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americancowgirl19 · 2 months
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PAIRING: Hunter!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Werewolf!Reader
SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.
WORDCOUNT: 16.8k
WARNINGS: Intense gore, body horror, death, mutilation, weapons, firearms, knives, intended harm, violence, blood, descriptions of wounds, angst, fluff, protective!Simon, religious mentions, period time standards for men/women (1700s), etc.
A/N: The first of my reverse AUs is finally here! Enjoy!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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The tale of the Werewolf extends back to around 2100 BC. It was written in The Epic of Gilgamesh, scored into a clay tablet by hands long buried—a corpse forever still in the earth so deep, the bones have yet to be found by greedy eyes. Perhaps the oldest surviving story in human history, and there is still a passage that bleeds into stories hundreds of thousands of years later.
In such, Gilgamesh, a man on the search for immortality, rejects a woman for the reason of turning her previous husband into a wolf. 
“You have loved the shepherd of the flock; he made meal-cake for you day after day, he killed kids for your sake. You struck and turned him into a wolf, now his own herd-boys chase him away, his own hounds worry his flanks…”
And then, the tales spread, changed, through history and through spoken words of caution. Like water trickling from a well, down the shape of the wooden bucket delving deeper and deeper into a pit of age—of caution. 
“The Beast of Gévaudan. Man-eater.” Through France
“He has a wolf-head, you know? Tall thing—short brown hair all over him.” Through Scotland
“Beware the man that changes shape under the full moon.” England.
Now, in the late seventeenth century, it all comes to a head. Even the people in 2100 BC knew that someone who changes into a wolf, or some bastard-like imitation of one, was very much real; it is very much an affliction that overtakes sense and reason. A curse. 
Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.
You must never get within the beast’s sights. 
There’s blood on your hands again. 
Hunched over, your body quivers, and the bareness of your flesh in the moonlight is of little concern to you—trapped in a fetal position while the chilled wind howls.
Howls.
Howls.
“Get out of my head.” Your fingers grasp at your scalp, pulling; ripping. A sob jaggedly slashes your throat open. “Please,” you rattle in a fast breath, the grass snapping as you writhe. “Get out of my head.”
It had happened once more, and you can’t remember any of it. 
The forest is deathly still. No birds sing their songs—no breeze moves the long grass, patches trampled down around you as if a beast had staggered into the small clearing you’re lying in. Maybe it had. There are shadows that listen to your quiet panic, the low whines and gasping quivers of your throat; from behind the trees that speak in the way that only they could. The deep night creeps into you, and the moonlight bathing your flesh doesn’t push back the terror in your bloodstream. 
Your body burns like you’ve broken every bone twice over, and judging by the blood stuck in between every line and dip of your skin, to anyone walking past, the analogy could be very real. Fingers flexing and bending, you try to force out the venom inside of your head with desperation befitting a dying dog, spine visible out of the skin of your back as you sob all the harder. 
You tried to stop it—you had; you always do. But, just like every month when the full moon mocks you with its silver-hued face, it never works. 
It never works.
Your eyes stare at nothing as you lay here, in this place of grass, blood, and bile, of corruption as deep as a vile sin of flesh. It came over you like a wave, fingers trapping your throat and bearing it to the caress of fangs. There were different names for it here, miles from your village and the terrified eyes that search the tree line; names coming from the hunters and their black deeds. 
Shapeshifter.
Demon spawn.
Werewolf.
“I can’t take it anymore,” you shove the side of your head into the ground, pushing the torn earth away from the cuts of long claws. Tears flood the dirt until it’s wet and muddy, pushing the crimson stains on your skin away in long streaks. “It hurts, God, please, it hurts.”
The sound of your hysterics rises and falls in the stillness—the inactivity of fearful birds and beasts wondering if your fangs would rip from your gums and your claws would tear from your fingertips. Fur along your body the color of which leads to stories of their own spreading far and wide. 
The White Wolf. The Specter of St. Francis’ Village. A hound from Hell. 
More pale than snow, and sharper seen than a knife or blade through the black trees. Even if the memories of your shifts were fuzzy at best, there were flashes of those who’d seen your gargantuan form from the confines of their stone-cut homes. Those wide eyes. Yelling—screaming; sprays of blood as heads were separated from bodies—
“Stop!” You scream, your legs kicking out as your toes scrape the grass. “It’s not me! It’s not!” 
There’s a call of alarm from deep within the woods, the flash of torches and bellow of hunting dogs. They’re running you down, you’d forgotten that in the depths of your breaking mind and body, and by the time your elongated limbs had set themselves back into a more human-like appearance, your spine cracking at every vertebrae, it had slipped your thoughts entirely. It always took you a long time to understand what had happened after…everything. 
But even now, the shouts of the hunt are pointless to the visceral breaking of your consciousness, stuck between leaving bloodlust and knowledge of horror. There’s flesh in your teeth, and you wail before your fingers drag down your face, cupping over your ears. In the back of your skull, the panting of dogged breath echoes; running, blood, blood, blood. It’s a dance of fangs, of pale fur, staining every inch and flooding the back of your mouth. Drinking it down like water.
Flesh—lovely, disgusting, flesh rent and torn to the bone with smacking gums belonging to a square snout. 
Who had you killed this time?
By the time the dogs had tracked your scent to your curled body, it was already too late. 
“Here!” Male voices shift in and out on the backs of crows, hard and cruel. “It’s here!”
“Get the dogs on it!” 
“It’s not me,” you mutter incessantly, not truly understanding what you’re saying as hounds burst through the bushes, all snapping teeth and slobbering tongues your eyes widen in an instant. Panting, your jaw clenches; long whines move your throat. 
“What…?” Blinking quickly, the dogs surround you—having to be at least ten of them on their nimble legs and thin tails. Everything is distant to you; separated. A knife could be driven through your heart, and you wouldn’t even realize it until minutes later, bleeding out on the grass. 
The hounds are afraid of you. 
They dart forward and balk back, your scent driving them up a wall until rabid slobber drips from their maws. Torchlight pulls through the trees—quicker now, running. Fangs nick your shoulder and you yell, shoving up to your backside as the world swirls, shuffling away as the dogs snarl. Their eyes are red-huen. Drunk off fear and order. 
Your head darts and shifts, blood dripping off your chin to travel down the flesh of your stomach and navel—so much crimson that the whites of your eyes are violent under the moon. Hands slipping over the wet grass, your face pulls and slackens in delirious confusion as you try to stand but fail. You cry out in sharp pain, and the dogs go wild in their kill circle, nearly attacking one another in anticipation. 
You glance down and see the black crossbow bolt sticking out of your thigh. 
The scent of wolfsbane in the air only then becomes clear to you, and the realization is slow. Wolfsbane—you’d been told about it by the village priest. It makes beasts of the night dumb and weak; minds unclear. 
In a moment of clarity, the reason behind your incurable hysteria becomes clear.
Lungs heaving and eyes far-off, the hunting party bursts through to where you stay, and you look up in animalistic fear. Figures dip and slip into one another, faces becoming demons as the visages melt into twos and threes. You yell out, sniffling and sobbing, trying to back up until the hounds grapple onto your shoulder and rip a chuck out of your arm. Screaming, your hand moves back, shoving at its snout before hands staple themselves to your wrist. 
“No!” You wail, injured leg dragging as you’re forced back into a heavy chest. Hot breath fans against your neck as multiple grips pull and touch you—shackling you down with rope and chains. Your throat screams itself raw, kicking and struggling futility. “Let go!”
You’re too weak—too drugged off wolfsbane and blood loss. Rotting teeth move across the canvas of a smeared painting, you can’t focus beyond the riot of your heart inside of your ribs.  
Grubby hands snap under your chin, digging into your flesh as you cry, not able to move as the restraints are tightened. A silver muzzle is slapped over your jaw. Dark eyes shimmer as you rage—aggravating the bolt wound until fresh blood forms a puddle on the ground, which the dogs lick their lips at. 
“Look at that,” a low, lust-filled voice eases out, and hands around your body tightening as you squirm, head spinning. Silver and wolfsbane. Your eyes snap to fight the sudden flood of fuzzy heaviness in your body.  “Pretty little Hell-Beast, eh? Almost seems a bit strange to have the Spector be her. Think that hunter shot the right bitch?”
“Course,” another grunt, a hand grabs the top of your head, jerking it up as your head lulls along with the force. You can barely focus on the words being said. “He isn’t a fuckin’ twat. Killed a werewolf in the next village over, too. Heard he skinned the fucker and took its head for his mantlepiece—just like the vampire skull he wears.” A pause. The dogs are still barking—echoing out in the trees. You can’t feel your legs. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?!”
