#to take revenge on all the dead wolf pups or whatever

[egittae]

Lambert didn’t picture any particular outcome for this. He wasn’t expecting Dimitri to jump in joy eager for a hug- because even if there was happiness in the idea of meeting a family member you lost, by now Lambert understood that the reality of him being dead had, most likely, become the default. Dimitri, as well as Matthias and all his other friends and family had become used to the reality in which he no longer existed as a living, breathing human. They have grieved, mourned, some have moved on, others not quite- and naturally, the possibility of him returning had never been on the table to begin with.

He could understand how meeting a relative that has been gone for so long may feel, in the end, more distressing than joyful. How he might as well have destroyed whatever delicate beginnings of scarred tissue had begin to form over the wound left from his passing, and rubbed salt atop it.

“Though I accept your apology…I believe you have nothing to apologize for. I should have never approached you that day. I was not…myself. I had done little to no progress in regards to my memories, was stressed and frankly not in the best state of mind as a whole thanks to the discovery of my own crest at the time. In the end I made an impulsive choice and dragged you down with me. Your reaction was perfectly reasonable considering the situation.” He looked down at his own hands, one partially covered by a wolf’s paw. “It was cruel of me to do that to you…and it angers me deeply, that I was selfish and thoughtless enough to do that. Forgive me.”

In the end, Lambert was aware of his situation. There was still work to be done, more that he had to do in order to fully gain the boy’s trust- this was not the type of situation that will be fixed in one single conversation. ��If it grants you peace, know that I have no desire to disturb your rule, much less to take the throne or to acquire power in any shape or form. If my appearance has been stressful to you…well, one does not have to think too much about what it could cause to the rest of Faerghus. I have no interest in further disturbances.”

Looking down for a moment, he remembered the odd dream he had. Scolded by his own reflection, one that was much more true to who he was meant to be, because of his inactivity. A skinwalker was what it called him- and he had to agree. Up until now he truly was just wearing the face of a dead man. 

But one specific part of the memory stuck to him. 

When life was ripped from your grasp, you didn’t go out in fear, Lambert. It was unfiltered rage. Embrace it.

“However,” Embrace it. “...whoever did this, to me, you and any other who was felled that day…my wish is to find them. And to make them pay.”

Dimitri’s mention of his last words sent a wave of discomfort down his spine. The entire situation surrounding that day was still a series of pieces in his mind, much of it still lost or too vague for him to make out, but the ensemble was clear enough as well as the emotions coloring the ink used to place an endpoint to his story. Rage. Revenge. Grief. Pain. There was regret in becoming more and more aware of how his last words to his son were a call to arms and not an attempt to comfort or one last ‘I love you’, yet at the same time there was no use in focusing over something he couldn’t erase. The damage was done and he needed to work with the path he himself had paved.

“...very well. I will be walking the same path in trying to uncover the truth- but pay attention Dimitri.” His eyes and voice were steady. “In the end of it all, regardless of my dying words, I raised a prince that one day will be king and rule Faerghus into the future it needs and deserves. If you wish to honor my word as well as my death…that should be your priority above all.” The situation however didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to at least correct or at the very least improve some of it. “Do not lose your focus.”

The pause was broken by the excited yelp of a pup, successfully climbing atop a bag of treats and readying its snout to inspect the goods- before it was stopped by Lambert’s hands, at least. “You little imp, trying to conduct a heist in secret.” He placed the puppy down, before scratching its belly with a small smile and looking back at Dimitri. 

It was pretty clear that the conversation wasn’t the most cheerful to him. Lambert understood- he himself felt its weight. 

“My offer still stands, however. If you have any questions that could assure you of my legitimacy, ask away. Unless you wish for me to resort to embarrassing childhood stories? Because I do remember some.” Trying to at least lighten things up, he carefully approached the prince’s face with his hand. Hesitation paused his movements for a moment, but then he gently pinched the tip of his nose between the intermediate phalanges of his index and middle finger. 

“Do not be so sad, Mitya. There-” “-stole your nose! I suggest you come and get it lest I stash it away with our relics! Quicker on those feet, boy!”

Stole your nose. 

It wasn’t someone anyone taught him, he just knew not to use his thumb to pinch because of his crest. 

@blaiddllodi

wolf lord

closed starter for @blaiddllodi (+1 riding)

[variantoutcast]

Nobody on the internet talks about wolves in a way that is normal

[tribbetherium]

The Late Glaciocene: 115 million years + 4000 years post-establishment

Oh, The Hamanity: A Cruel Fate For The Conquered

The tundra harmsters had subjugated all the other species of harmster at the conclusion of the Great Harmster World War. From a genus that once spanned over a dozen species at least a couple million years ago, their violent mindset quickly whittled them down to four, and of these, only one would come out on top: one that had the technological might to supress their enemies' spears and sticks.

And with the end of the war, one species would lay dead, and two others, far less fortunate, would find their survivors in the clutches of the tundra harmsters: beings whose amoral curiosity and desire for advancement would take horrifying new heights with their climactic victory.

Perhaps it was a sense of cruel inquiry akin to a child tearing a live insect limb from limb, fascinated by its struggles. Perhaps it was a tinkering attitude of taking things apart to see how they worked, without considering the repercussions. And perhaps, it was a bit motivated by an arrogant pettiness toward the inferior species that dared challenge their supreme empire. Whatever it was, the unlucky harmsters that had not been killed by the tundra empire would certainly wish they had been.

Captured harmsters were typically used as test subjects and in essence lab rats. They would be poked and prodded and cut apart, screaming in terror strapped to tables while their captors observed and marveled in fascination at their responses. They would be used as unwilling guinea pigs to the tundra harmsters' experimental weaponry, such as the incendiary extracts distilled from plants by the Pyromaniacs, which were obtained by the tundra harmsters and perfected into weaponry. Toxic plants that had once been used by the Hamazons to poison their arrows and spears would be grown and raised and studied for their neurotoxic effects evolved to deter insects, and through distillation and concentration would be developed into volatile agents that could cause paralysis and spasms when inhaled. Dousing their test subjects with their new nerve gas in sealed rooms, the tundra harmsters would watch in fascination through small, clear resin windows while their subjects writhed squealing in agony, taking down notes of their observations in a calmly scientific manner, with their preserved, dissected remains later decorating their makeshift laboratories like macabre ornaments.

But frequently, test subjects tended to be very reluctant to participate in such experiments, struggling, breaking loose, cursing in tongues foreign to the tundra harmsters as they wreaked havoc in the labs in a last-ditch effort of revenge that invariably ended with them being gunned down by armed guards. What the tundra harmsters needed were more docile participants: ones that could be attained in a variety of ways.

Drugging them into submission was a common practice, using chemical extracts from certain plants and fungi force-fed to them to induce a semi-torpor state. A more permanent method was inflicting calculated brain damage onto captive-bred infants: through trial, error, and plenty of dead babies, they perfected the art of functionally lobotomizing their subjects to make them easier to handle.

But still, this was a temporary solution, to have to constantly dumb down their captives with drugs and trauma even as they produced new generations. And so gradually, the tundra harmsters would find a very special way to produce manageable lab rats, which would later prove useful for other things: they were selectively bred for manageability.

This twisted eugenics would, in a span of several centuries, give rise to the Brutes: a strain of selectively bred harmsters that, for all intents and purposes, were domesticated and bred for various uses, which the tundra harmsters would soon realize were more useful than just lab rats: in essence, similar to how humans on earth had tamed captured wolf pups and bred them into a new creature that served their needs.

Except, in this case, it was done on their own kind. An atrocity against their own people, in human terms, a form of slavery of the worst kind, for the Brutes were still harmsters, but they had, through generations of selective breeding, lack of imprinting, and behavioral alteration, lost the one thing that had made harmsters unique to most other animals of this world: their sapience.

Once thinking, rational creatures like their masters and owners, the Brutes are now dull-witted creatures capable only of obdience of the most simple tasks from their masters. Having been selected for simpler, more-commandable minds, their physiology reflected it: they possessed smaller heads and less-defined braincases, causing them to greatly resemble their pre-harmster ancestors, the loupgaroos. And like the loupgaroos, they were no smarter than an average mammal, save for being able to remember commands and act on their trainer's instructions without question, not that they had the capacity to question, as they had long since lost the ability of language and communication.

Some were bred for slave labor, to perform supervised tasks like herding livestock, fetching items, aiding in hunting or serving as easily-controllable shock troops in battle. Others would be turned into beasts of burden: the size and strength of the Hamazons would be exaggerated in these strains, but selected and bred to be docile, allowing them to haul heavy stones and materials, for this was about the same time that the tundra harmsters would slowly take upon stone-building to forge their fortresses.

A choice few would be bred for war, or for entertainment: with the great wars over and the bloodlust of the empires unsated, they would turn to gladiatorial combats to satisfy their thirst for violence: captured wild animals, Brutes, and even their fellow tundra harmsters would be cast into pits to fight to the death to the frenzied cheers of a watching crowd.

Once, these beasts were beings: with cultures, thoughts, beliefs and societies. But now, they were little more than dogs of war. The rapid breeding of the harmsters allowed a quick turnover of generations that made it easier for the tundra harmsters to selectively breed them, at first by drugging them into submission but later through easier means as their intelligence slowly faded with each generation. It was indeed a fate far worse than the simple extermination of the mountain harmster, who persisted on in the empire's society only as preserved specimens of lifeless bones and hides.

Yet strangely, given what they had done to another sophont species over a thousand years earlier, it seemed oddly a punishment earned.

But while the purebred matriarch and savannah harmsters would face a long, slow descent into a bestial state, their genes would live on in the tundra harmsters themselves, due to genetic experimentation of highly dubious means that would bring about the rise of hybrids: as the harmsters were genetically related members of the same genus, they were able to produce crossbred offspring that typically were still fertile.

This would spawn in part as the tundra harmsters sought to assimilate the best of their enemies' genes onto themselves, to breed themselves into a master race, and so a small population, scant at first but eventually growing, would incorporate genetic contributions from the two other species, in varying proportions and ratios. While they, culturally and behaviorally, would remain identical to the tundra harmsters, these hybrids would acquire physical traits from their outcrosses, such as the stamina and resistance of the savannah species and the increased physical might of the matriarch species. They had not only assimilated their enemies's technological developments, but their genetics as well: these hybrids would display a genetic vigour that would make them highly ideal additions to society, for they were stronger, more adaptable and more versatile.

However, this would come to be at a time when the tundra harmster empire had dominated most of the globe: much of Arcuterra, Gestaltia and Mesoterra had been spanned by them, with only South Easaterra, South Ecatoria and frigid Peninsulaustra remaining untouched. And such a wide span of territory, with such massive populations and with no central command, would eventually lead to a fragmentation of populations, a separation of empires, the birth of new ideologies, and a slowly brewing conflict: one that would, with the advent of technology, make the first Great Harmster World War look like a brief skirmish in comparison.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

[thewolvesandtheirbard]

In Times of War - Guxart & Aiden (Plus a bit of Lamden)

Basically I was wondering about what kind of Father Guxart is to his kittens and then I made myself sad by asking “What would he have done when learning of Aiden’s death?” (Don’t worry though! Aiden survives!)

