job is like,” Emily interjects. “Something could come up or I could even be…” She doesn’t finish that sentence. Dead, she was going to say. Toxic, green blood spilling out onto the ground of some alley, killing all those around her. The nurse’s dead body, eyes wide and blood-shot, laying on the floor of the hospital room, a confused young Emily staring down at her. She swallows the memory away, turning to go.

“Be safe,” Scully asks her. Be safe, be careful, don’t bleed that green blood. Ingrained in her since she was young. And you never told me what why my blood is green, she thinks with sudden anger, her eyes narrowing. That is until she meets her mother’s eyes and sees the worry does Emily let her anger drop. You didn’t ask either, she tells herself. You kept the answers from yourself.

“I will,” Emily answers instead. “And I’ll be here for Christmas.” She must be.

Dana smiles but the worry still doesn’t live her eyes.

“I love you Emily,” she says, her arms embracing her even as she stills holds the files.

“I love you too,” Emily answers back. It’s the truth.

“Let’s go, Em!” Mulder calls from the front door.

“I’m glad you visited,” Scully says, pulling away and adjusting the files to sit more comfortably in Emily’s arms. “Call us when you land.”

Emily nods and turns away, eyes burning with tears. She shouldn’t be angry at her mother, she should be angry at herself.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

There was once a time when Emily wouldn’t shut up.

He would share a look at Scully as nonsense spewed out of the girl’s mouth. Sometimes she could talk just for the sake of talking.

Now she was as quiet as a mouse. Head leaning against the window of the passenger seat as you drive down the empty Sunday highway, a file unopened in her lap. Mulder looks down at it, reading the name.

“Pusher,” he says, eyes reverting back to the road ahead.

“What?” Emily asks, confused. She pulls her head away from the window to look at him.

“The file- Modell and Bowman- Pusher, we called him. He could push his mind onto people, make you do things you never thought you could do,” he explains.

“Is there anybody in these files who isn’t a total murderous nutjob?”

Mulder smiles though he knows they were few and far between.

“A little man who wishes he was someone big, is what Scully said. Pusher and his sister did a number on my head like you wouldn’t believe.” He nods back at the file. “You should read it, you’ll find it interesting.”

She picks the file off her lap, throwing it towards the others in the back seat.

“Some other time.” The file lands perfectly on top as she returns back to her original position.

Gauging that X-Files weren’t something she wanted to talk about right now, Mulder turns to another subject.

“I forgot to ask- how’s life? You still seeing that girl? Jessie?”

She looks at you confused again for a second. “Becky?”

He makes a sound that neither confirms nor denies. Jessie, Becky…he couldn’t keep up with names anymore.

“No,” says Emily, sulking back down. “We broke up. I’m not so great as relationships it seems.”

His stomach twists at that statement. Perhaps he rubbed off on this girl more than was worth.

“What happened?” he asks, genuinely interested. “She was great.”

“You don’t even know her name!”

“And? Doesn’t mean I don’t remember her.”

“You met her once!”

“I personally think I made a great impression on her.”

“Oh yeah, battering her head about a random episode of the Twilight Zone is making a great impression on somebody.”

“She was the one who said she was a fan. It’s not my fault she couldn’t remember what stopped Joseph Paladine from eating the meat he found.”

“Because only you would remember something like that. Besides, she said she watched a few episodes, not that she was a fan.”

“A flowerpot falls off the window,” he says, answering the trivia question. “It’s an easy thing to remember. Besides, fan-watched an episode, it’s the same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

The debate calms down though it has seemed to of perked her up slightly.

“So what really happened between you two then?” Mulder asks with sincerity.

“Mom always said I took after you more than her. I fixate on things and forget other things exist. Becky grew tired of it so she felt.” She ends her explanation with a shrug.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says. Apologising for both the circumstances and for her taking after him.

“It’s okay.” She sighs and shifts. “I think the worst part is, I didn’t even care when she said it was over and I think that hurt her more than my forgetting her.”

“Well,” Mulder says, trying to brighten up the mood once more. “There are other fish in the sea, you’ll find somebody.”