A shout is sent into trees as your panic breeds with the drug, eyelids drooping as your head is snapped and moved by your hair. Your buggy eyes don’t focus on the man until he steps into the torchlight, the crowd parting for him as the metal of your chains drags and clinks together. 
It’s as if the very blackness of night takes human form. 
The man, the Hunter, is tall—very tall. He looms like an aloof animal over most of the others here with his dark boots and his black hood, and yet, under the fabric, there is no whisper of his face. 
Only the upper visage of a pure white skull, and two long, needle-pointed teeth where canines should be. 
“Ghost,” one of the men laughs, groping at your bleeding thigh before you shriek, muffled from behind the muzzle, and weakly kicked out. “Good shot, Mate. Right in the meat of the thing. Gave a good trail for the hounds.” 
Ghost blinks slowly, grunting under his breath as the large crossbow in his hands is shifted. He stays silent as your visible pulse hurries on as if you were a rabbit and not a wolf, watching from under the cover of his hood. The darkness of his clothes is blue in the moon—silver buttons down the length of a loose shirt and pants stuffed into boots. The hood is attached to a jacket, which itself extends down to his knees and sways lightly with every shift. The silent resting of weapons and tools is not lost to anyone. 
Belt of filled vials and large knives; a firearm over his back, and two pistols hidden on either thigh. That crossbow was still in his hands.
Brown eyes openly dig into your soul, dead as a corpse, and your voice whines as your thigh is finally released with a laugh. Your vision blacks and comes back a moment later as you try to breathe from behind the muzzle, gasping. That skull on his face…you don’t like it. It scares you. 
And the Hunter only continues to watch numbly as his wide shoulders stay stationary.
“Get the cage!” Someone roars, and you flinch, shrinking until a dog with short fur comes and nips at your ankles, the man holding you grinning sharply as you sob and shake.
“C’mon—expected more of a fight from you, Spector. Getting bullied by dogs, now? Ain’t that a twist of fate, then. Bet this devil’s whore can’t even walk with all that wolfsbane in ‘er, eh?”
A grumble of chuckles as the rattle of metal is in the distance. You grow more fearful, mind flashing to a burning stake and the trials you’d seen in village after village. No—no they can’t put you in a cage; they can’t put you on trial.
They’re going to make it hurt.
“Say we try it out.” A shadow comes closer and grabs you by the arm, ruthlessly shoving you to the ground. You cry out as your spine meets the earth, arms and legs kept under chains that tangle and screech in their metallic way. The rope that holds the muzzle pulls against your neck until you can’t breathe except in ragged wheezes. 
“Go on,” they taunt, some holding back the rampaging dogs just to watch you flail and shimmy. Your face grows hot as you struggle to sit up—shaking so violently you can’t focus on anything but the quiver. “Put on a show for us, Beasty!” 
Death would be better than this.
Tears hit the ground as the cage is finally brought into view, the men all groaning and annoyed that you hadn’t even attempted a forced shift or a desperate run into the trees. 
Ghost’s fingers, you notice from the side of your blurring eye, tighten minutely around the body of his weapon. You do not doubt that he’s wondering if it would be easier to just put a bolt through your eye right now. 
“Get it loaded up,” the Hunter’s voice is accented and gravel-like. As if rotting wood is being peeled back and scraped along gravel, he stares at you for a long moment and then glances at the dogs. “And get those fucking mutts under control.”
“Which one?” Is the low-blow joke, and the ruckus of loud amusement that follows makes you want to die. 
It’s not your fault, how do you tell them that? It’s not your fault.
Your throat bobs in an attempt to speak, but you can’t move your jaw from behind the restraint of your face—held tight to you as the men come back over and grapple for you again. The priest was right, wolfsbane makes werewolves sluggish.
You can do nothing as you’re ruthlessly dropped into a silver cage, borrowed, no doubt, from the Vatican itself, and christened with holy water. But it was a funny thing, really, and the dark humor wasn’t lost to you even like this. There was nothing godly about this contraption.
Locked in, you shove yourself immediately into a corner and hunch over, grasping at your thigh as the bolt still leaks fluid in a long trail over the ground. The pain is so great in your head, that the physical agony is little—a bullet wound to a sliver. 
Your temple slams into the metal, smacking into it as your eyes shove themselves closed. 
Head hurts—hurts. I can’t think. Can’t think. It’s humming, my skull is breaking open.
Bile pools in the back of your throat, but the muzzle keeps it in, leaving you gagging as the cage is lifted with a grunt and carried by long poles; back to St. Francis' Village, no doubt, but you can’t…focus.
“Think you might ‘ave given her too much, then, Hunter,” one calls, slapping Ghost on the shoulder as the crowd follows after the panicking quarry. The large man only gives him a look from the side of his eye and the villager pulls away immediately, awkwardly chuckling before hurrying off after the others.
Brown eyes watch your bare body hunch and spasm, pupils wide as you’re carted off. 
He’d been generous with the wolfsbane, truth be told. He’d expected you to be…Ghost’s dark brows pull in from behind his grim mask…he’d expected you to be different.
Humming under his breath, the Hunter watches the torches disappear into the trees and lets his gaze linger on you. 
There was something…off.
Blinking, he turns, eyes studying the place where they’d found you with sharp attention that misses nothing—not even the birds that come back to settle into the trees again. Large boots shift through the grass, and as he’s re-settling the crossbow in his hands, his eyes find something glinting. 
Watching, Ghost takes another step and brings his body to the item in the grass, hidden, before he kneels. Digging with large digits, the Hunter’s hands loop through the chain of a necklace, dragging it through the torn earth until he can gaze at it fully under the light of the moon.
Blinking in slight surprise, Ghost finds the body of a silver bullet hanging from the confines of a leather strap. Brown eyes shifting to look over his shoulder, the man listens to the cheers and merriment of the hunting party mutely. A simmering understanding brews in his gut. It’s only one that you could know from years of experience doing just as he had—hunting and being hunted in turn with a knowledge of all things dark and unholy.
It could never be easy, could it?
A low grunt later, the man sighs out a deep, “Fucking hell,” and moves to slowly stand, slinking back into the darkness. 
They kept you in the cage and set it on display in the middle of town for days.
Shivering now from the cold more than the wolfsbane, you stay collapsed into yourself as people come past to poke and prod at you—even sticking knives into the slits of the cage and digging them into you like an animal until your flesh was marked and brutalized. 
You don’t remember what it’s like to not be bloody.
The bolt wound was festering; infected. You dare not touch it, because the pain only makes you want to vomit, and if you do, you’ll most likely suffocate on your own bile before the trial ever happens. 
Yet, on the fourth night of this, as your eyelids flutter and your body grows weaker, a shadow comes to visit. 
“You weren’t born one.” It isn’t a question, but the sudden voice makes you startle. 
Eyes locking onto Ghosts’, your mind flies with fear—thinking that perhaps there’s more abuse that you’ll be put through. But no…the man has no weapons on him tonight. Only a long knife at his belt. The mask stays. 
You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.
Grunting, Ghost’s head tilts, gaze moving up and down as you curl in tighter around yourself. A cold breeze rips through the square, and your eyes clench closed with breaking will. When you open them again, the Hunter is kneeling by the cage, and holding up something in his hand loosely. 
“You going to behave if I take that muzzle off?” You nearly gasped at the hanging image of your necklace—a silver bullet on a leather strap; that dark and heavy thing usually kept around your neck. A reminder.
After a moment of wide-eyed staring, you nod quickly to his question, a desperate, pleading thing without the need to utter words. Please, you want to scream at him, take it off.
Ghost’s eyes are as dark as a mound of dirt, sharply intelligent and filled with an unflinching reality. He doesn’t care what you are, and he won’t until you speak to him and let him judge your character far before any courtroom can. The man knows what a lie is better than any priest. 
“Good,” he says curtly, accent far more deep as he thinks, re-capturing the bullet in his palm and standing before he shuffles it into his pocket. 
You can’t help the anxiety as Ghost moves forward, loping to the side of the cage with the side of his eyes on you incessantly. It’s obvious how his other hand lays limp on the hilt of his blade that, with only one wrong move, you’d feel the chill of the edge with no time at all. 
But the temptation of getting this muzzle off was too good to ruin, and so, you stay as still as you’re able as crows call in the distance and the deadness of the town leaks into your blood. 
Ghost moves his free hand and orders, blankly, “Closer.” 