It was Dragonfly who placed the medallion into his hand.

His daughter. The first to know that her brother no longer drew breath in their world.

Guxart would have grieved for her heart as well, but the world slowed until it was nearly frozen around the old cat, and he went to one knee first, dropping the precious silver cat’s head into the grass when the second hit the dirt beneath him.

Had his kittens called for him? Certainly they would have. Gaetan at least, who knew nothing yet of their loss, would have rushed to lift his father’s to his feet.

But Guxart could neither hear his young nor feel their desperate hands tugging upon his armored shoulders.

For a moment he was dead too. Like Aiden. Like his son. Just for a moment.

The pain didn’t take him until after the shock had faded, and in that still place between ignorance and agony, Guxart was almost sure he could see his son’s face before his own.

Yes. Green eyes. Sun kissed copper skin. Black curls dangling down to his shoulders. The cheekiest smile the old cat had ever seen.

That was Aiden, looking him in the face, trying to pull him upright alongside his brothers and sister. It couldn’t be anyone else.

“My boy...” His own voice began to bring back the sensations of life to Guxart’s rickety old bones, and when he reached to stroke a dimpled cheek that his palm knew so well, Aiden was no longer there. He couldn’t reach him any longer.

“Aiden...” He called for his son.

No answer came, but from his other kittens, Guxart began to hear pleas to stand, promises that they’d have revenge and whatever else they tried to assure him with.

Aged eyes the color of a summer’s wood shifted down to take in the sight of the medallion that laid within their master’s hand, and that’s when grief’s arrow pierced Guxart’s heart, shattering the calm around him and drawing out a blood curdling cry from the Grandmaster Witcher.

Soon enough he was on his hands as well as his knees in the dirt, shouting at the earth, the Gods, at any entity that would hear him howl.

“My son!” He screamed to the heavens above. “Not my boy! Gods be damned not my boy!”

Hands grasped his arms, his shoulders, any part they could hand onto to try to keep Guxart upright as he feel onto the ground and rolled over to his back, hurling curses and sobbing for his lost little kitten.

Aiden’s medallion remained clasped in his father’s palm, the pointed edges of the cat’s snarling fangs drawing blood from the elder Witcher’s tough and calloused skin. Perhaps he though the harder he squeezed the trinket, the better the chances that the Gods would grant his pleas for mercy.

...

When the wolf pup came over the hill, leading his horse by hand down the trail of the caravan, every cat nearby was on guard, weapons out, and ready to make a stand should the pup be accompanied by his kin.

“Stop!” Guxart halted his people, his own kittens being the first amongst the cats to lower their drawn swords. “Our quarrel with the wolves ended long ago...Farewell, pup. May you find better fortune than we.” He gave the signal for the drivers of the wagons to move on but the wolf would not be ignored.

“Whoa! Whoa! Hold up!” He insisted, leaving his horse and hurrying down the hill. Guxart could hear his footsteps and placed a hand on his own weapon before another painfully familiar voice called for him.

“Father!”

The old cat’s head snapped around quick only to come face to face with the son he’d lost some months ago.

“Aiden...” He muttered.

The kitten couldn’t move very quickly, and he leaned on the wolf pup when he reached him to help steady his feet.

“Don’t leave yet, old man. I’m here.” That blessed smile spread over his dimpled young face and Guxart pushed past his comrades to run to his boy.

“Oh Gods be blessed! Aiden!” He cried when he snatched his son from the young Wolf’s arms and squeezed him tight, close to his chest.

Strong youthful arms hugged back this time and Guxart tangled his fingers into the black curls on his boy’s head, stroking through them like he’d just discovered the most precious treasure in all of the known world.

“I’m alright...” Aiden whispered. A promise. Reassurance for his grief stricken father, who just hugged him tighter and weeped into the crook of his neck.

Guxart never wanted to let go of his kitten again, and when the young wolf introduced himself as Aiden’s partner, the old cat welcomed him to the family with open arms.

He’d brought his son home to him, after all. Guxart owed the boy everything he could give.

[jaskierswolf]

The Howling of Wolves pt.2/3

TW for the whole story: Angst with happy ending, kidnapping, mentioned previous child abuse, mentioned torture (but off page), Major character injury and recovery, canon typical violence

Previous

Jaskier gasped awake as a bucket of ice cold water was dumped over his head. “Oh bloody hell, fuck that’s cold.” He spluttered through mouthfuls of water.

His hands were bound in cuffs that were chained to the wall. The metal almost burnt his skin meaning they were laced with dimeritium. He was all too familiar with dimeritium handcuffs, they had been a staple of his childhood during the experiments of his youth. Just to be sure he tried to let out his magic and shift. It would be idiotic not to try, but sure enough he barely felt a ghost of his magic over his skin.

At least who ever had taken him had allowed him to keep his clothes.

There was an unsettling itch just below his skin which he hadn’t felt in months which was bothering him.

How long had it been since he shifted? Not since before Geralt had gone off on his werewolf hunt, perhaps even a few days before that. Not long enough for him to be feeling like this though. It was normally at least a couple of weeks before he started to feel cramped in his own skin.

Fuck. How long had he been unconscious…

Unless whatever was in that dart had messed with his magic more than he thought.

“Geralt?” It was a long shot but he had to ask, at the very least he could work out whether his boyfriend was in danger.

“Your witcher isn’t here, petal.”

Jaskier’s heart sank and he felt a dizzy panic hit him like a giant.

“No.” He whispered.

He couldn’t be here. Not now, not again.

“Now, is that anyway to greet your mother, Julian?” His mother stepped out of shadows, and people wondered where he got his flare for the dramatics.

“Well, I would say it’s lovely to see you, mother, but I am currently chained to the wall.” He held up his bound hands as if to prove his point. “So really I’d rather be on my way and out of your hair, if you don’t mind.”

She laughed. “Oh dear boy, the cuffs are for your own good.”

He snorted. “Oh yeah, heard that one before.” He muttered.

“If we can just work out how to cure you then everything will be ok. You don’t need to be a monster.” She cooed, the same shit that she’d been spewing for years before his escape.

“I am not a monster!” He snapped. “Geralt knows that.”

“That witcher is no better than the beasts he slays!” His mother shrieked. “I only ever loved you, darling. Why must you fight me?”

“Loved me?” Jaskier scoffed. “You hate my very existence, or do you just hate the reminder that you cheated on your husband, that you’re stuck in a loveless marriage?”

“Gag him!” His mother ordered and Jaskier’s chains were yanked hard. He fell back against the floor.

“Hmmph!” He protested as one of the servants tied something around his head.

“Now, shall we begin?” His mother knelt down and cupped his cheeks. He saw his own eyes reflected back at him. There had never been any doubt of who his mother had been. His eyes were the spitting image of hers.

It had taken him a long time to learn to love his eyes.

“Hmmph.” He grumbled and rolled his eyes at her, shaking the cuffs on his hands. He’d never been very good at keeping his hands still.

She stroked a finger along his cheek and he tried to turn away.

How had he ended back in this hell?

He just hoped Geralt would find him soon.

___________________________________

The witchers of Kaer Morhen had gathered in a dingy looking cave. Geralt was pacing irritably across the entrance of the cave. It had been weeks since Jaskier’s disappearance. He’d tried to track his partner on his own but whoever had taken him had been too good so he’d sent messages to his pack and waited, impatiently for them to arrive at a fairly central location.

Lambert had been the last to arrive. He’d turned up with another witcher in tow, a blond blue-eyed witcher from the School of Cat. On any other day Geralt would have teased his redheaded brother about finally finding a friend who could tolerate him… but today his focus was on Jaskier.

“Wolf, you are making us all seasick with all that pacing.” Vesemir said in a calm voice.

Geralt snarled at the oldest witcher. How could he be so calm when Jaskier was missing?

“Jaskier is missing, possibly dead, and you are worried about getting seasick!” Geralt snapped.

“Hey.” Eskel punched his arm. “You’re not finding anyone like this. Getting pissed at Vesemir won’t help Jaskier, Geralt.”

Geralt groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to find him.”

Eskel pulled him into a hug and he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. They’ll regret taking one of our pack. I promise you.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder them all.” Lambert agreed.

Geralt looked at Lambert over Eskel’s shoulder and scowled. “No. Whoever did this, they are mine.”

Lambert laughed darkly and nodded. “Alright, White Wolf. You have a deal.”

“No.” Vesemir said firmly. “We do not take revenge. We get the pup and we get out.”

“But Vesemir!” Lambert whined.

“We kill to defend ourselves, nothing more.” Vesemir’s voice left no room for arguments.

Geralt scowled and picked up his swords. “Let’s get moving.”

“Do we actually know where we’re going?” The blond witcher drawled as he pushed himself off of the wall. “Because it seems like not one of you actually has a plan?”

Geralt glared at the newcomer and his fingers itched to reach for his sword. He wouldn’t hurt Lambert’s friend but normally they would greet new witchers by sparring or wrestling, especially if they were being welcomed into the pack of wolf school witchers. Jaskier had gotten a pass, partly because he wasn’t a witcher and partly because he could turn into a fucking dragon. It also helped that Geralt had vouched for him.

Lambert had vouched for Aiden but Lambert didn’t have a good history of choosing friends, and Geralt didn’t trust Aiden yet.

“Don’t even think about it, you bastard.” Lambert snarled.

“You gave Jaskier concussion.” Geralt pointed out.

Lambert had the audacity to laugh. “Fair point, sorry Aiden, he gets a free hit when all this is over.”

“Idiots.” The cat witcher muttered. “All of you. Remind me again why we’re friends?”

“Because I’m pretty?” Lambert suggest.

Eskel snorted.

“Oi!” Lambert growled.

“Can we please focus!” Geralt snapped. “Jaskier is missing! I don’t care if Lambert’s pretty or not.”

“Yeah but…” Lambert protested.

“You’re gorgeous, darling, but the White Wolf has a point.” Aiden winked at Lambert who spluttered and went bright red.

“Right. Yup. Ok.” He muttered and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What did you say that man called him?” Aiden asked, peering at Geralt with cool blue eyes.

Geralt frowned. “Julian.”

Aiden nodded. “Then I think I can help you, if you’re willing to trust me, dog?”

Geralt glanced at Lambert. His cheeks still matched the colour of his hair and he was scowling angrily at the world, but he nodded. The nod was barely perceptible even to Geralt but it was enough. Lambert trusted this new witcher and he was Geralt’s only hope right now to finding Jaskier.

He reached out his hand and Aiden grasped it tightly as they shook on it. “Help me.” Geralt all but pleaded.

“Alright, listen up dogs.” Aiden grinned, his fangs shining in the firelight.

____________________

Jaskier groaned as he was pulled to his feet. How long had he been here now, stuck in his old bedroom as if he’d been sucked into one of his nightmares?

His skin itched, his bones ached and he felt like he was on fire. The metal cuffs cut into his skin and his once cream shirt was now yellow and covered in splatters of blood.