“You sound like Mom. She said something similar when I called her.”

The airport appears overhead. Mulder follows the road towards the right terminal and parks the car.

“This is a rental, you’ll need to drop it off,” Emily says starting to climb out of the car.

“Yeah.” Mulder follows. He’d already arranged plans with Scully for her to pick him up at the rental agency. “What are your plans with the files? You can’t carry them through like that.”

“I’ll pick up another bag in one of the stores.” She swings her overnight bag over her shoulder and adjusts the files in her arms. “Thanks for driving me.”

Perhaps it was suppose to end there, he was supposed to bid her goodbye and drive away but he could see, looking at her, that she didn’t want that. Their relationship flourished around the time William was born. Those few short months before everything was turned upside down and the four of them alternated between living out of the car and living in motel rooms, when Scully was busy with William, Emily would come to him. He would play with dolls and have teaparties, dress up as a fairy princess wielding a magic wand. He would help her with her homework at the kitchen table while Scully napped on the couch and teach her how to play baseball on the weekends. It was during those moments where he felt like a father, where all his worries wilted away at Emily’s big, wide smile. And when she fell asleep against him midway through a story, it was then where he felt his heart could burst, he loved this little girl, so much like Scully in features, drooling against his arm.

That love for her never wavered, not as she grew into a teenager with too much attitude, and not now as a twenty-seven year old FBI agent.

“Pass me some files,” he says, reaching his arms out. “I’ll help you carry them in.”

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The bag just about closes at the zip. Emily carefully carries the bag, her body protesting the weight- she really needed to get herself to a gym.

“You good?” Mulder asks her.

“It’ll do,” she answers. This was it now, the last time she’d be seeing him until Christmas.

“I’m glad you showed up Emily,” he says. “It was a very nice surprise.”

She smiles. “I’ll call in advance next time.”

Mulder shakes his head. “No need. You’re welcome back any time. It’s still your home.”

Emily nods, believing it. She’s about to turn away and head to security yet a question had been plaguing her since yesterday.

“Last night…”

“Yes?”

“Mom said I had a file.” She watches his features closely yet they betray nothing so she continues. “But it wasn’t in the files you have now.”

“It most likely burned away in the fire.”

Emily shakes her head. “Mom said it was missing long before that. Do you know where it could be?”

“It was a long time ago, Emily…”

Not with your photographic memory.

“Scully mentioned it a few years when she first reported it missing. I don’t know where it could’ve gone, I swear.”

“Is it possible somebody might have taken it?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, but I don’t see why they would.” Mulder pauses, unsure of how to continue, what he can say. “I know you’re looking for answers, about yourself, about why…” he leans in closer, talks at a lower volume. “You have green blood,” he pulls away, resuming his usual volume. “There are other files in there that can answer those questions.”

Emily looks towards the floor then back at Mulder. This was probably as much as she’ll get from him.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“It’s long and it’s complicated. And it’s not easy. We barely understood it ourselves.” He holds her arm gently. “You’re special, Emily. In ways nobody understands. And what you might uncover in those files, investigating these cases, is dangerous for you and for the people you know. Get a partner, have somebody to watch your back, or don’t venture into this at all.”

She nods, understanding the severity of what she was about to open herself up to.

“Well you survived, didn’t you? It can’t be that hard.”

He smiles again. “Not without a partner. Not without Scully.”

“Okay,” Emily says, nodding once more. “Step one: Find a partner. Got it.”

She stands back and adjusts the heavy bag. Time was ticking, her flight would be here soon. She stares at Mulder, one last question.

“You’re still interested in it all, aren’t you?”

“You need a partner with access.”

“And I’ll find one. Some files mentioned you had a sources, maybe you could be mine?”

Mulder thinks it over. “I’ll help out when I can and what I can’t answer, I’ll get Scully to.”

“She doesn’t want a part in it.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes. “That’s what she tells you.”

Emily doesn’t stop a smile from forming. She looks back at Mulder, her father, her best friend.