You hesitate, body tight before you drag your face closer to the bars, angling it parallel with the metal so the tight bind on the back can be taken up. The fear can be smelt the second your eyes have to break contact with his with the turn of your head—neither of you trusts the other. 
Ghost hums under his breath at the sight of your broken body coming farther into the open light of the moon, the whites of your eyes all the more visible from under the slathering of blood and tears. He hadn’t been absent to witness the abuse you’d been put through, even if the coin from his successful hunt was feeding him at the inn, a small window allowed the tight view of your torment at the hands of the people you’d once lived around. 
But the reality was that you’d killed people—scores of them—and yet the worst part of it was that he wasn’t sure if you even knew that.
It took four nights for him to break his only rule: never get involved after the job’s done.
But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 
Large fingers latch onto the knot at the base of your skull through the cage itself, Ghost grunting at the sight ahead of him. The rope had been gradually chafing over your flesh, peeling back hair and skin until only the bloody meat was left—Simon had to wonder if the people of this village even wanted you alive for the trial or not at this rate. You’d be dead by tomorrow if that infected bolt at your thigh wasn’t taken care of.
Despite himself, a part of his chest tightens at the sight of the thing sticking out of your leg, dripping a yellowish puss. It had been a good shot, and he had overcoated the bolt in wolfsbane. 
Ghost hadn’t expected you to be so susceptible to it—most werewolves only got slower, but you…you seemed to have a stronger reaction. He files that fact away and tilts his masked face to the side. 
Grasping at his blade, the sound of a knife being slipped out of a sheath makes you startle, jerking your head back and shoving away even as your muffed whine of pain falls out. Ghost momentarily readies himself for an attack, but the way you force your mangled body to the opposite corner has him grumbling out a hard, “Easy.” 
The Hunter raises the blade, watching you with unblinking eyes. Your body shakes; panting. It was like calming a feral dog.
“You want the thing off or not? Have to cut it.” Once more, the man rises and walks over, boots almost silent over the small raised platform the cage had been set on like a trophy, you inside are comparable to the golden coins that greedy eyes touch and run their dirty hands over. 
Your mind is a troubled thing as you watch this Hunter and his crude knife come closer, kneeling again, and motioning with two fingers to shift your head. 
“Out ‘ere,” Ghost says, brown eyes not letting you guess anything about his true motives. “Don’t have time to fuck around. Guards’ll make a round soon and I’d rather not get caught wide-eyed.” 
Your brows pull in, hands clenching and unclenching in your lap as goosebumps travel the length of every limb. You were tired—hungry and thirsty; there were open wounds that burned with infection and ones that were crusted over with dirt and grime. You can’t feel your toes, and the tips of your fingers have long since gone numb. 
The thought of getting this muzzle off was like the promise of heaven being dangled in front of your nose. Your hesitation this time is far longer than the first, moonlight glinting off the visible blade in Ghost’s hand as he stares. That mask holds death. 
The hood is gone from him—only that pale bone left and sewn into dark, dark, fabric. The sharpness of the teeth leaves your throat bobbing in a nervous swallow as your head carefully shifts to rest on the bars. Bending, you present the knot once more and try not to focus on the way Ghost’s attention is fully on your expanding lungs; the pulse that is seen through the meat of your neck. 
But he says nothing before his fingers once more grasp the rope and the tip of the knife slips up. You don’t even feel it before the sudden slackening of the muzzle, and then the thing slips from your face before it slaps the bottom of the cage with a dull thump. 
The first thing you do is vomit. 
Spine pulling in, your body jerks as the bile that had been in the back of your throat rockets out, restrained hands slapping the ground as the acidic concoction leaks from between your torn lips. Face on fire, you choke and retch for what seems like minutes before you can finally breathe in the damp air—the innate shame and disgust rolling through as you cough raggedly. 
It’s only after you’d forgotten the man kneeling outside that he seems to remind you of his presence with a grumble. 
“Breathe. It’s no use if you can’t speak to me.”
A weak, quivering glare comes across your eyes, saliva dripping off your chin as your tongue moves to lick at your lips. But the brown gaze is as immovable as stone. Finding it pointless, your hands come up and delicately touch the base of your skull, only making you flinch when the fresh blood pools down and over your neck, licking at your shoulders. Tiny droplets fall to hit the metal one at a time. 
Ghost’s fingers twitch as he puts the knife away. 
“Who bit you?” You stare at him, hands falling before your wrists rub at the aggravated skin of your jaw. He shifts his head, voice slow but heavy. “Speak.”
“...I’m not a dog,” your voice is scratchy, hoarse. You send a small glance his way, mouth open and nostrils flaring in an attempt to bring in the oxygen you’d been lacking. 
“Really?” A hidden eyebrow is slowly raised. “Hell, coulda fooled me.” 
“Damn you,” you whisper, not meeting his gaze as you shuffle back. The crossbow bolt catches on one of the cage’s bars and you bite on your lip to stop the shrill yell that threatens to exit. Head moving, you lightly slam your skull into the wall in pain. 
Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 
“Speak or don’t,” Ghost grunts, and he makes a move to stand. “Your funeral.” 
A spark of fear stabs you as he begins to shift, and you can’t explain why. Perhaps it was because it was the first conversation you can remember having lately that wasn’t one-sided or on the edge of a blade.
“W-wait,” you stutter, blinking through the blood. The Hunter doesn’t slow, and then he’s on his feet and fixing the gloves over his fingers, flexing his hands before his foot begins to pivot— 
“Please, don’t go,” your voice is thin and pleading, echoing through the street. “I’ll answer your questions, any of them you want,” the sentence cracks through a dry throat, tears welling. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.” 
Ghost had half of his body turned away before it went rigid; the side of his dead eyes flash to you, swirling with specs of moonlit silver. A hunter and a werewolf lock gazes, great beasts respectively brought together in seconds that seep into slow minutes of delicate need.
Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 
The Hunter’s eyes twitch in their ever-narrow resting place, glancing away before he mutely moves back to where he was before. 
He wastes no time.
“Who bloody bit you?” 
You stifle a pathetic sigh of great relief, taking company with a man who had shot you not days before. Yet the ability to speak and be heard was a commodity that was dimming each and every day.
“It was already fully turned,” you speak quickly, tongue tripping. “A big wolf—a gray one with eyes like the sky.” 
Ghost glares to the side. Gray? There were no contracts for gray werewolves with blue eyes in the area. Only you—only Specter. The next question is just as stiff. 
“When?”
“Three years ago,” your lips move. “Only three years, I promise.” Brown eyes narrow slowly, fingers tapping the fabric of his pants once before he makes a noise in the back of his throat. Ghost’s jaw clenches, mind working through the hoops that need to be jumped. 
To you, the questions might seem pointless, but to a hunter, they were important—very important. Werewolves who are born afflicted with this moon-drunkenness are different from those turned by a bite. Not only are shifts from turned werewolves more violent, more deadly, but they rarely know their own actions from that of the frenzy under their skin; those that are born as such are rarely out of control, unlike your faction. 
The only question now was if Ghost could condemn you to death when it was obvious your human form was entirely different and you had no semblance of an idea of what was going on. Was it even his problem to care about? Even looking at you now, the man blinked away from cuts and inflicted injuries—the muzzle on the ground. 
The blood and the bolt.
He’d known it had been a foolish play to bring all of those townsfolk with him on this hunt but he needed their knowledge of the terrain; he hadn’t passed through St. Francis’ before. At the time, Ghost hadn’t been averse to assistance as long as he got the job done in his own fashion: capture or kill, the contract had stated. Rarely was he known for capture.
Maybe, deep down, he’d known something was already wrong about this.
“Show me it,” the Hunter grunts, staring you down, a deep anticipation growing in his bones. He had to make sure you weren’t lying.
You lick your lips, face pulling with every twitch and sway of your form. The black at the edges of your vision was coming back, and you blinked quickly, chains dragging before you shifted your back with a quivering breath. The punctures were difficult to see through all of the gore, but Ghost made do as he grabbed at the waterskin at his waist and the rag hanging from his belt. 
Flooding the fabric in the lukewarm water, he hums out a firm, “Don’t move. Cleanin’ it,” before you feel the press of the rag to your back. 
Gasping lightly, you almost jerk away before the sensation becomes a nearly welcomed one—the drag and slight scrape of rough material. Your averted eyes dip lower, staring at nothing as your heart momentarily slows to a normal pace. Ghost cleans the areas where the swell of scar tissue is the most obvious, and, one by one, the violent groves spread out like a slash of paint over canvas. Along the left side of your waist, the blood gives way to a dented ‘v’ shape of healed punctures. Deep, dragging; a point to where your side was almost ripped away before it broke off swiftly. 