The last time he’d been here, his family’s attempts at ‘curing’ him had been based on working out the limits of his abilities and where they had come from. This time his mother, without the help of mages, had decided to starve his magic instead. He  woke up shivering each morning and it was instinctive to him to try and shift but every morning he let out a pitiful cry and fell to the ground sobbing.

He was stuck.

He couldn’t breathe.

He had begged his mother to take off the cuffs, to allow him to shift. He’d promised he wouldn’t shift into anything dangerous or try to escape but he needed.

Gods he needed.

He ached.

But his mother just pulled him to her chest and stroked his hair, whispering that it would pass and that he was just experiencing withdrawal following his time with the witchers.

The witchers.

Geralt.

Where was Geralt?

Why hadn’t he come?

He’d been sure that Geralt would find him.

And it all hurt so damned much.

“F-fuck!” He stammered and curled up into a ball on the floor.

At least before his room had at least tried to resemble a bedroom. Now it was just a stone cold prison.

He felt sick to his stomach. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could survive. He needed to shift. They knew that. They knew they were killing him in this crazy plan to cure him.

But he needed to survive.

He had to.

For Geralt.

For his pack. His family. His heart.

He had to survive.

____

Next

[ciestessde]

Chapter 18

Let's turn back the clock for a moment…

It's a while, yet, before Tess is supposed to fully turn Lucy.

And since it's good cover for establishing a relationship with the locals, she's been working at this little pub for the past few weeks.

[Beginning]

Imagine our surprise, then, when we spot Abraham Van Helsing, of all people, arguing with the cook. We knew he was coming at some point, but, once again, Xihrae had "accidentally" neglected the details. Despite the short time to prepare, Tess isn't thrown off, thinking only, < … Well, now's as good a time as any, I suppose. >

Once they've finished, Tess asks the cook what the argument was about. That answered, she grabs and scarfs down her own food -- and waits for the perfect time to make her entrance.

"I didn't realize the pub offered breakfast this late," Tess says, her tone light-hearted yet accusatory. "Hm?" In the middle of taking a bite, he looks up at her (Tess's eyes just barely above his own) and spills a bit of egg from his mouth. She's not yet donned her uniform, so any attempt at intimidation via authority is pointless. And yet…

He swallows and, stoic, mutters, "Not my first choice." Not to be denied, Tess tries again, "Oh yeah? What would be?" She puts a hand on her hip and tilts her head down at him. "Because I hear the chef takes requests now."

He flinches. < There we go. At least he has the decency to look guilty. > "I… suppose I could have handled that better." "A bit." He regains his bluster, "-But in my defense, my first choice would have been a proper amount of sleep." His face scrunches in disgust (< He looks like an angry bulldog, haha! >), "No rest for the wicked, I suppose."

"…" Tess pulls the stool out from the other side of the small table and plops down. "Why the lack of rest? What are you doing that's so 'wicked' -- if I may ask?"

His mouth thins, and he looks away. "Such things are no concern of a young woman." "Oh?"

And then, the door opens- -and HE comes in.

Thankfully, HIS presence here is a detail Xihrae did not "accidentally" leave out. If he had, this game of hi-... of ours would have been over the very first moment Tess and I met… "Jacob." Nonetheless, I still have to push down the touch of panic that "Jacob" causes every time I see him.

Tess waves to "Jacob," tonight's waiter, as he passes us, continuing her conversation with Helsing, "And I suppose there's nothing I could do to change your mind?" "Hmf!" I can't tell whether that was a laugh or a scoff, but his next words are… gentle, "…This really isn't something you ought to concern yourself with. It's too much for the weak-willed, best left for a man."

< … > < Tess. Control yourself. > < ... I will choose to ignore the last part. >

"'Not for the weak-willed,'" Tess thinks for a moment -- then grins, "…Alright, then." She clicks her tongue twice. It takes only a couple seconds -- the puppy (now about three-fourths grown and considerably larger than most dogs) opens the door with his paws, enters, and comes directly to the table. She snaps her fingers. The pup obeys, sitting beside her. The wolf stares Helsing in the eyes for a couple seconds, before looking back at its master. With the obedient beast beside her, and Tess still dressed in her usual, flowing black dress… Images I'd caught from mirrors in the castle's halls surface at the thought.

And I wonder -- how ethereal must Tess look to him in this moment?

After a couple pats, Tess orders the pup, "Open." It opens its mouth, and Tess places her arm inside the wolf's jaws. Understanding seems to dawn in Helsing's mind a moment too late, "Now, hold on a moment-!" "Snap!" Tess yells.

Helsing lets out a guttural yelp, preparing to leap across the table, as the wolf's jaws SLAM down on Tess's arm- -and stop precisely as its teeth meet her flesh, without so much as a single droplet of blood.

Helsing drops his fork, his eyes wide and mouth agape like a stranded fish. Tess removes her arm, pets the pup, snaps her fingers, and points at the ground. The pup obeys, circling a couple times before lying down facing the door. Since he's still busy gaping, Tess takes the opportunity to add, "I work the night-shift here a few times a week -- just me and my dog. What were you saying about being weak-willed?"

"Why…!" If possible, his eyes have gone even wider. "You really trained this beast? And- and work in a pub while-" "-I RUN the pub. Alone. At night." "Ha!" < Now that was a laugh! > Helsing sits back down. He's returning Tess's grin, and his shoulders are back and head raised. "My apologies, miss…?" "Ciestess. You can call me 'Tess,' if you like." "Miss Ciestess, you may be one of the bravest women I've ever met." "Then I'm afraid you haven't met many women." "Ha!" He picks his fork back up.

"So," Tess leans forward and rests her arms on the table, "Why are you in here eating breakfast for your dinner?"

"Ah, well, that…" He pokes at a piece of meat, but doesn't stab it. His eyes flit between her and his food as he answers, "I'm a doctor, you see. And a patient of mine is suffering from a rather unusual condition. Extremely rare. It requires I look after her throughout the night hours."

"Hm…" Tess feigns worry -- eyebrows raised and pulled together, "What condition? Is it contagious?"

He looks up at her again. "Oh! No, no-ah… Mm, well… Yes, but…" Breaking eye contact, he searches for his knife. Grabbing it, he stabs the meat and cuts it -- with more force than strictly necessary -- into bite-sized pieces. "... It's… It's rather difficult to-... Well, you're unlikely to believe it…"

Tess sits up straight again. "You're a doctor, aren't you? What reason would I have to doubt you?"

"It…" He pauses his cutting, but still doesn't look at her. "Well, I suppose… working throughout the night… you'd be in more danger NOT knowing…" His knife moves again. He's silent until he finishes cutting up the meat. "... Very well. I'll tell you, but you mustn't let word spread, you understand? The truth is…" He looks up again. "She was attacked, you see. By… By a vampire."

"A vampi-oh!" Tess says, then whispers, "A vampire? You're serious?" "I warned you-" "-No no, I believe you, it's just… surprising, to say the least! How do you know that's what happened?"

"She's suffering from a form of anemia -- she doesn't have nearly as much blood as she ought to… As though she's been bleeding from an open wound," He stabs a piece of meat with his fork. "But the only marks on her are some rather distinct bite marks on her arms and neck. And new ones appear every few nights."

Tess mumbles, "So you've been guarding her…"

"Yes, but it doesn't seem to be working. All I can do is try and set up as many obstacles between her and her attacker as possible."

We're interrupted by "Jacob." He sets a glass down in front of Tess: A sweet tea, with no ice. Tess looks at him, genuinely surprised, "You didn't have to-" "I figured you could use a cup of tea. This is still your favorite, right?" < … Jeez, that smile. How am I supposed to say no? > < Why should you? > I counter, doing my best to act as I normally would -- instead of shouting at her to remain cautious, don't trust him, trust anyone BUT him, and whatever you do, don't drink that-! < ... Good point! > Tess smiles back at him, "Thank you."

"Jacob" returns to his table. Tess sips at the sweet tea. < A little too much sugar, but not bad. > "If you don't mind my asking," she mutters, "How did you come to learn so much about vampires? Do they teach all doctors about them?"

Helsing had returned to eating in the brief silence. It takes him a moment to answer. "No, I'm an unusual case in that regard. I… Well, it's a bit of a personal story…" "I don't-" "-Oh, don't apologize, miss. It's actually rather refreshing to be able to talk like this. As some say, the only people you can truly be honest with are complete strangers."

They share laughter for a moment. Helsing's face becomes solemn, his mouth turning down slightly and his brow furrowed. He takes another bite of his eggs, then starts his story. "... I was still new to being a doctor, at the time. I was working with a friend to cure his brother, who was suffering from, what I learned quickly was, an incurable disease." Helsing takes another bite. His food is almost gone. He's staring at the table.

"The night we expected him to die, my friend requested I leave them alone together. So I did. When I returned the next morning, it was to find them both dead-" His nose wrinkles up, and his lip curls. "-my friend lying next to his brother on the bed, a bite on his neck, and his blood on his brother's mouth." He snatches his cup and guzzles it.

He returns it to the table with a clunk -- but continues clutching it. "I was in shock. Confused. But I'd heard of vampires, of course. I could hardly believe it, but the more I studied the scene, the more certain I became that I wasn't mistaken."

He lifts the cup again, but doesn't drink. He's staring at it, instead of the table, now. "So, perhaps a bit mad in my grief, I admit, I took revenge upon my friend's brother's corpse." His voice has gone monotone and, aside from his furrowed eyebrows, his face wears a neutral expression. "I broke the leg off a wooden chair in the corner of the room and stabbed it through the heart. When I did…" His eyes widen slightly, and his words come more slowly. "Those screams will haunt me to the day I die."

He's stopped talking. < What can I say to that? Should I say anything yet? > < … No. We need to stick to the plan- > Musn't give in to the guilt…! < -Xihrae's plan. >

Thankfully, he continues. He hasn't moved even a little during the silence. His voice seems stronger now. "Suspicions confirmed beyond any doubt, I waited for my friend to wake. I suppose I hoped… I'm not sure WHAT I hoped." He finally looks up from the cup. His pupils have dilated, and the area around his eyes is tense. "That he'd be human? That I could cure him? … No. I suppose… The truth is that I needed to see his inhumanity with my own eyes before I could bring myself to do it. To kill him-

"-No," His eyes widen -- the haunted look in them replaced by madness. "No, to SAVE him! A creature like that…" His lip curls and nose wrinkles again.

He growls, "The only salvation left for them- is death!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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[aliens-and-shiz]

Part 28: calling

More here: @aliens-and-shiz

Naming credit: @the-dragons-father

The call to war came through a massive fleet of millions of drones from the Torus. They flew through the now-hazy atmosphere of the blue jewel humanity called home. They were all blaring the same message on a loop in every language: ‘We know who did this to us, we know where to find them, and we’re going to decimate them. Join the USF and take revenge on those who took your home, your family, everything. Fight for your freedom, fight for what was taken.’