“Bye Dad,” she says, her arms embracing him. His arms fall back around her.

“Bye, Emi.”

They part after a few minutes. Emily picks up her original overnight bag and swings it over her shoulder, heading straight to security.

[taixuandream]

For some, it was as simple as waking up in the morning. Closing their eyes one night, and waking up on a cold floor, dyed cool blues and purples, with galaxies dancing along their sides. It was as if space and time were rippling and coiling around them.

She remembers reading a book, some fantasy novel. She remembers, words slowly shifting into one another, each page feeling heavier to lift, each blink becoming that much more difficult to recover from. Soon, it felt like her wrist had been chained to the wooden boards below her, arms not wanting to come up and continue forward. Even if she were so close to the end, it felt as if a mysterious force was lulling her onward, unlike normal fatigue. Soon, lids do not lift, and the gentle abyss of slumber envelops the bird.

Just to be jolted awake by a shrill voice, one that sounds like a bad impression of a childhood cartoon. Then another, too posh to be used to combat, worry dripping off every word for the circumstances she found herself in. Then, one cool, complimented by the crackling of static. Blurry eyes dart between each of her unlikely comrades, recognizing but one of them.

FU HUA rolls 4 energy.

Observant, she would wait for her moment. Enemies doused in waters, then shocked by a strong blade, the others have long since looked away as she channeled her attack. Holding her hand out, the flames of the Phoenix would swirl in, pouring some of her own life into channeling this attack.

"I don't know any of you. But please, move out of the way," she says through grit teeth, the skin around her hand starting to sizzle and pop from the sheer intensity of the heat. It is not an order nor a command, just a desperate plea to not hurt those trapped with her.

FU HUA 10/10HP uses Eruption That Churns Tides and Clouds and hits ALL ENEMIES. (-1HP). FU HUA 10/10HP takes -2 HP. Ultimate does +2 Additional Damage for HP lost. Fanfaire does +3 Additional Damage.

The swirling of such heat would come to a pause as she takes a step forward, fist cocked back low as if going for an uppercut. Such a swing flows forward like a jab, an ardent blast washing over each of the machines they found before them. The impact itself caused a bright flash, before dissipating.

Vaporize Triggers (x4)!  AUTOMATON SPIDER A 7.5/16HP. AUTOMATON SPIDER B 5.5/16HP. AUTOMATON BEETLE A 10.5/19HP. AUTOMATON BEETLE B 10.5/19HP. 

The fire set off a chain reaction, with the seemingly waterproof machines scorching and bursting from such a reaction. The largest of them, dog-like in appearance, has a very different effect though...

Overload Triggers!  AUTOMATON HOUND 1.5/15HP. AUTOMATON SPIDER A 4.5/16HP. AUTOMATON SPIDER B 2.5/16HP. AUTOMATON BEETLE 7.5/19HP. AUTOMATON BEETLE 7.5/19HP.

The hound had been sparking, the ignition creating a secondary explosion. As it spread to each machine, a weak link would be spotted. Seeing as the hound was limping now, it only made sense to keep pressing.

A firm strike forward…

FU HUA: 8/10HP uses Normal attack and hits AUTOMATON HOUND and affects them with Pyro. (Roll 1d20 = 7). (-1HP). AUTOMATON HOUND 0.5/15HP.  AUTOMATON HOUND counterattacks and hits FU HUA (Roll 1d20 = 16). (-0.5HP)  FU HUA: 7.5/10HP.

It connects, knocking the dog back. Yet despite its damaged state, it has enough bit to lunge at her forearm, which does sting under its mechanized bite. Knocking it away, she backs off, taking a deep breath.

"Are you three okay? Do you know how we ended up here?" Aside from labored breaths, the girl looks fine. Intense, but only in her eyes. Lips form in the shape of concern, worry about the three standing beside her.

@octoboltflash @entwinefates @fanfaire

✦ ‎ IN THE ABYSS. STRAIGHT UP "CRUSHING IT"

and by "it", haha, well. let's just say. spiral abyss team 2 / floor 1