Ghost’s dark eyes fight the need to widen, and that hidden blankness stays. 
A great gray wolf with blue eyes…
His mask tilts, head shifting as his gaze moves slowly. Gloved fingers twitch to touch them, moving in an almost examining way that befits a surgeon and not a decapitator. Your breath is held in the back of your throat, but you sag nearly entirely into the bars of the cage, growing more unsteady by the second. 
The scent of infection is so strong it makes your head burn, and you’re overtaken by it as Ghost’s presence suddenly disappears. 
You don’t know if it’s minutes or hours before you understand that you’re alone again, but when your limp neck finally turns to wonder where your silent captor is, you are greeted with nothing but moonlight. Blinking through the sludge behind your eyes, the sinking in your gut was stark and sudden—like a knife dragging itself from gullet to navel. 
But all you offer is a light whine as more blood moves to cover the places where Ghost’s rag had just cleaned. You were scared of him, no doubt. A hunter through and through down to the vampiric skull on his face and the shroud of death at every inch of his form. 
He’d shot you and drugged you with wolfsbane. Found your necklace. 
So why had he talked to you?
Your head is too muddled for this, too delicate. Like the crimson under your nails, it dries and flakes off of your brain as the lack of distraction breeds stored agony. There wasn’t anything left to focus on besides the upcoming trial, your death, and the pain that doesn’t let you sleep except for now, on the brink of not rest but unconsciousness. 
And at the sound of a key being slotted into the silver of your cage’s door, only then does your body slump with the weight of doom. 
You don’t even feel the hand that grasps at your ankle.
The sway of the horse makes your teeth clatter with every clop of hooves. 
Your conscience mostly comes and goes, only staying in thin seconds where you feel the press of clean bandages on your afflicted flesh and the tipping of warm broth into your mouth. Grass under your head. 
Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 
When you’re finally able to speak, when the horse is moving along and hands keep your back stuck to a strong chest, it’s a low, garbled, “Ow.”
Ghost barely blinks down to your head as it slumps to the gait of his horse, glancing before his attention returns to the thin forest trail ahead of him. You’d made noises in your sleep often enough—this was no different except for the fact he felt your shoulders flex.
Slowing the horse with a pull on the reins, the dappled mare settles to a walk. 
“You up, then?” Ghost hums, his hand around your waist tightening as you groan under your breath. “Good. Thought I was dragging a corpse—would have wasted my bandages.” 
Your eyes shudder as they open into the light, having to focus on moving them before the sting of the sun makes them water. But you do, and then the confusion outweighs the numb stinging of tended wounds. 
Head shifting, you look behind you slowly with wide eyes as the horse under both of you snorts.
Brown eyes watch you before a dark brow twitches upward. “What is it?” 
You just blink, mouth slightly open. 
“Where…am I?” 
“Forest.” Ghost states matter-of-factly. 
If you had the energy to glare, you would have. Seeing that nothing will get the man into a proper conversation—he was a brick wall even now—you look down at yourself and land on the scarred forearm that keeps you secure on the saddle. Ghost’s gloves were still on, but the sleeve of his dark shirt had ridden back to his upper forearm, and in the wake of pale skin, you find the black ink of all manner of warfare. 
Werewolf skulls; vampire fangs and fire. The slash of inkish chains with skeletons. 
Your lips thin, your senses slowly becoming your friend again as you stare at the snarling face of a needle-hewn wolf. Eyes tightening as the horse moves to the left, your body follows the reactive action before Ghost’s pressure tightens once more, visibly veins behind the pale flesh. You move on, seeing the thin tunic and pants over your body—feeling under that, the bind of wrappings with the scents of mashed yarrow leaves in the fabric. 
They’d been re-applied recently, too. 
“Stay still unless you want to re-open them,” Ghost utters, eyes scanning the trees for unseen threats. It was midday by now, the sun high above the trees watching the both of you on your trek to seemingly nowhere. “We’re far enough away, but I want more distance before I take the time to close them fully.”  
“The trial,” your arm moves up, fingers grazing the side of your nose before it falls back down. Ghost can feel the air heat with unease. “The…the cage?”
“Trial was two days ago,” he draws, thighs shifting over the saddle. “Give or take.” 
The confession isn’t as shocking now that you have woken up here, but the lack of remembrance on your part of that time startles you. It’s a blank slate—just like the aftermath of your shifts. You don’t like not knowing. 
The next question comes out with a haggard cough, sweat dripping off your nose. “Why?”
“You’re going to tell me ‘bout the werewolf that made you,” the Hunter grunts. “And you can’t speak if you’re lit up like a pig on a spit. Took you the night we met in the square.” 
Through it all, Ghost barely looks at you—always his attention keeps to the trees and the shadows that linger; seeming to listen. He knows more than anyone that they do. 
The horse continues on, your pain surfaces again, and with a shuddering breath, you fall into a fitful sleep once more. The arm around your body tightens, and the warmth it lends is accented when Ghost’s shifting gaze glances at the top of your head. He wears an expression he can’t name yet.
When the throws of fever pull their curtains back for the last time, it shows you the slats of the attic above your head, wood polished and clean as the heat of fire moves over your body. Pulling a large inhalation of air into your lungs, you blink softly as if clearing away cobwebs with a broom—willing sense to return in the few seconds it had flown away. 
The furs are warm. 
In the village, you weren’t anyone of standing. A simple woman—unwed, and, thus, unimportant due to the era the world sees itself in. It wasn’t all bad…namely, it hid your affliction far longer than you could have hoped it did. You had a small piece of family land passed down to you on the edge of the village, and that was where you stayed. Nothing fancy; a hearth, a large, single-room property with a garden and a well. You were known to keep sheep, a fact that had caused perhaps a few hysterical chuckling fits when, every full moon, one or two went missing, but it gave you the ability to accumulate money and, more importantly, an alibi. 
Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?
But this home already had a more detached feel to it—something removed. The air was sterile, somehow. Groaning, your face tightens before you rise to the palms of your hands, muscles quivering to keep the strength your stubbornness gives to them. Half-vertical, you turn and study the area. 
Square, the four walls are stone with mortar and clay to keep the rounded blobs together. You’re on the ground floor, a staircase to the far right while the bed is stuck into the left corner; a nightstand sitting void of all except a single chamber-wick holding an unused candle. A sturdy table with one wooden chair, a stone fireplace set into the same wall the headboard is level with, and a large oak door.
There are runes written on it. 
You can’t make sense of what they mean, but when you see them, your tiny-pupiled eyes slip to the rest, all placed at windows or near some point of entry—unassuming things until you realize why they were red in color.
Your shoulders tighten, and whatever bit of magic moves through your skin lets your nose pull to the scent of human blood. 
You clear your throat and look away, licking your lips with a dry tongue. Moving your toes under the two bear furs that rest at your abdomen, you notice the lack of earth-shattering pain that accompanies it, and, shifting a hesitant hand, you grab the edge and push it back a bit farther. 
Bandages with perfect ties meet you, void of any crimson staining. 
Truth be told, you expected more of a Hunter’s home—skulls; trophies. The town always spoke of burnt bodies strung up on crosses that mark the property of those in this profession, a ward and a sign of grim hope. Vampires mostly, wasting away in the brutal sun. Others as well. Werewolf fur and witch bones shoved in blessed boxes. 
This place is almost normal, you think, thighs shifting over the dip of the bed as your finger runs the white wrappings where the bolt should be. Your mind dares not go to how he got the thing out of you, and at the stretch of sutures, you take your curious grip off of it entirely. 
Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 
Where was the man? The hunter responsible for your current predicament? Ghost. With his vampire skull mask and his black attire—a hellhound with dark ink and intentions. More importantly…
Why were you still alive?
Your memories come back slowly as you stand, bare feet moving to the floor as the tunic over your upper half falls to your knees at the verticality of your spine. They creak a bit, the bones, at the ability to stand fully upwards and not be impaired by bars of silver. A strength seeps through you slowly. 
In the deafening silence, you clear your throat tinily and lightly itch at the clean flesh at the back of your neck where the muzzle sat; rubbed raw now scabbed and healing with the spread of natural oil balms. Taking in a slow breath, you step forward with a heavy limp and watch the door, glancing at locked trunks and cupboards, eyes blinking. Your muscles ached, but the sting only served as a way to remind you that you were still here—living. Few in your position were granted second chances. 
You’re about to study the runes at the door when you’re called to with the creak of the stairs in your left ear. 
“Wouldn’t recommend it.” Your head snaps over, blinking quickly. 