The response was more than anything Thane could have hoped for. She hoped for a few million volunteers, and a draft for the rest. Instead she got billions. More people than she could have imagined wanted to take up arms, and murder the fuckers that kidnapped their families and friends.

Those who dwelled deep in the Amazon Preserve, keeping to their primitive ways of life, they answered the call. Those fighting against what they saw as a tyrannical government, found a new war to fight. The hydro-farmers, those in the underwater cities, the ones who found war to be abhorrent, all answered the call.

The drones reached the skies of Venus and the tunnels of Mars. Venutian Cloud Cities abandoned their planet, disobeying the orders of the Admiral, to fight for their brothers and sisters. The Shipyards of Mars, quiet for 20 years, started up at a pace not seen since their construction.

The war machine of humanity has fired up, and may God have mercy on anything that stood in their way.

—————————

The man only known as Smith saw the drones. He zoomed in on them, seeing where they came from. He heard the call. He looked at his bionic arm, and walked into his cabin.

“Don’t go baby! You’ve done enough already!” His wife screamed. Trying to embrace him.

He shrugged her off. He made a vow, but he didn’t care. They burned the hospital his daughter was in. He didn’t care that he’d be put into Vesta after this. He placed his hand on the wall and it slid aside. He filled a duffel bag with weapons and attachments, and left, kissing his wife goodbye.

He looked at his arm, and a holo-pad projected. He typed in a code, and put his arm down. His team has now been called. Ironic. We’ll be fighting for someone we once tried to kill.

His wife stared at him as he walked into the woods, the horizon glowing with the fires of Earth. She sobbed, and a small craft blasted off, aiming for the Torus, the massive space station blocking out the moon.

————————————

The Hydra awoke in her cell. Her arm was buzzing. Smith. She stretched and looked at the old LED tv they provided her for good behavior. Earth was burning. Well. Guess that’s my cue. She hopped up, onto her bionic legs, and walked to the cell door, and knocked 3 times. The guard opened the food slot.

“What do you need you filthy cretin?”

“Ooh you’re being nice today. Well, if you haven’t heard, Earth has been attacked. Now, you can let me out the easy way or the hard way. The easy way, nobody gets hurt, the hard way... well, not even Antimatter will be able to stop my revenge.” She said as she tapped her fingers on the glass.

The guard barked with laughter. “There’s no way in hell im letting you out!”

“Suit yourself.”

She backed up to the wall, turned, and sprinted at the door, kicking it off its hinges. The guard was pinned against the opposite wall, guts sprayed everywhere. “Pity.”

She ran down the hall, counting the cells, killing any guards in her way. She stopped at 1501, and opened it.

“Hey big guy, ready to go?”

The Golem grunted, and walked out the cell. Alarms started ringing. Well now they’re being bitchy. They started sprinting down the hall, knocking down doors, cutting through guards, getting the hell off of Vesta. They reached a transport ship, and hopped in, flicking all the switches to fire up the engines and weaponry. Golem grabbed a laser shotgun and started firing at the guards trying to keep them from leaving.

Hydra smirked, pulled up on the controls, and coasted out, before disappearing in a streak of light.

Vesta was chaos. Half of the guards were injured or dead, and this was the first breakout in the history of the prison.

———————————-

The nameless one heard Smith’s call. He was only ever spoken of in whispers, one who killed with such ferocity, sadism, and efficiency that nobody wanted to give him a name. They just called him “Him” or “He”.

His actual name was Christoph Lenner. A blind man, he lived in the mines of Mars, only leaving for a kill. And the killing of his life came beckoning. Nobody kills humanity. That’s My job. He donned his mask, grabbed his bag, hopped in his ship and sailed for the Torus, to meet whatever destiny awaited “Him.”

—————————-

The Wolf sat looking at the destruction around him. His forest, burning. Half his pack, killed in fire. The rest howling around him. He shook his fur in fury. Whatever did this will pay. He turned around, fire in his eyes, and a glow in his leg. Smith’s call. He was going to go anyway. He howled, and his pack ran with him to the Canis. His warship. It had been many years since he last fired her up. Years since he was experimented on, his brain stuck in a wolf’s body, a extremely experimental healing factor introduced to his blood, and the bionic leg fitted, creating a savage chimera that is essentially immortal. He broke out of the lab with Smith’s help, and ran off into the Siberian wilderness. He found a pack, and became alpha, leading a pack of 100. 50 of them are now dead. He will make them pay.

His pack clambered on, pups and all, and they took off, a firestorm in their wake.

[mona-stay]

The Student Vs The Master - Peter Hale

Request by anonymous in Tumblr Pairing - Peter Hale x reader Warnings - swearing, fighting, blood Story -

The past

I was 8 years old when I had first met Deucalion. I stood on the edge of the woods watching horrified as my alpha killed the pack including, my mother, father and big brother. I hadn’t seen their murder on the bodies on the ground as the alpha killed our final pack mate. Running deep into the woods till I couldn’t run or breathe anymore, stopped and sat crying at the base of a tree.

A voice made me look up, the older wolf offered his hand out. “what’s wrong, why is a little wolf like you out here crying” he asked smoothly. “he killed them, he killed them all” I said with a tear stained face. After telling him what I had seen, Deucalion offered me a place in his pack, and protection. Sadly agreed knowing I didn’t have anywhere else to go and an omega wolf my age won’t last a month alone. 

Within the next few years Deucalion taught me everything he could, how to control the shifts, how to fight, hunt and kill. By the time I turned 13 I followed Deucalion without questioning his ideas like a trained puppet. We came across your old alpha the one who killed my family. Deucalion was the one to tell me to kill him “get revenge for your family and take the power he stole from them.” I did it not thinking twice my blue eyes turned as red as the blood on my hands.

Deucalion couldn’t of planned it better a young pup with nothing and all to eager to please her savoir and that’s how he made me, by reminding me what I would be without him, nothing. I was his best and most willing soldier he still had a soft spot for me caring like he wasn’t with the others. I was a daughter he never had, that was until the day I left him. when I was about 19 I had found out the truth thanks to a jealous Kali who wanted me gone to be his new right hand wolf. Deucalion was the one who made my former alpha kill the pack and family. I also found out it had been planned for me to join him before my family was dead. he wanted a wolf born child to make a killer, to be the faithful beta I was. by this time he was building his alpha pack and i finally started to see him as the monster he was. so I ran leaving the pack an finding a way to live on my own.

present time 

now 20 I’d been trying to start a normal-ish life, but it hadn’t worked like I hoped so gave myself a new life mission. one day Deaton a vet in beacon hills and emissary told me about Deucalion being in beacon hills. He somehow knew I was after the Wolf and said he could help me help his friends, I couldn’t stand around doing nothing that had been my goal for the last year to find and kill the demon wolf. I had watched and helped him destroy packs before and couldn’t let him do it to this one especially knowing Talia hale in the past, she’d offered me a home with her when I was 10. But I refused Deucalion had already gotten his claws into my mind, I felt I should help her son after she’d once offered me help. After getting the address to the hale loft I went. 

Outside the hear the sounds of a fight could be heard. When I got to the open door I saw Deucalion’s pack along with the pack I was here to help and from the first glimpse they needed it. Looking I saw Ennis throw a young curly haired boy across the room into the wall, Kali had hold of a pole through Derek’s back and chest Deucalion crouched over him. The twins had another wolf, one twin keeping the wolfs arms behind his back while the other twin had his claws on the older wolfs throat. 

Making a snap decision, I throw my mobile as hard as at the twin knocking him out. The whole room froze looking at me,  changing my eyes making then glow alpha red. Kali pulled the pole from Derek’s body growling, I flicked my claws out ready to fight her. Deucalion roared for her to stop, he stood up walking toward me. Derek holding his chest crawled to Issac at the side of the loft. Everyone was still Deucalion’s pack looked nervous while the rest looked confused. “finally come back to where you belong, back to the pack, your family y/n” he said smirked saying the words. I felt a growl leave my chest. Stepping down the couple of steps to face him “I don’t have family or a pack! Not anymore” I snap back still flicking my eyes round at the rest of the packs, I could sense there nerves, anger, curiosity. Making me feel on edge. Deucalion laughed “what come to try and fit in with this pathetic pack” he asked circling me stirring with his alpha eyes “or have you come here with different intentions” he ask more quizzical, but knowing he was right. 

I know he was baiting me the way he walked round, and the words he chose. I also know how to play him, “ive come to stop you ripping apart another pack”.  he laughed more, “you really think you can beat me, y/n don’t be silly I taught you everything you know, I know what your going to do before you do it, I raised you remember” he added emphasis on the word remember roaring it out. I  swallow hard now feeling intimated by him trying not to let it show. “how about a bet or game shall we say” my voice stayed calm and steady which I was thankful for. I knew he couldn’t turn down a challenge especially in front of his pack. I watched him think it over your eyes still watching the room. 

By now Derek and his beta where by the wall Ennis and kali stood where Deucalion stood originally before his vulture circling, the twin I hit with the phone was still on the floor. His brother had let go of the handsome wolf. The was something about his natural blue eyes that made my heart skip. The sound of Deucalion’s voice made me stop stirring “and what is this game you have in mind” he asked. “me against you! One on one and if I beat you, your pack leaves and never comes back they split go there own was or I’ll kill them all” I stated boldly. I could hear the snigger come from both Deucalion and Kali, “and if I win this little fight what do I get” he asked.

This was where I’d hit a snag in your plan I didn’t have much to offer him really so playing to what I knew best “me, or my life anyway. You win and ether you can kill me and do whatever or I come back to the pack do what you say no questions asked like the old days” I said playing to his dominant ego “you know I was the best beta you had” I laughed at the growl coming from Kali. After a few minutes he hadn’t spoken “how about one last lesson sir” I know the word sir you make him agree, it was something he made you call him during training and it had stuck, but you also knew by saying the words he wouldn’t resist.  

He roared loud shifting his face, Kali, Ennis and the twins now the other was awake all gave small supporting growls. I met his challenge roaring loudly too shifting into my own full alpha wolf side, what I didn’t expect was the handsome wolf to roar with me “well it looks like you do have a pack after all y/n” Kali smiled looking at the Wolf. 

I didn’t have any time to think about them, Deucalion ran me swinging his cane, the point caught my arm leaving a tiny scratch. I stepped back before attacking him, catching his arm. I played weak to start letting him get and connect well planned hits. He was the type of guy who got sloppy as he got cocky I wanted him like that thinking he has control until I decided to take it away.

*** Peter pov ***

I was held by the twins as Deucalion tried to convince Derek into killing his pack and joining Deucalion. After Derek said no, and I’d tried to fight my way out Deucalion ordered Ethan to kill me “he’s not even in this pack so get rid of him” the words rang in my head as I thought of a way out of this. Ethan claws wrapped round my throat, when I saw him drop to the floor I looked to see the most incredible, gorgeous girl stood in the door way.

As she entered the loft the smell of anger, hate and a hint of fear hit my nose as I watched her challenge him. something about her turned me on, she looked at me I felt my heart pound at the sight of her. I lost my self looking her up and down her tight skinny jeans flat back boots and loose vest top. I know it wasn’t the ideal time for checking out the mysterious girl but she had my attention along with the rest if the room. 