Ghost carries the leather holders of his twin pistols in one hand, the bodies of the weapons in them hanging as he comes to ground level one step at a time. Brown eyes glance over through the confines of his skeletal face-covering as he walks to the table, placing down the items. 
“Keeps the spirits out—smudge ‘em and the house gets haunted,” he grunts. “Rather not bleed myself again to get the runes copied.” 
You stare in mild shock, sound sparking from the back of your throat. “...Right.” 
Side-eyeing the markings, you shiver and step back from the door, silent as Ghost seems to focus on his task at hand—looking over his weapons.
Large hands running the metal and wood, the pistols in his grip shift as the drying light of the day streams in through the curtains of the windows. He touches them intimately, knowing every grove and dip until he tilts one and rubs away a slash of dirt from the barrel with his bare thumb. 
You quickly turn awkward, looking down at yourself and the bareness of your lower legs. It wasn’t lost to you that the man was the reason you were in this situation in the first place. 
“You shot me,” you grumble—not unlike someone who had a knife to their throat. 
“Affirmative,” Ghost says nonchalantly. You get a slow, blank glance and nothing more. 
“Have you drugged me?” You ask, heart speeding up. There wasn’t anywhere to go—not without an escape plan and with Ghost in front of you.
“Wolfsbane?” The Hunter shifts his thighs, boots moving over the hardwood. “Negative. Not yet.” 
“Yet?” An attitude seeps in, lips thinning. 
Ghost sighs under his breath, slipping the pistols back into their holsters. “Forgetting about how we met, Love?” 
“No,” you huff. “Not really.”
“Perfect.” Eyelids pull down slightly. “Don’t.” Ghost nods his head to the table's chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sit.” 
“I told you I’m not a—” A sharp, numb look makes your snappy reply stall itself, and you stand there for more than a minute before you find the pointlessness of this.
You limp forward and sit in the chair.
Looping your arms around your waist, you glare to the side as your skin crawls at the unblinking eyes that stare. Ghost rolls his shoulders, tilting his head. 
“What do you know about the werewolf that bit you beyond appearance?” 
“Nothing,” you chuckle hopelessly, moving a finger in confusion. “I…I don’t know why you’re asking me about it—it’s not like I had a conversation with him.”
The Hunter blinks at your sudden confidence, unable to separate your form now from the one in the cage; blubbering ceaselessly in a grassy clearing. But lesser pains always bring out someone's true colors. As long as you told him what he needed to know.
Ghost explains with a sheen of dull annoyance. “Every turned werewolf holds a connection to the one that bit them. It’s pack mentality.” At your blank look, his brows pull in, the mask shifting. “You telling me you’ve never come back into contact?”
“...No?” Your lips dip. “For three years I’ve been by myself with this.” 
Brown digs into your face, a small sheen of confusion slipping in to tighten them, around his biceps, Ghost’s fingers twitch. 
You lick your lips, speaking up in the impending silence. “I don’t remember anything after I turn. Is that normal?”
“For you?” He mutters, still not taking his eyes off of you. “Yes.” 
“I’m not going to pretend like I know what’s going to happen,” you shrug. “But at the very least I want to try and understand why I’m like this.” You open and close your mouth for a moment. “Before you kill me, anyways.” 
“If I wanted you dead,” Ghost grunts through a half-amused tilt of his head. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “...You would be.” 
“‘Capture or kill,’” you huff. You’d seen the flyers; heard from word of mouth. “Right.” You sigh. “They’ll track you down, you know. They’re not going to just let you take me.”
“They won’t make it through the forest. Bastards would get lost on the trail.” The Hunter moves until he can grasp the waterskin from the counter, dragging it over with his hand. He tosses it to the main table in your direction after he comes back over, and you hesitantly reach forward and pull the top off. Ghost changes the subject back to his studies of your condition closely. Dark eyes slip down your front as your lips part to take up the liquid. “Before your shift, tell me what you see.”
Your throat bobs as you drink the water, thirsty as it soothes your dry mouth. You hum, but the inquiry makes your hair rise. Your arm wipes at your mouth as you lower the waterskin, a small thankfulness in your heart. “It’s less of what I see and more of what I hear and smell—blood; metal. River water. I…” Your chest tightens. “I feel my bones breaking and I hear howling mixing with whispers.”
“Whispers?” Ghost leans, eyes alighting with dim interest. “What’re they saying?”
“I try to block it out,” you whisper, not exactly answering. “Makes it go faster.” 
A long nothingness ensues. 
The impending night grows deeper, and then Ghost finally speaks again after you begin to shift with unease. He nods firmly, tilting his head as if it’s already been decided. 
“Next full moon, you’re going to listen to them.” 
Your horrified face snaps up. It’s a moment of stuttering before you force out a heavy, “What? No!”
He’s already turned, moving back over to the stairs and placing one foot on the steps. 
“Ghost!” You yell, face devoid of blood.
He side-eyes you. “Go back to bed. You’re dead on your feet.” 
And then the same man who shot you in the thigh with little remorse disappears into the attic.  
The Hunter was a strange beast.
The days the two of you spent together were mostly silent—left with tight stares and tense shoulders. Clipped sentences. 
Ghost, for what it was worth, gave you space in this small house; as much as you could get. He kept himself up above while you stayed on ground level keeping yourself occupied. You’d gotten spare trousers and socks, a jacket, and the bed was practically yours with how your scent rolled off of it now. Yet, you had never been permitted to go outside. 
You’d seen the land from the windows—careful of the runes, of course, and it wasn’t anything… ghastly. A vegetable garden, a single-stall stable with a dappled mare, and a beaten-down trail out the front. 
No livestock.
No bodies. 
It was only when you had become ever more curious about your lupine curse that you braved the stairs to the attic—one week into the impromptu stay. It’s funny due to the fact that Ghost had never said that you couldn’t go up there sooner.
You stand now in the flat room with a sloping roof and find the man making bullets. It’s a long table, parallel to the walls in the center of the room; dark and covered in all manner of books and tomes. Grimoires tied up and locked. Racks of weapons with markings and blessings tied to sheets of ribbon…it was something you’d never seen before. 
Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 
Ghost fiddles with his silver shell, mixing in gunpowder into the hollowness. He doesn’t speak until you do, but he knows you’re there.
“Tell me more about werewolves,” you speak through the air, and he waits before answering. “The ones who are born with it.”
“Rare,” Ghost comments, and you’re stuck by how willing he is to tell you about this. He puts down his bullet and picks up another. “Harder to find, even harder to kill. Unlike you, they know what goes on when they’re running ‘round. Fuckin’ nightmare to pick up the pieces—bloodbath.” You thin your lips. “Not all of ‘em are murderous, but they’re unpredictable. Can’t help but make packs.”
“Instinct,” you murmur, coming a bit closer. Ghost pauses, looking at you before huffing in the form of a gruff ‘yes.’ Your wondering continues. “But why am I alone then?”
“That’s the question,” the hunter says slowly. “Need to figure out why.” Brown eyes slowly move to you. “‘Fore more people end up dead. Or turned.”
“Can I,” you stop at the table, standing opposite the man. “Can I turn people, too?”
“No,” is all you’re given. Ghost’s eyes glint. “And I’d rather you didn’t bite on me to try.”
Your face heats.
Your attention focuses for a while on how he works—prepares for something unseen. He’d said he’d kept you alive to help him find the one who bit you, but he’d also cleaned your infected injuries, bandaged you, and fed you. Kept you warm. Safe. It was far more than could be said about your village.
However, it was strange how Ghost’s stark muteness was something that you found in the darker hours, a small comfort. When the moon was coming in from the windows, and you hid from its rays as if being stalked down, he once found you sleeping under the bed on the floor because of it.
He never said anything, just offered you a silent hand and helped you back out with a slow blink and a tilt of his head.
There was a distrust, obviously, but there was also an unspoken nearness. No one would make any sense of it—you couldn’t either. It was like a wolf and a raven; something built on hesitence but necessity. You didn’t like Ghost’s mask or his brutalist profession of shooting his wolfsbane-coated bolts, and he didn’t like that once a month you turned into a rampaging werewolf. 
Comparable things, really. 
But even here, in this workshop in his attic, you saw the need for this—for hunters. If you couldn’t stop yourself, there came a time when you had to be stopped. Truth be told, you expected it to be a quick and final end. Maybe that was just a foolish hope. 
A silver bullet would have always been your final song, you believed. Perhaps the very one that had once swung from around your neck; the one you’d never taken off until now. 
But then, perhaps that would have been your own brutalist profession.
“Thank you,” you nod. Ghost pauses, fingers stained with gunpowder. He blinks at the bullet in his hand as you continue. “I know you don’t care about anything beyond your work, but if you hadn’t gotten me out of that cage they would have burned me alive. Skinned me.” Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t have been kind. Job or not…thank you for getting me out of there.” 
“I shot you,” he utters, voice gravel. Ghost seemed confused.
Your lips flick. “I never said I forgave you for that part.”
A smooth chuckle wafts out over the attic and your own softly mirrors. Your head tilts somewhat quizzically. “But, about that…did you mean to put so much wolfsbane on it?”
Ghost shakes his head, grumbling. A small sense of honesty leaks out. “...Expected you to be bigger.”
You blink, and then, a few seconds later, a loud snort echoes like a ringing bell. 
The Hunter's unimpressed look only leads you to find him all the more enjoyable. “Shut it. Fuckin’ hell.”
A hand is waved from your party, dismissing the harsh snap. “Sorry, sorry.” You puff out amused air. “Spector not up to your expectations?”
Ghost nearly rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. He didn’t mind your company, at the very least he knew he needed to keep an eye on you for any potentially forced shifts or hostile attitude. What he hadn’t expected was to find you so…different from your muzzled counterpart, your shared physical inhabitant. 
He could almost call you endearing if he wasn’t so numb to the sight and scent of reality. 
“Sightings were far between,” Ghost grunts. “Here-say. I took an educated guess—better to put something like you out of commission than drag my way out of a forest without legs.”
“No apology?” You try, tilting your head.
“None,” is the drawn response. “I don’t have regrets. You’re alive.” 
Your fingers touch the outside of one of his journals, tracing the bumps and grooves of age and wear. You hum, but don’t reply. Most of your pains have been pushed back now, even if you still weren’t up to full strength. Food and rest helped, but the anxiety that perpetuated only lengthened the healing process. 
When you can’t trust even yourself under the drunkenness of the moon, it only makes your fear of the sun worse. Everything made you afraid—most of all your mind; most of all, the future. 
“Why do you want to find the werewolf that turned me?” You have to speak this, have to push. Your curiosity demands it.
Ghost puts the bullet down and grabs a rag from his belt, mask turning to look your way as he brushes off his hands. He pauses, looming with that gargantuan height—natural intimidation in the span of his chest and the trunk that makes up his front. You find yourself in his shadow as he rubs at his fingers with the rag, taking it away and slotting it back into his belt a moment later. 
The man’s heat leaks into your body as he blinks over, glancing your form up and down in a single look; keeping a respectful distance but still making his attentions known. 
He stares. “If it keeps biting people, there won’t be any villages left to take up contracts from.”
“Money?” You frown.
“Principle,” Ghost counters, chest rising and falling steadily. “There needs to be a middle ground. Too many feral werewolves, too few people. Cut off the head.”
“Ominous,” your form turns to his, itching at the back of your head again—the scabbing skin. “If what you said was true, how do you know the thing isn’t already dead? If it hasn’t tried to get to me, what was the point of making me?”
“Because you hadn’t left St. Francis’ by the time I put a bolt in you.” Ghost grumbles, rubbing a hand on his bicep, itching above the fabric of his tunic. He stretches with a grunt—and you see his shirt ride up and the pale skin underneath. You gawk for a moment at the length of scars and brutal muscle.
“Charming,” you dryly utter, stuttering in a brief second of pulling back your senses, but the Hunter continues on, ignoring you.
“That was where you were turned—your territory. You stayed because your leader is still close by waiting.” Legs shift, and all of a sudden, a body is over you, hands are on the base of your skull, pushing your own away as brown eyes dig into the injury you pick at. 
Your breath hitches, tensing for a second as your spine straightens. You watch widely from the corner of your eye as Ghost runs a careful hand over the flesh. He puffs a breath, chest moving in a grunt that is both commonplace and expected, yet the brush of his chest to your shoulder is not. 
You restrain a shiver, nostrils moving to the overwhelming swell of leather and gunpowder. Bone fragments; the tang of whiskey. 
His skin as he runs a thumb over the edge of your wound.
“It’ll start cracking.” Ghost utters, and through his fabric, you feel the brush of speech. “Have to apply more balm. Stop messing with it unless you want stitches soon.” 
It takes a moment more of his surgical study and a small clearing of your throat before you can speak. Your mind changes the subject for you.
“So…if my bite can’t turn anyone,” you breathe, nearly sagging as Ghost’s fingers catch in your hair, shifting it under his attention to get a better look. He listens, you know. He wasn’t good at talking, but he always listened. “Why did they muzzle me?”
For a brief instance, you think you feel the Hunter’s fingers jerk a tiny amount—some reactionary muscle twitch that leads your body to still. 
Ghost can’t say why he did that, though perhaps it was the sudden flash of the injuries that he’d wrapped on the road back to his property that went over his eyelids. Or the cage—your pleading face aching for whatever small sliver of brutish company you can get. 
The silver bullet that he still had in his pocket, attached to that leather cord. He knew the purpose; the intent. Just as he knew the scrape of scabbing under his fingertips. 
“Control,” he grumbles, and it’s all he’ll say. 
Your burning face is somewhat down-turned, letting him do as he must, study what he can. He hadn’t made any moves to endanger you, and besides the upcoming full moon, there was nothing here that screamed imminent danger. Danger as a general, yes, of course. You were a werewolf in a hunter’s home—it would always be…your eyes flutter when his fingertips drag over your scalp…it would always be danger….dangerous.
Ghost doesn’t think you notice it, but your eyes are drooping. 
He watches after the slight shock wears off, a tiny smirk flickering the hidden skin of his lips after he realizes the reason. If you had a tail, he’d assume it would be moving in a soft arch by now. 
The man was mildly amused at that, and before he moved away fully, he had to stop himself from uttering a sarcastic, ‘like that, then?’ 
He had to remind himself not to get attached to whatever…this was. He was using you as bait, as some key to his problem. Not a companion. The distance here had to be firm and heavy-handed. 
“The balm is down in my packs,” he grunts, leaving just as his name implied before you had the chance to gather your bearings and the lack of caressing heat. You startle back to the attic room, eyes wide and face loose before Ghost’s retreating footsteps echo on the stairs. “Don’t bloody use it all, then.”
The front door opens and closes with a pull of weighted wood.
“I can’t do this,” you mutter, pacing alone in the middle of the night down in the living room 
The full moon was tomorrow. 
“I can’t do it,” you itch at the back of your head, peeling at the nearly healed flesh harshly. Your nails dig into the soft tissue, drilling like a knife. A bead of blood slips around your fingers, but it doesn't stop you.
It’s late—late enough to know that Ghost should be asleep by now. For days, the paranoia, just like always, builds until you are nearly as mute as your Hunter. No more curiously searching his attic; no more questions about his job or how he got into this business. Brown eyes had been lingering more as the days went by, this strange companionship growing. You knew, in his own way, he was…worried.
So silent, even he had been getting noticeably uneasy. Shifting legs and quick glances. Nights where you hid under the bed from the moon until lunch came around, Ghost speaking as easily as he could to try and coax you out to no avail. You, a feral dog with white-rimmed eyes. 
At supper, only hours before this panicked pacing, you had told something to Ghost that made him double-take. 
“If I can’t stop it…I need you to shoot me. In the head.”
He’d never answered, but his eyes seemed to get ever-sharper as the hours continued on. More tense. Ansty.
But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 
“Can’t do it,” you murmur. Blood slips down your wrist. “It isn’t right—”
“Spector?” Ghost’s voice had become so familiar to you that the only thing that made your heart skyrocket was the sudden call of it. Your gasp is sharp from behind a panted breath, hand flinching away from the crater you were steadily digging in your skull. A long string of blood trails into the air as your fingers jerk away, and it’s only then that you notice the deep pangs of pain.
Your eyes shudder for a second as Ghost’s form makes it to ground level. He comes over slowly, attention staying on the way the moonlight makes the crimson stains glint from the dripping line seeping into the sleeve of your tunic. He blinks, and you both stand.
The man’s skeletal adornment was missing, though the fabric under remained. A loose sleep shirt and pants, stained by the rays of night. 
“Let me see,” he sighs under his breath, a tiny rasp telling of the sleep he’d been awoken from.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter. He doesn’t seem to care, grabbing your wrist and pulling the limb away as his body takes up presence behind you. 
“Was already awake,” Ghost grunts, eyes narrowing in hidden worry. You calm down a bit at that, one less problem to worry yourself about. 
The Hunter, quietly, leaves for a second and grabs his pouch near the door. With a muffled command, he nods to the bed until you’re backing up and hitting the back of your knees off of it, sitting. 