“and if I win” I heard Deucalion say snapping me back out of my daydream. It took me a minute to work out what I had missed in there conversation. I watched him shift into what he called the demon wolf hid pack growling. Watching y/n she had no pack no back up, Derek and Issac both kept there heads down I felt bad for the little alpha, until she roared back. They sound went through me I could feel the vibrations in my body, without being able to stop myself I roared with her. We both look at each other with a hint of confusion when I see her eye flick from me to Deucalion’s pack and back again. 

He launched at her starting in their agreed battle, I watched her intently the way she moved, attacked twisted and turned her body. At first she didn’t look at good as her confidence sounded Deucalion getting in some nasty blows. I wanted to run to her fight with her, my head telling myself why she’s just a girl you don’t know. Y/n got hit hard in the face sending her back as she hit the floor by my feet, looking up at me she smiled winking. I couldn’t help think this was going her way the looked at me I couldn’t explain but she didn’t look defeated.  

“I thought I taught you better then that y/n” he growled as she got to her feet. Her expression was different now, like she was annoyed and flustered but I couldn’t help feel after the wink this was fake, a show for Deucalion. I watched the fight in front of me, as she started to fight back with an amazing skill. It was like watching a kung-fu movie. She had moves I’d never seen before.

*** y/n pov***

Everything was working out, well except for the new wolf who I couldn’t keep my eyes off. He was proving to be a slight distraction. Deucalion was now slowing and easing his attacks, trying to tell me corrections like this was a lesson. “your to slow with your actions, you should know better then that.” soon I turned up my attacks surprising him when I clawed his chest deeply, using his cockiness against him. After what felt like a good half an hour I was tired, cut sore but willing to keep going. I could see Deucalion getting tired too. After a continued sequence of blocked attacks on both sides it was like nether of you was winning or losing the fight.

I caught him in the face with a kick, he jumped up from the floor grabbing his cane, “time to end this” he growled swiping it from left to right diagonally, then back again. Watching his pattern I grabbed the cane as it came down spinning round behind him trapping his arms with his own cane. My claws digging into his throat “I win” I whisper in his ear. He roared “kill them” I looked the whole thing was like slow motion. Kali smiled still holding the metal pole her eyes fixed on the Wolf with the blue eyes, she lifted it to throw it. I clawed Deucalion not hard enough to kill him then kicked him to the floor. Spinning round as fast as I could, I dived on the man pushing him out the way. “you okay” I asked on top of him, behind me I heard voices shout out “peter”. He nodded as we both got up, he flicked out his claws smiling at me. Smiling back “go” I ordered. He ran at the twins, Derek and his beta was on there feet as Ennis ran at them. I looked round for Deucalion ready to finish what I came to do.

Kali stood in the way, she had wanted this for a long time, a chance to fight you finally to prove who was the better wolf. The fight didn’t last long, I beat Kali quick slamming my claws into her ribs until she bled out, then focused on Deucalion. His wounds from my claws was still deep as he struggled standing up “let’s finish this y/n” he said. I smiled at him “happily.” This time you didn’t waste your time playing, you ran at him your fangs out. You let him run at you this time, when he was inches away you ducked grabbing his arm and crouch pushing him to the plaster post in the wall. You didn’t give him time to react or say anything witty you wanted this to end now! Biting hard on his throat ripping the flesh away.

***Peter pov ***

She saved me, y/n had her enemy in her claws and dropped him for me. My head span as she laid onto of me, nobody had ever tried to save my life before not even my own nephew. As she got up a fight between everyone broke out. She ran to Kali and Deucalion, I took on the twins wanting payback for earlier. A loud roar made us all stop and look y/n had Deucalion in her hands blood round her mouth, the loft fell silent the only sound was his body hitting the floor. She looked at Ennis and the twins “leave now” she said calmly, they quickly left taking their dead pack members with them. It wasn’t until they had gone and the adrenaline wore of on her, she stumbled back almost collapsing. Derek and I grabbed her, helping her to a chair. She smiled at me this time I truly saw her, not just the sexy badass alpha but beauty in her eyes, sweetness of her face, that quickly changed to a wince.

When I took my hand from her it was sticky and red. I lifted her top to see the true damage Deucalion had done to her. I ran to get the first aid box, outside I heard Derek talking to her.

***y/n pov***

Derek came close as the other man ran out the room. The younger beta stood a little back looking like he didn’t know what to do. “I’m Derek H… ” he started but I cut him off “Hale, I know we met once a long time ago” I smile. He looked confused the words how and when clear on his face. “your mother offered me home with her but I left with Deucalion like an idiot, you was there too, but a lot younger back then” Derek nodded “this is Isaac my beta” he pointed to the young curly haired boy who smiled and gave a small wave. My eyes went to the doorway where the other man went “and that’s my uncle Peter” he told me. As I told them how I had been brought up by Deucalion after he’d had my family killed and why I left his pack, Peter helped clean the claw marks on my back as I spoke.

Peter brought me a drink over, even though being a werewolf I couldn’t get drunk but I appreciated the gesture. I didn’t notice Derek and Isaac leave, leaving me alone with Peter. “thanks” I muttered taking the glass from him, “your welcome y/n” his voice was smooth and deep. “I think you’d need it the way your feeling” he said. I looked at him “I don’t think anybody knows what I’m feeling”

***Peter pov***

She asked me how did I know how she was feeling and to be honest I didn’t I could only guess. “you feel relieved for killing the monster who killed your family but also empty now you have no goal no life long mission to hunt him down, leaving you numb” she looked you at me I know I’d perked her interest. “your also feeling grief even though you hated Deucalion for what he did, he was still the closest thing to family you had, and now your feeling more alone” I didn’t mean it to sound so sassy and mean.

“I guess you understand more than I thought!” she sadly smiled at me. I sat closer to get putting my arms round her “but you didn’t have to be alone” I told her. I couldn’t understand why I was drawn to her, maybe it was because she saved my life or the lustful feeling I had but I wanted to know more about her.

***y/n pov*** We had been talking for ages, his comforting arm around me didn’t feel strange or out of place. After an hour we was laughing and joking I had almost forgotten about killing Deucalion. The only reminder was when I laughed to hard and the healing cuts would sting. Peter looked at me holding a serious face, “why did you save me before” he asked. “probably for the same reason you roared with me before the fight” I answered he’s expression looking more puzzled “I think it’s a pack thing I felt a connection with you and I was hoping if you want I’d like you to join me as my beta” you told him.

Peter closed the gap between us, using his hand to move my hair from my face. “I felt a connection too just I was thinking something more then a beta” he said as he cupped my cheeks bringing his lips inches away from mine, he looked into my eyes giving me chance to push him away. I didn’t instead I landed forward meeting his lips. Peter dominated the kiss pushing me back till my back hit the wall. When he pulled away he rested his head on my forehead “what do you say little Alpha, do you want me as more than just your beta” his tones was raspy and seductive, I couldn’t say no to him. Wrapping my arms around his neck I kissed him again. He ran his hands down my sides to my thighs tapping them, I jumped a little as he held me up my legs rounds his waist. Peter didn’t break the kiss instead carried me up the stairs to his room in the loft.

He was right I didn’t have to be alone anymore, I knew from now on I would always have Peter Hale by my side.

[slightlyhighkey]

Below the cut, a long ass back story nobody wanted to hear

Aoife Valnora is the second eldest child of a family of Norlenders. Their home is on a set plot of land just a small distance away from the kingdom of Narfareth, on a popular travel route. There the Valnora's ran a farm with a small amount of animals used mostly for the trade goods they could provide and the food they could produce. Only when they outlived their use were they killed for their meat.

Living in this area life is tough from the beginning. A lot of the families around here are self sufficient, which means they have to be able to work together to some extent. Aoife started helping around the farm when she was very young, probably around six. Her chores were simple things like feeding chickens at first but as she grew so did her responsibilities. Mostly they leaned towards animal care, as she seemed to have an affinity for them.

Since they were already quite a distance from town her experience with other people was limited to travelers and passerbys. Oftentimes they'd spend a night on the farm if the inns were full, and it was this way she became educated in the world south of them. They showed her maps and told her stories. It made her curious and sparked a desire to travel in her that she didn't acknowledge until later in life.

When she was eleven her father and elder brother started teaching her how to use a bow to keep foxes out of the chicken coop and the like. She was a natural, and soon her game grew bigger. While her younger siblings (there was a pair of twins, four years younger than her) and her mother took care of the house she spent her time in the fields and the forests, tracking and taking down game to feed and trade. It wasn't much longer until she was spending more time with their livestock or in the woods than with her own family.

On one night in the depths of winter when game was already scarce, she came across a wolf in their fields after one of their sheep. The dogs had proven great adversaries for it however and they managed to chase it off, but not without a casualty. It was injured and dripping blood so tracking it wasn't too difficult. Just a little ways off of their farm she found it to have died just outside of a tree stump.

What was in the stump changed her life as she found a pup, just a little over two weeks old. Her heart broke when she realized it would die and she ended up bringing it back home with her. Her mother was instantly against the small defenseless thing and it strained there relationship. It wasn't as if the whole household was against him but even the smallest doubt had settled into their home. She shirked her responsibilities in order to make sure he was fed and getting all the care she'd seen their dogs show their young.

With the constant attention he grew quickly. By the time she was fifteen he was strong enough to help her track wild animals and he was almost behaved enough to help with the herding. Her family didn't seem to trust him though, and when a wild animals got into the chicken coop leaving very little survivors they accused it of being him. In order to avoid him being killed, which was a large fear of hers, she left in the dark of the night. As far as she's concerned the rest of her family still lives there but she's never written them to check.

And so she set off down the road on what would be a harrowing adventure. Travelers had told her about schools in the south where they would teach you skills that she couldn't learn on the farm, so in a way she was looking for knowledge. She took very little other than Eoghan, some food, and the clothes on her back when she left. Along the way to town she hunted and skinned things to trade their furs for some bedding and camping supplies. It was her first time leaving the farm on her own, and it was terrifying.

The trading was rough in the beginning. Looking back she was definitely swindled for a lot less than she could get for what she gave. These formative months of travel are foggy in her memory. A lot of it was on her own until she started to hit the larger communities, and then the language barrier was somewhat of a hassle.

During this time a horde of goblins had found her on a path on her own and mugged her, making it that much harder of a start.They didn't leave her out of commission but she did decide to take some time to improve her lifestyle. She'd been selling maps for awhile but began making them more detailed, surveying areas closely and almost always taking another person with her.

Around half a year on her own she found a group, one of them having been from her hometown of Norlend. They seemed to be heading towards a dangerous area to find someone and didn't quite want to travel on their own. Taking pity, they took Aoife with them. During this adventure into the woods they helped her with the language and better items to bring around. Still, she couldn't quite shake the need to carry a little too much food with her. Probably for Eoghans sake more than hers.