Ghost lights the candle on the nightstand and opens his belongings with stiff glances your way. He noticeably doesn’t ask why you’ve harmed yourself like this.
“I can’t,” you say it like a plea for help. “Ghost, I can’t do it again.” 
Hands fiddle with clean bandages and take out his waterskin. The man douses a rag with the liquid and comes over, shifting onto the bed and lightly turning you so your back is to him—legs half hanging off. 
The hard press of cold water makes your breath hitch, and you bite your lip.
“It hurts,” you push out. Ghost knows you’re not talking about the newly opened wound. 
“Breathe,” he says to you, seeing the way your sides expand with heavy lungs. Brown eyes flutter from the push of his large hand to the warmth of your shaking flesh. “Tell me about your home, yeah? Heard you lived in your own place.”
The question makes you double-take.
He’s asking me that? Here? Now? Hours away from perhaps another catastrophe?
Yet, you can’t help the slippage of your tongue as Ghost’s fingers rub into your scalp. The rag is lessened, and, soon, the material is rubbed gently over the sore itch of weeping skin. You fight a whimper and reply with an addled mind. 
“It…it’s quiet. Calm. I always keep the candles going because I don’t like the dark.” Ghost works quietly and quickly. 
“There,” he grunts, glancing at the flickering light of the candle he lit. He’d have to remember that. “And?”
“I kept sheep.”
He pauses, and, without meaning to, a soft scoff bounces off the confines of his chest. It catches your attention far better than a bullet could. Ghost shifts a needle and thread out of his gathering of items, taking away his limbs only for the short while it takes him to loop the two together. 
“How many?” The masked man asks, amusement gone just as quickly as it had come. 
“Only a handful,” you whisper. Your mouth opens and closes, glancing over your shoulder as the candle-light spills out over the room; casting shadows over Ghost’s face, catching on his long eyelashes. Those browns of his glint like tree trunks covered in dew.
“Please,” your words are muffled. Eyes wide and fearful, there isn’t anything that can console you on this. “You need to kill me.”
There was a dichotomy to you—a violent thing. You didn’t want to die, no, you feared it heavily, more than the moon, but the truth was that you couldn’t keep going through this. The unknowing. The breaking bones, the blinding pain. The understanding that nothing that you do can stop it. 
“It hurts, Ghost,” your breath stutters. “More than taking off a limb, more than slicing yourself open and ripping out your intestines—it burns more than the light of the moon.”
The Hunter listens through all of it. He sits, he stares, and he hides the brimming sense of concern behind his dead eyes.
With a pulling of his eyebrows, Ghost’s free hand moves upwards and grabs your chin. Freezing, you study this phenomenon from over your shoulder, face on fire with eyes wide to the pale skin visible to your view. You hadn’t realized until now, but this was the most you’d seen of the man’s face. 
You could make out the point of his crooked nose—the strength of his jaw under the form-fitting fabric. Cheekbones and the heaviness of his brows. Wisps of hair. He had eyes like a cat, you had to admit; something sly about them despite the numbness that seemed to extend bone-deep. 
But his hands had been kind to you. 
Firmly, Ghost’s fingers run your flesh, and he blinks softly before a low sound echoes in his throat. He pushes carefully on your jaw and shifts your head back forward so he can help you. When he lets go, your heart quivers in your breast
“I’m ‘ere,” he mutters, and you feel the first stitch enter the thin flesh of your head. You take down deep breaths, focusing on the scrape of his fingertips and not the point of the needle. Ghost can understand the fear of it—of pain. It’s instinct. He tilts his head and pushes out, “I can only ask for one full moon from you, yeah? No more. I just need one.” 
“And if I can’t find the werewolf?” Your voice vibrates with emotion, staring down at your hands as Ghost’s chest brushes your spine. The scent of him was addling your brain; the rub and slide of his hands.
The Hunter’s jaw clenches softly. “...Then I let you go.”
It wasn’t what you were expecting, but anything from the time you’d gotten a bolt through the thigh was unknown territory, and, like a dog without a leash, you’d run into it. Your brows furrow, blood oozing down your neck before Ghost’s grip shifts to place the rag back again, swiping away firmly. 
“Go?” He nods, but you can’t see it. “But what about the hunt?”
“I can manage.” The stitching pauses. The air is broken up nearly a full minute later. “You’re not evil.” Before they start up again as if nothing was uttered aloud. 
The confession makes the sting in the back of your eyes start up again—a strong thing of confusion and vulnerability. Ghost continues his task, pulling together your skin one suture at a time until the injury is fully closed; clean. 
“Chin,” he lowly states, and you allow him to tap your jaw, shifting it up so the wrappings can loop above your ear and over your forehead—securing them. 
Even far after the blood has seeped through, the two of you stay.
Come morning, you already feel wrong.
Your body stays in bed, shaking—sweating. A large pain flairs in your chest over and over like a pulsing well in the earth, skin twitching with the spread of blood. Ghost sits beside the bed all the while, having dragged over his chair. He leans back into it, one arm over the side, hanging with the thing ever so often moving to rub at the back of his neck. 
You don’t think he’s moved since he brought it over last night; since he got another candle to stick into the holder—push back the dark. To watch, to study, or just to stave off your rising anxiety is another question. 
It’s only after the fourth time you try to rip at the stitches at the base of your skull that he finally grabs your hand and holds it silently. Now, his thumb moves over your knuckles—his gloves back on. 
At noon, he tries to suggest eating.
“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 
“No,” you say instantly, sweat dripping over your temple, your body partially buried under blankets. “No, I’ll just throw it up.” 
Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 
Your mouth is already salivating—thoughts of wet flesh and blood in the forefront until you whine and shove your face into the pillow; panting heavily. 
Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 
I’m here.
I’m here.
I’m here.
“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 
Ghost pauses, hesitating. After a moment, his thighs tense with the action of movement, thinking you’re speaking to him. Something swirls in his chest, but he starts to stand nonetheless.
Your eyes widen.
“No!” Both of your hands latch onto the Hunter’s wrist, fear a needle stuck in your gaze. “No, not you. Stay, please.”
A silver cage covered in blood slides across Ghost’s slightly shocked look, but he only licks at the corner of his mouth and slowly leans back once more. 
“Not going anywhere,” he says, accent dipping. “Tell me what you’re hearing, yeah?”
His hand slips back into yours, and he presses into your pulse softly, counting. The sun continues across the sky.
“I don’t like how it sounds,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s wrong.”
“Focus,” Ghost breathes, looming closer. His grip squeezes once. “It can’t hurt you.” 
You shiver, eyes tightly closed as tears burn the back of your nose. “It’s howling.”
A suddenly gloveless hand spreads up your cheek, resting there and pushing back the sweat that pools. It’s calloused—scarred. You whine, head spinning.
I’m waiting. 
Find me.
Find me.
“I don’t want to,” you utter under your breath, words an amalgamation of slurring gasps. 
“Spector,” Ghost calls, head moving closer. “Eh.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” your hurried panic is similar to a mind overdosing on wolfsbane. “Gotta go away—gotta get out—”
“Spec!” The Hunter’s quick bark makes your eyes pop open, and you lock instantly with brown orbs. 
They’re tight, unblinking just as always. They offer just a few moments of clarity. 
Ghost holds your head still while the rest of you shivers with cold sweats, you can hear the blood inside of his veins; his heart pumping. The scent of his skin was addicting to the point of memorization on the airwaves. You watch, gulping down breaths as your throat bobs. 
Eyes dart you up and down, fingers spreading out to offer what little comfort he can. The man wonders if he’s completely in over his head. 
Ghost pulls his face-covering up to his nose, and your heart skips beats at the sight of ravaged skin and stubble, scars spreading out like your own. Long ones, short ones, burn marks, and hyperpigmentation. He wasn’t pretty, but he was real. 
Oh, he was real. 
His grip on you strengthens until all you can focus on is him. 
Ghost blinks, and you see his lips move. The gravel of his voice was never more clear. “Fucking hell, keep that head on, okay? Nothing’s going to happen as long as I’m here. I’ve got you.” He sighs out a low breath, thumb running your undereye as the small dribbles of tears begin to sneak out. Ghost murmurs. “I’ve bloody got you, alright? Let it happen—we can figure it out.”
He’d grown fond of you over the course of a month. You were curious; not pushingly so. Honest. Good. You’d been dealt a bitter hand, and damn him if his stone heart wasn’t stretched thin at the raw fear on your face. This wasn’t your fault, but he needed to find who turned you and stop them before it got any more out of control than it already was. If more unstable werewolves went running through the woods, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the territory alive.