They traveled together for sometime, finding their skills to compliment each others. Having others' around was definitely nice and she grew pretty fond of them. However the desire to try one of the schools she'd heard about won out over their travels and they parted ways. Her closest friend in this group gave her a new bow, commenting that her own seemed worn and they wanted her to have it.

It's still one of her prized objects, having survived the tragedies the coming years would bring.

She dropped out of school almost immediately, finding it to be a terrible time an preferring it to be outdoors. Following suit she took up residence in the town of Sern, offering tours throughout the city and her assistance on small missions. Normally with bounty hunters since Eoghan excels at tracking people and they're people a little less off put by the wolf.

Still young and still naive, but a little more experienced in the world she lived this life for quite some time. Sometime, she couldn't tell you when, she made friends with some others' who spent their time chasing down criminals. They spent time together in and out of errands and some sense of family was brought back into her life. They filled a part that she forget was empty.

So she trusted them. Even when a message was delivered to her that was a little off asking to meet, she went alone anyways. Arriving at the location outside of the town however, it was clear that this was a mistake. Laying on the ground were the bodies of her friends, most of them already passed on. Immediately she fled to the side of someone she considered dear to her only to find a knife in her stomach. The man mentioned this fulfilling a deal, a bargain, and even as they twisted the blade inside her a bit of regret tinted their expression.

They made a mistake however. Without waiting to see if she was actually dead, they left. Theoretically to meet whatever they made the bargain with, but Aoife can't confirm this. Eoghan managed to help her get back to the town they were staying in and she promptly passed out. It's all a blur. The recovery, the reports being made. If it wasn't for the innkeeper who let her stay there for essentially free she probably wouldn't have made it.

Afterwards she payed him back of course. Mostly in work and errands, but in gold as he helped her get jobs. Her reputation as a bounty hunter spread throughout the area and essentially that's how she survived the past few years. In her heart she knows her friends gone, but he took something important from her. She can't get it back but revenge is definitely something on the backburner of her mind.

[accidental-ducky]

Like Fire in Your Blood--pt 1

After Peter’s home and family are burned to the ground he makes a wish, calls upon the demon his great-grandmother had spoken of so reverently. Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped.

Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

You can also read it on Ao3 here.

I

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. The pain wasn’t even the worst part, he reserved that title for the screams torn out of his family as they died around him.

Fire sears through him, through his veins as his vision turns a bright, vivid red and familiar ties snapped like twine. He writhes on the basement floor, the concrete scratching at his bare skin as his clothes turn to ash. Beside him, his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time.

Peter can feel his teeth lengthening as the Change overtakes him, fur sprouting and claws spearing into the cement as his back bows in agony. Far away and muffled is the sound of husky laughter, the huntress that started the blaze enjoying her work from a safe distance outside. Peter knows what that means, the fact that his ears can pick up the noise, but he refuses to think of his sister as dead just yet. Talia is strong, his Alpha, she has to survive even if no one else does.

Some point after one of the support beams collapses on top of him, Peter remembers the stories his great-grandmother used to tell him. He’d been small and she’d been the Alpha at the time, they would curl up near the lake in the woods and she would tell him stories of Fae beings. One in particular had been her favorite, a tale from ancient times in Poland—a fairy tale and prophecy all rolled into one.

(Sometimes, if you close your eyes and wish hard enough, he’ll come to you. how will i know it’s him, nan? You’ll know him by his ink black hair and burnt gold eyes that glow in his terrible rages. He has a sharp tongue and magic that comes in bursts around fingertips the color of moonlight. You must not summon him unless you have no other choice, Pup, creatures like him always expect a heady price in the end)

Peter craves revenge for what’s happening to his pack.

He squeezes his eyes closed, teeth bared in a snarl, and Peter wishes.

When he opens them again, the space around him is dark and his body is suspended in the air and he thinks—hopes—that he’s died. He stares around him, resigned to the blankness of the afterlife if it means the screams are gone with the pain. He releases a sigh, just a quiet whisper of air that forms into a pale vapor.

It’s cold here, but cold is so much better than searing heat that burns and tears and destroys.

“Who are you?” The voice catches him off guard and his gaze snaps in the direction it came from, crimson instead of an icy blue. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?” There’s a flash in the darkness, like a lighter shade of black against the impenetrable void.

“Revenge.” Peter’s voice is little more than a croak, vocal chords strained from screaming for what feels like hours.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” There’s a brush of soft fur against Peter’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” Peter freezes and then there’s laughter, dark and rolling like a thunderclap. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” It leaves his lips on a sob and the tears he manages to shed float upwards in cloudy droplets. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” There’s silence and Peter is beginning to think that the stranger has left until he feels the swish-flick of a tail against one of his hands.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” It’s not a question even if it’s phrased like one, more statement of fact that’s long been acknowledged. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” A sharp claw runs along his cheek, the tip of it skimming under one of his eyes. Peter doesn’t flinch away from the sting, it heals fast enough and it’s nothing compared to what he’d felt just minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. Time means nothing when you’re immersed in torment and thrust into this other realm.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes. You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.”

Peter’s eyes flicker open (again? or maybe he never had them open to begin with) and he takes in the glittering stars far above his head. It’s a different sort of darkness than before, not clogged with smoke or unreality. He sucks in deep breaths of clean air and the burn eases in his chest.

“What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you ‘wolf for however long this takes.” Peter’s gaze flicks to the voice from that other place, taking in hair that’s just long enough to hang over the being’s forehead and the predatory curve of his smile. And his great-grandmother’s words come to him again.

Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped. Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

“Peter Hale,” he rasps out. “What’s yours?” The smile grows wider, too many teeth that are too sharp to be human. Peter can appreciate it, the sharp points of the creature’s nails even as they turn dull and intelligence that brightens his stare. The creature tilts its head to the side, a vulpine gesture of curiosity.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

 II

Peter remembers Christmas nights that he used to scoff at even if the sight of his children happily tearing into presents made him feel like the happiest man on earth. Jackson and Malia and Scott used their claws to rip the silk wrapping paper and that was probably the part they loved the best. Next to them was Laura, older and the heir apparent to the Hale fortune and so calmly unwrapping her presents one by one.

There would be garlands of bright gold and red twining around the bannisters and a wreathe hung over the mantel. Talia’s kids run rampant, the pups digging into the desserts that have been piled on a table by loyal servants—humans mostly, but a couple are Betas.

After presents was a hunt, the ‘wolves set loose in the expansive woods that surrounded their house. Peter would shift as well as he could, in charge of keeping the pups safe and crowded for the first two hours before his brother-in-law took over and Peter could go find some small woodland creature to sink teeth and claws into.

He wouldn’t return to the mansion until the sun was cresting on the horizon, copper heavy on his tongue and all but his trousers missing. Jackson, Cora, and Derek would be passed out on the sofa, but his baby girl would be bright-eyed as she ran over and jumped into his arms.

Peter lived for that moment, the unparalleled joy in Malia’s brown eyes (her mother’s eyes, her brother’s eyes) as she grins up at him. She was only four, unable to make even a Beta shift, but there were faint ridges over her brows and a golden gleam to her beautiful eyes. She would demand a fairy tale from him and he would take her to that lake hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by lush trees and greenery, and they would sit on a log that Peter’s great-grandmother had dragged over when Peter was small.

They would sit there for hours afterwards, even after Malia’s heartbeat slowed with sleep and her head rested against his shoulder. He would run careful fingers through her hair, the intricate braiding undone by then anyway with a few dead leaves caught up in the thick mass of it. He would carry her back up to the house by noon and he’d settle her in the large bed Peter and Melissa shared before heading downstairs by the siren call of cooking meat.

The day after Christmas is for recovery, lazing around with no worries to gnaw at them and still moon high from the night before. Peter would take Scott into the woods to look at the small creatures as they went about their business, his son watching with wide eyes as a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.

That afternoon, he’d take Jackson into town to visit with the other children and let him put on his human guise that he loves so much. Jackson is his firstborn, the one Peter fought to keep alive the first year after his birth, so Jackson could get away with most everything even if it means roughhousing (and sharing his first kiss years down the road, though peter swore to never tell) with a human boy named Danny.

The evenings were reserved for Malia. He’d take her up onto the roof to look at the stars and the moon and Peter would tell her an old Polish story-turned-prophecy of a creature with moon-bright skin and long fingers capable of granting wishes after a price has been taken. He told her about wishes and sparks of magic.

Jackson was only thirteen when he died, Scott was eleven, and Malia was seven.

And Peter wishes.

 III

“How old are you?”

“Older than you.”

“But you look like a teenager.”

“Magic.”

 IV

The first hunter to be killed is a man named Garrison Myers, a lord that’s gambled most of his fortune away and is suddenly rubbing elbows with the finest people in Beacon Hills. The man never expects it when Peter shows up uninvited to the man’s stately new home least of all when Peter’s eyes flash the same red as the man’s blood when it hits the cream wall in an arterial spray. For the first time in years, Peter savors the taste of warm blood as he sucks it off his claws.

Myers is half-dead on the floor, mouth opened in a scream that he can’t quite force out past the blood spewing from his lips. It’s a good look on him and Peter’s wolf can always appreciate a bared throat when it’s offered up to him. He doesn’t sink his teeth in, though, just watches as Myers’s body gives one last shudder before collapsing completely.

(his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time)

Stiles comes out of the parlor, a glass of liquor in hand and curiosity turning honey eyes to whisky. He holds the glass out to Peter, but his eyes don’t leave the body. He almost looks…. Disappointed?

“You could have dragged that out a little.” Yes, disappointed. Peter’s used to having that sort of look sent his way.

(he was never the favorite child, never strong enough or fast enough for his mother’s liking)

“I’ll make the next one suffer a little more,” Peter says, and neither of them mention the promise in his voice. Stiles watches him for a moment until Peter finally takes the glass and downs it in one gulp, not even wincing as it goes down. It’s brandy of some kind, expensive, missing the touch of Wolfsbane that would allow him to lose his sobriety.

“I could have poisoned that.”

“You could have. You won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you still have need of me.” The curiosity never seems to leave Stiles, gaze bright as starlight and the color of flames that warm and destroy. A weaker person could fall in love with those eyes, but Peter isn’t weak anymore. Peter’s strong now, he can feel his newfound power pulsing in his veins as he flexes his hand.

It’s still covered in blood when Stiles takes it, admiring the color before producing a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and wiping the tacky substance off. Peter lets him, soaking in the creature’s touch like it can cure the aching in his chest. He used to be touched all the time, Werewolves are tactile, but it’s been so long since he felt a kind hand against his own.

Stiles doesn’t do touching or personal space, which are really two things that shouldn’t go together so well. There were nights in the beginning when he would wake to find Stiles perched on the edge of his bed watching him sleep with his head tilted in observation, but there was no hand reaching out to brush a stray hair off Peter’s forehead or even the slightest brush of shoulders when they walked together.

Stiles doesn’t do touches and Peter is beginning to crave it.

His touch doesn’t linger, hands returning to his sides once the blood is gone and the handkerchief has been tossed away. Peter feels a surge of anger at the loss and throws the glass across the room, watching as it shatters and glittering shards sprinkle across the rug like diamonds.

(he’d bought melissa a diamond engagement ring when they were seventeen, but it’s in the family mausoleum with the rest of his family now)

“Burn the house down,” Peter commands, though his voice never rises over a murmur. “I don’t want to chance the murdering bastard coming back.” He turns and walks out as Stiles summons a small blaze that catches on all the wooden end tables Myers has lining the wall of his entrance hall. He can’t look back, can’t chance the bad memories that parade through his mind whenever he sees dancing flames.

He goes to a park three miles away and stares up at the crescent moon and the stars.

 V

It takes nearly three and a half years to get the family mansion rebuilt to Peter’s ridiculously high standards, everything restored from the faulty stove in the kitchen to the squeaky floorboard up in the attic that Peter used to hate. He even went and found a family of mice to set up in the spare bedroom on the second floor in memory of Scott and his fondness for animals of any kind.

(he brought home an injured fox one day. its foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears until not even talia could refuse him)

Stiles thinks it’s all silly, the lengths mortal men go to in order to have a structured life. “It’s downright irresponsible,” he says one night, nimble fingers picking apart a lifeless bunny. “Your lifespan is so short, yet you prefer to stay in one place instead of travel.”

“Not all mortals can afford to travel.” Stiles sends him a disbelieving look, like currency is something he’s never dealt with before. And who knows? Maybe Stiles gets things for free in that other realm, the one beyond the veil where everything is dark and still. “Believe me, you’ll be happy to have a roof that doesn’t leak once Winter arrives.”

Peter spends hours drawing up the blueprints for the house, supervises the work crew personally in case they tried to skip over any details. The days are long and the work is hard, but Peter finds himself rejuvenated whenever he looks at the sketches of what’s to come.

He’ll have his home back soon. He’ll build a pack. He’ll have his revenge. He keeps the words repeating in his head as he lies awake at night, trying his best to control his shift. Stiles never mentions the gouges in the blankets, just quietly asks a servant employed by the hotel to bring up fresh linen.

When the house is actually finished and Peter can run his hand over the smooth mahogany of the winding staircase, the emptiness in his chest eases somewhat. Stiles comes to stand next to him, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat with the brass buttons along the front gleaming in muted sunlight.

“Not bad,” Stiles admits, taking in the grandeur that would intimidate most people. But Stiles isn’t most people, he’s a Demon with no concept of what time is appropriate to sing an old song in a language Peter doesn’t know.

Still, he takes the victories where he can find them these days.

 VI

The next hunter to die is found strung up by his ankles from a light post outside the police station, bled dry and covered in claw marks. It had taken him hours to die and his home is ashes by the time the fire crew make it there.

Surprisingly, there isn’t an investigation and Peter puts it down to Stiles’s magic until the police chief shows up at their hotel room with a grim set to his mouth and amusement in his eyes. Peter tenses, sure he’s about to be arrested, only to have the chief march straight past him to embrace Stiles in a tight hug that’s actually returned.

“Hey, Pops,” Stiles mumbles into the man’s neck.

“I take it this is your work.”

“I might have had some help.” They pull apart and the chief turns shrewd blue eyes to Peter, raking them up and down from the sleep-mussed hair to the bare toes peeking out from under his sleep pants. The chief takes a step forward and extends his hand, his grip firm and confident when he shakes Peter’s hand.

“John Stilinski,” the officer introduces.

“Peter Hale,” the ‘wolf copies. He keeps his head up like he was taught as a child, not showing any weakness despite the gnarled scars that cover most of his right side all the way up to his hairline. He’d asked Stiles if he could heal them, somewhere near the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the Demon had shaken his head and walked off into the woods.

“Those men, the two who’ve been murdered and had their houses burned down, were they hunters?”

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying, not when the chief so obviously knows about the supernatural.

“They’re the ones that burned your family.” Peter winces at the reminder, phantom pain lancing through him like a lightening strike. John doesn’t apologize or look at him in pity, he just nods like that’s all the confirmation he needs. “I’ll make sure these murders stay buried. Just take care of each other.”

“You don’t think I deserve to hang for my crimes?” John gives him a long look, searching and seeming to find something that makes his gaze soften. Still no pity, just a bone deep understanding.

“Hunters don’t deserve their lives.” And he walks out after one last glance in Stiles’s direction, the door closing softly behind him. Peter doesn’t ask about the elusive mother, the one who might have died just a few days ago from how fresh the pain is in the Demon’s posture.

But Peter wonders.

 VII

“You don’t sleep?”

“No.”

“And you don’t eat or drink?”

“Only if I have to look human.”

 VIII

Peter wakes one night and finds Stiles curled up in the window seat across the room, head titled back against a glass pane as he looks at the sky. It’s too cloudy to see the stars even with Werewolf vision, but Stiles is enraptured by something all the same. He’s all soft lines like this, suddenly looking far too young to be helping Peter murder grown adults.

“What are you looking at?”

“You don’t see it?” Peter’s brows furrow and he climbs out of the bed, goosebumps breaking out over his arms and bare chest from the cold. The fire’s gone out, he’ll have to hire a servant to tend to it. Outside, all Peter can see is faint wisps of cloud that are just thick enough to hide the moon from him. It’s not full yet, but nearly, maybe another week.

“See what?”

“The Wild Hunt.” Peter’s heard of them, more old stories his nan would tell him by that lake in the woods. Faeries that run through the sky on an indefinite quest to claim the souls of humans close to death, recruiting them to the hunt or just devouring them. Next to the Demon, the Wild Hunt was Nan’s favorite topic.

“You’re just hearing the wind, Stiles.” Stiles quirks his lips in a smile that’s not quite a smile, whiskey-dark eyes turning over to him instead of the clouds. There’s a knowledge in that gaze, heavy with all sorts of implications. He knows far more about the Hunt than Peter ever will, that’s what that stare means.

(the fair folk are tricksters, pup, and they have lifetimes of knowledge to create those tricks)

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘wolf.” Stiles crosses the room and gets a fire going using only a snap of his fingers, curling up in front of it with his chin resting atop his knees. All the softness has gone out of him, the fire throws harsh shadows against the smooth plains of his face.

Peter lets the discussion drop and goes back to his bed, a massive thing for only one person, but he’s a creature of comfort above all else. The two heavy comforters he has draped over him serve the purpose of keeping him warm and tricking his subconscious into thinking he’s not alone.

He dreams that night—the wind howling like wild horses and pale pink lips that curl up in mimicry of a smile.

 IX

Peter’s come to appreciate the way it feels to tear a throat out, lapping up the blood as it pulses in rapid spurts from the wound. The man’s name is Unger, he is thirty-four years old and half-dead from opium. Peter’s just doing him a favor at this point, murder saves his immortal soul.

He laughs, the sound almost too loud in the quiet house. Stiles glances over at him but says nothing, just continues to browse Unger’s impressive collection of drugs. They’re laid out neatly on the dining room table, a vase of dead flowers just a few feet away and a glass of fine brandy soaking into the pristine table cloth.

Unger gives one more twitch and goes still at Peter’s feet, eyes still wide from the surprise. Across the table, Stiles sets down a small vial of laudanum and wipes his hand on his pants leg. His gaze flicks up and seems to take in Peter’s face for the first time, the crimson drenching Peter’s chin and the ridges set above nonexistent eyebrows.

“Blood looks good on you.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment,” Peter asks, the words coming out slurred around his fangs. Stiles gives him that mysterious not-smile, tucking gloved hands back into the pockets of his greatcoat and walking out.

Peter’s gonna take that as a compliment.

 X

Stiles sings when he thinks Peter is asleep.

 XI

The first servant they hire is a Kitsune, full of bubbling energy and laughter that can even make Peter smile on occasion. Kira Yukimura is all the best parts of her parents, but Peter can see the darkness in her, the way her brown eyes flash orange in the quieter moments when she remembers.

Kira is seventeen years old, barely surviving the fire four years ago when her mother pushed her through an open window before hunters stormed inside. Inside her is the same fire that keeps Peter going, the drive for revenge and blood on her hands. He lets her take Reddick apart piece by piece and she looks like a goddess come to earth, divine in her wrath.

They spread Reddick out over a series of weeks, drawing in more hunters with each limb uncovered but the one they want isn’t showing a sign of interest. Stiles and Kira have taken to coming up with strategies in the library, bonding over their shared interest in magic that Peter can’t understand since, by nature, Werewolves can’t wield it.

They find their second servant completely by accident, a young Omega whose Alpha had died, cut in half in the woods with his blood still tacky on the boy’s face when Peter runs across him. His clothing hangs limply off his frame and he’s covered in grime that’s at least a month old, but his eyes glow blue and his mate is crouching just behind him with eyes dark as pitch.

It takes time, but Kira manages to draw information out of their new guests until Peter is satisfied. Liam takes on the role of gardener, the repetitive work helping him with his anger and control issues while Mason dives into research on hunter families in the area. Peter leaves him to it, content with the pack bonds slowly growing between all of them.

The emptiness in his chest eases.

 XII

Unsurprisingly, it’s Mason that discovers exactly which Argent set Peter’s house on fire. The surprise comes five minutes later when he and Stiles come racing down the hallway, pushing and shoving and trying to be the one to tell Peter the news first. The Chimera wins after hooking his foot around Stiles’s ankle and sending the Demon face first over the stair railing.

The indignant squawk is the most human sound Peter’s ever heard Stiles make.

 XIII

Peter remembers the bond he shared with Melissa, that unwavering loyalty that was seared into his instincts. He remembers how possessive he got when she was pregnant with his pups and how fiercely he’d fought to keep her alive when the hunters raided their home. He’d thought that was the most intense emotion he’d ever feel for a person.

Then he woke up one night to the sound of a muffled whimper, pained. He’s out of bed and rushing downstairs before he even knows what’s happening, finding Stiles kneeling in the entryway with a skinny man standing over him, an amulet swinging in one shaking hand. Stiles has always been pale, but this is downright ashen, his eyes almost blank and his breaths coming out in sharp gasps.

Peter bares his fangs and lets a reverberating growl echo through his home. In just moments, his Betas are at his back and shifted. The man wavers, but he holds firm and doesn’t bolt like most humans would in his place. His jaw tightens and he chants something in Latin and then Stiles’s back is arching and a pained scream is torn from his throat.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell,” the man says, voice cracking near the end as tears make his green eyes shine. Derek had green eyes, but Kate Argent plucked them right out of his head and left him for dead outside the mansion just one day before the fire. Peter’s eyes flash and he can feel the Change coming over him, but he shoves it back for now.

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart.” Peter’s voice is steady, low and calm and holding the promise of violence. That skinny little snake will not be leaving this house alive. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” He’s sweating, it’s soaking into the plain clothes he wears. Peter remembers him, a professor that’s always hated the Hales for what they have. He gave Derek bad marks in school simply because the boy was loved by anyone he encountered.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” Harris swallows so hard it’s almost as though he’s trying to take the words back, eyes going wide. They’re sunken and have dark bruises underneath them, like he’s had quite a few sleepless nights lately. Don’t worry, Harris, you’ll sleep for eternity when I’m through with you.

Peter lets the red bleed back into his eyes, taking on that soft tone that makes people feel all warm and safe. Talia used to say he could charm snakes right out of their skins with that tone, a gift that not a lot of ‘wolves inherit. “You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.”

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” The stiff posture relaxes inch by inch, eyes beginning to cloud over as the amulet falls from lax fingers. Almost there, just one more nudge. “No one ever need know.” The spell shatters like glass, Stiles sucking in deep gulps of air as Harris drops to his knees and bares his throat in submission.

Peter catches Stiles as he falls sideways, only vaguely registering when his Betas go in for the kill. Harris doesn’t even get a chance to scream before Mason is coiling a thick cloud of blackness around his throat and squeezing. The Demon is staring up at Peter with something akin to shock.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Save me.” The answer is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he swallows it down and just gives Stiles a shrug in response, helping him to stand up. They don’t talk on the way up the stairs and Stiles doesn’t fuss when Peter dresses him in a pair of sleep pants that hang low on his hips. Stiles sleeps deeply that night, regaining strength as Peter keeps watch. Inside him, his wolf is howling one word over and over again.

Mate.

 XIV

Pod pierzyną czarnej nocy W blasku srebrnych gwiazd Gwiżdże swoje kołysanki Rozśpiewany wiatr.

 XV

The day Kate Argent comes into Beacon Hills is the same day that the newly rebuilt Hale Pack finds out that Stiles is afraid of spiders. They find out because they hear a shriek and then a blast of magic destroys a large portion of the dining room table, taking out Peter’s bacon along with it.

“Uh, Stiles…?”

“We’re not speaking of this,” Stiles grouses, setting back to work on his eggs.

“But,” Peter tries again, pointing at the jagged area that used to be his breakfast.

“Nope.” And he stuffs his mouth full just to drive the point home. Peter lets it drop and leans back in his seat with a frown, ignoring the way his stomach growls. When Stiles is sure no one is going to say anything, he scoots his chair closer and offers up the plate of food he doesn’t actually have to eat. It’s become habit since Kira moved back in, eating just to be part of the routine.

“You’re actually going to share your food? Last time I tried to take a piece of your toast, you almost bit my fingers.”

“You all need your strength.” Peter cocks his head to the side, blue eyes searching brown until realization dawns on him. Stiles nods in confirmation, then turns to face the Betas to explain the silent conversation. “Argent is back. She came in by coach just twenty minutes ago according to a Reaper friend of mine.” His brows scrunch up and he gets that not-smile again. “Finstock wasn’t exactly pleased to be dragged away from his bed when I gave a call.”

“We’ll hunt her down in a week. I want the Betas to have more training first.”

“I want to play with her while you do that. She took something from me, so I think I’ll take something from her.” Peter dips his head in a nod, remembering those early days when he’d overhear Stiles talking in Polish to someone that isn’t alive anymore, saying his mother’s name like a prayer to bring her back. He never got an answer in return.

“Her family has a home in the middle of town,” Mason informs him. “It’s right next to the library and the window that leads into the parlor doesn’t close properly since someone broke the lock two days ago.” There’s a gleam in the teenager’s eyes that makes pride fill Peter’s chest.

“I’ll be sure to check in on that. We wouldn’t want anyone to break in and harm Miss Argent, after all.”

 XVI

It’s close to one in the morning, the time when rational people are all asleep in their beds. Peter’s laying on his back and staring up at the silk canopy over his head when he hears floorboards creaking under someone’s foot. Stiles appears by his bed a moment later, pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight flooding the room.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks, reaching out slender fingers and stopping just short of grazing the stubble along Peter’s jaw. Peter aches to rub his face against that hand, scent mark Stiles until pale skin is a delicious red from beard burn.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles nods and sits next to him, still within touching distance. His fingers twitch, then they cup Peter’s face and he’s leaning down and his lips are almost pressed to Peter’s, but then the bedroom door is flying open and Stiles falls backwards with a squeak of surprise.

The Betas don’t even seem to realize what they interrupted, all three of them piling up next to Peter and snuggling under the covers until they’re all touching in some way or another. A puppy pile, a newly regular occurrence that Peter can’t find himself denying. Stiles rises from where he’d fallen, brushing off his clothes with a frown making his plush lips twist downwards.

Peter holds out a hand, an invitation for him to join, but Stiles shakes his head and returns to the window seat. The wind’s howling outside, but Peter knows without having to check that the trees are motionless. The Wild Hunt is sweeping through the clouds, circling like they have for the past three nights.

(they sense these things, scotty, when a war is brewing. They claim the souls of sinners because they’re the easiest to steal)

Stiles stares up at the Hunt with wide eyes and hope and Peter wonders if his mother used to ride with the Fair Folk.

They pass the rest of the night like this, the pups curled up around him like they’re afraid to be left behind, Peter watching Stiles, and Stiles watching the sky. There’s no talking, just the sound of the Hunt and the soft snores that escape past Kira’s lips. Peter lets a content hum rumble through his chest, soothing the pups as they relax further against him.

Stiles leaves the room when daylight starts creeping in from the east, faint rays of it illuminating the bedroom in gold. An hour later, Peter can smell breakfast cooking and the pups begin to stir against him. Liam is the first one to wake up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and twitching his nose as he sniffs the air.

“Is Stiles cooking venison?”

“And ham,” Mason says, the words slurred from where his face is still pressed against Peter’s chest. “And the last of the sausage.” Kira’s the next to wake up, wiping the drool off her chin as she gets out of bed. She doesn’t say anything, just shuffling out of the room and not even noticing the way her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder to reveal tan skin.

Once the other two have gone back to their room, Peter gets up and dresses for the day in his finest clothes. They’re his funeral clothes, black and stiff and smelling faintly of mothballs. He thinks they’re appropriate since the day won’t end without him or Kate Argent dead. In the kitchen, he can hear Stiles quoting Shakespeare as he starts in on making pancakes.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

  XVII

There’s a conversation while the Betas are frolicking in the woods, far enough away to keep them from eavesdropping. Stiles’s eyes blaze and the simple conversation turns into an argument of epic proportions, but Peter comes out the victor all the same.

  XVIII

It’s dark when they manage to draw Kate out into the woods, the Betas limping and sore but still strong. They’re snarling and growling and Peter’s so proud to have them at his side. They circle the huntress, lashing out randomly to keep her on her toes and dodging her own attacks with the ease of practice.

Stiles is nearby, eyes glowing a burnt gold as he uses his magic to throw Kate to the ground. She hits hard enough to drive the air out of her lungs and Peter can her the faint snick of a bone breaking.

Kate’s teeth are bared in a snarl of pain, almost animalistic as she draws something out of her jacket. Peter’s moving on instinct, shoving Liam out of the way just as the bottle collides with his back, soaking funeral clothes in whiskey. Mason charges at her and slams his fist against her cheek, shattering the bone and knocking out most of the teeth on the right side of her head.

Argent howls in pain, but she’s still moving and Peter meets her halfway, fully shifted. This is a fight he’s been expecting for six years now and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t draw some blood. They collide in a mass of tearing claws and growls, Peter knocking her to the ground and sinking his fangs into the meat of her shoulder. He wants her to suffer the way his family did, he wants her to burn.

He barely even notices the knife she plunges into his side, crimson eyes moving to the Demon panting a few feet away. Stiles looks hesitant, fingers curling around something in the pocket of his waistcoat. It’s a vivid red against the black of his clothes, a conscious choice to match his Alpha’s eyes. Peter dips his head in a nod and Stiles pulls the object out slowly.

Stiles tosses the lit match onto the ground right next to Peter and Kate, the flame catching on Peter’s soaked clothes and settling into a wild blaze that Stiles’s magic encourages. The pain catches Peter off guard, but he keeps his teeth locked into Kate so she can’t escape the fire that’s ravaged Peter’s life.

Somewhere outside of the flames, the Betas are snarling and snapping and sobbing, trying their best to reach Peter. The fire grows hotter, blistering Kate’s skin until Peter can see the white of bone in her forehead. She’s still alive, eyes rolling wildly in her head.

Peter waits, ignoring the pain licking up his back until the rapid thump of her heartbeat begins to stutter. That’s when he releases her, plunging a clawed hand into her chest and ripping out her heart, throwing it to Stiles before the fire can reach it. He watches as Stiles bends down to pick it up, gold eyes meeting red and his lips quirking up in that familiar mockery of a smile. There are tears on his cheeks, glinting like diamonds in the soft moonlight.

Above them, the wind grows louder and Peter can almost hear the hoofbeats as a green, ghostly hand reaches down to snatch Kate’s soul out of her body, searching around in the hole in her chest and plucking a wisp of dull light. Peter watches with wide-eyed fascination as the Wild Hunt circles the group once and then takes off back into the sky, whipping their horses and driving them far away from Beacon Hills.

And Peter howls.

 XIX

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?”

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

 XX

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. He’s able to handle it this time, knowing his Betas will heal and find a new Alpha, maybe even the Talbot boy that Stiles seemed fond of whenever they traveled into town.

When he opens his eyes again he’s back in the darkness, floating and serene and cool. It’s like being suspended in water, though he wishes he could feel the waves moving him to and fro. Just one last time, this one last thing.

“You didn’t summon me.” The voice doesn’t surprise him this time and Peter’s eyes can pick out the form sitting near his feet. It’s a black fox instead of a teenager, black fur soft where it brushes against Peter’s ankle.

“I didn’t need to. My revenge is done.”

“Maybe I wanted my payment.” Peter arches a brow, watching as the black fox sidles up near his face.

(a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees. the fox’s foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears)

The fox’s face is right up next to Peter’s, close enough that even the darkness can’t obscure the eyes that are as familiar to him as breathing. Honey through sunlight, burnt gold, whiskey, Stiles.

“Come back to us,” Stiles asks, breath cold against Peter’s cheek. “Let that be your payment to me, ‘wolf. Stay alive for your pack and for me.” The realization is slow to set in, that the softness hasn’t gone away with the moonlight and Stiles is looking at him with almost adoration in his eyes.

Mate.

Mine.

Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and reaches out to comb his fingers through soft fur. “Well, I suppose I will since you asked so nicely.” Stiles laughs, nuzzling against his cheek as the darkness slowly begins to break apart like clouds. “So, what did you tell the pack about why you set their Alpha on fire?”

“That you told me to do it.”

“And when they didn’t believe you?”

“Ran for my life.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Stiles shifts and takes Peter’s hand, dragging him upright so that they can walk side by side. It feels nice, holding hands, the touch-starved part of Peter yearning for more. He wants to take Stiles somewhere quiet and then take him apart, finding out which places makes him moan and which ones make him scream. He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he never quite notices when ink black gives way to a small beach surrounded by greenery.

The Betas are sitting on a couple of logs dragged up to the lake and Peter has a vivid flashback of three other children sitting like that, pushing and shoving playfully. When it fades back to his Betas, that ache in his chest almost disappears. He has pack again, family and a mate, Peter can relax.

Peter moves on.