“When you turn,” Ghost says as clearly as he’s able. “Go. Don’t fight it. I’ll find you.”
“Promise?” You ask, a weak flicker coming to your lips—eyes vulnerable. 
Ghost nods once, and it’s all you need. “I’ll find you,” he repeats. “Doubt me?”
“No,” you ease, clearing your throat. “But…one more thing?”
“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 
“Just don’t shoot me in the thigh again.”
When the claws start protruding from your nailbeds hours later, you’re bolting to the door with only one last glance at the Hunter and his half-pulled-up mask. Booted feet hitting the wood as he stands, he lets you go even as his thighs tense in a need to run after you. Patience was his beast to tame, but it seemed to have left him in the form of a woman disappearing into the tree line. 
There is companionship in broken things.
Your body slips into the forest just as the creak of your bones begins to shift and bend. You fall into a heap, hearing the gargling of marrow under your skin like a call to sea. An urge grows to infect you; a feral need to run and hide. Biting back a shrill scream, a hoarse yell escapes instead—flesh rippling as your mouth opens, fangs breaking the supple mushiness of your gums as blood floods like a river. 
Find me. 
Find me.
Find me.
“Ghost,” you whisper, hands snapping to your head. “Ghost, please.” 
Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.
A rabid scream rips from your throat, and back in the house, Ghost’s hands tighten into fists as he glares at the open door. He growls under his breath, eyes tightening in a certain type of anger that brews in his gut. The nights your shuffling woke his light slumber were more common than when you hadn’t, and every utterance was clearly heard to his ears. It had become a curse to him—how you’d met.
A regret was seeping in, a care, and now, as he forces himself to back up and head into the attic, Ghost clenches his jaw tightly. So unaffected by the horror of monsters, he was now at a loss of sense for this growth of feelings. 
He wasn’t dull, he knew that some of the contracts he took marked him as a tool and not a person of stable mind. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and he would continue to do them for no other reason than they were the orders he was given.
But you had broken a piece of that off of him, somehow, someway, your face had seared itself into his retinas—speared him at the brutality that your community had treated you with. The muzzle. It was cruel, and while Ghost was precisely that, there was a limit. 
He did his job, and that was that. Anything after wasn’t his problem. 
You became his job, and the one who turned you was an add-on. Maybe if he justified it to himself, he could understand his actions better. 
But he was already sprinting to grab his gear when the first howl shattered the night.
A white beast prowls the forest. 
It stands on two legs, but it isn’t human—isn’t natural. It’s taller than a grown man is; snout pulled back in a soundless snarl that puts dogs to shame with rows of teeth so sharp, they look like pale knives. Its feet—large, splayed—soundlessly skate the ground until clawed fingers slam to the earth. 
A nose inhales the scent above the dirt, tongue lulling as a shaggy tail lays limp behind a curved spine. In between the erect ears, under the thick skull of the werewolf, the rolling bumps of a brain spark. A pull.
Find me.
Your eyes are tiny black dots—and they blink once before you rise once more. A great growl moves inside of your chest, the large collection of hair around your neck standing on end.
I’m waiting.
But there’s something that keeps you here—standing in the grass as the moon shines atop your head, your fur nearly glowing even with the stain of bloody injuries. The remains of clothes are about a meter away; only strips of what was. 
Your gaze looks over your shoulder, and your gargantuan frame lumbers backward until you can stoop to them—nose once more sniffing with your arms reaching.
Your fingers twitch, blackened claws digging through the ground as a near purr echoes in your throat. The scythe-like additions card across the strips.
Gunpowder. 
Leather.
Whiskey.
Something you can’t quite name, but feel drawn to despite the tightening noose at your throat. There was something there you can’t focus on…something that you need. 
Your drooling jaws snap, saliva coating the fangs until they drip off one at a time to stain the grass. Body shifting, your head lowers until your wolf-ish visage rubs against the fabric, licking at the sides of your gums as delicate grumbles slip out of your mouth. 
A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.
Eyes slipping back into the feral-inhumanity of a wild animal, your body jolts up, gaze to the forest trees and the rustling of bushes. The swell of rain on the clouds is in the back of your nose, and the previous attraction to the ripped clothes is lost as simply as it had come. 
You were being summoned. 
Ears twitching, the entirety of your body refuses to move to the sound; tensed and ready to spring on anything that moves if only to let off the spike of anger at the lack of control. The pull grows stronger, and it feels like something is trying to drag you away into the wilds.
This was the sensation you were always trying to fight—the one that led to the aggression; the hunt. You knew that if you followed that howl, whatever was left of your human sense would be gone entirely before you could stop it. 
Yet, this time, there’s a nagging need to find the owner, and you can’t remember why.
Your large head tilts, feet spaced as the curve of your spine grows more aggressive—hunching forward as you snarl at nothing, claws shaking as your fur is more bristly than sleek. 
Like pure white spikes. 
In the back of your head, a thin sliver of a memory slips in. Fingers on the back of your head, caressing calluses and dark, dark, eyes. Clean bandages and gentle touches.
I’ll find you.
If the side of your vision picked up the shadow shifting from far off into the trees, your curled lip never turned that way. If your nose twitched to the heavy weight of a man’s sweat, it never shifted to point as a mutt would to the rustling bush.
Your body bolts after the resounding echo of a wolf’s howl, and it’s no later that Ghost slips after your clawed prints to follow.
Crossbow in hand, the hunter’s mask gleams in the darkness, his pale eyes twinkling. Bending down, he glazes at the long pushing tracks of your form—seeing the spray of dirt to the side and the broken branches. Ghost blinks, shoulders tense before he swiftly stands and continues on. The firearms at his thighs lightly rattle, and the bolts in his crossbow are already laced with wolfsbane; silver tips smelt a week ago. 
He passes a river with only a single glance at the tossed rocks from the bed, sloshing through the water as the bottoms of his pants get weighed down. Ghost’s mind is on one thing only: make sure this plan won’t get you killed. 
The bolts aren’t for you—the silver bullets aren’t for you. 
He grunts under his breath, the dark woods casting phantoms over the ground. The Hunter’s legs shift through tall grass, and he carries himself with the ingrained confidence a man of his station requires. If he were anything less than a monster himself, he would have died ages ago. Ghost shoots and lets others come up with the questions, but he could never be called dumb. 
Seeing what fast glimpse he had of your shifted form after the last time, he was struck by how erratic it acted. Snapping head, twitching ears, and roving eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Ghost would have called it rabid. 
Yet, your actions with his borrowed shirt were…body-stilling, to say the least about it. It had made his gut swirl.
“Give me a trail,” Ghost utters to himself, brown eyes still picking up the dash you’d taken. His agile feet splash through a puddle, the beginnings of raindrops hitting his head. 
The man grabs at his hood and pulls it up stiffly, frowning under his mask.
Rain would wash away the tracks.
“C’mon, Love,” he grinds out, body hunched. “Leavin’ me to do the dirty work, eh?” 
It’s too quiet—even a collection of minutes later of hard hiking, the trees barely move. There aren’t any birds; no animals beyond the black bodies of crows in the far-up branches, waiting, watching with obsidian eyes that don’t blink. 
Ghost isn’t off-put, but the length of his strides gets far tinier, carefully stepping over twigs and rocks like a soldier at war. Then again, he was at war. And if he was caught unawares, there wouldn’t be a bullet to pull out of his side, but, instead, a chunk missing. 
His ears were almost ringing from how hard he was focusing. 
Brown eyes shift from one area to another, and then, suddenly as if a deer, he freezes. 
Ghost’s body winds up, fingers twitching from the stark trigger discipline of his crossbow downward instantaneously. No one but him can explain what just happened, but he knows when he has to listen instead of act. Stuck in a clearing not unlike the place he’s first met you, his feet rest shoulder width apart and his eyes stare blankly into the trees ahead.
Your tracks end here.
From behind him, just as the large raindrops slap the side of his bone-ed visage, the small crack of a twig makes his ears twitch.
A low snarl sets his hair on end. 
Looking over his shoulder, Ghost is met with the same color that he’d become so accustomed to in a full month completely blacked out. Void. Lifeless to anything besides rage and bloodlust. 
Your white fur was infected with dirt, blood, and leaves—a mosaic of ferality ingrained into your body; pale fangs snapping. The beast slips through the treeline, slapping a veined hand into the soggy earth. 
Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 
His finger shifts over the trigger, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates. 
The man looks into your glinting orbs, the dripping saliva on your lulling tongue as your esophagus pants for breath. One hesitation, he always knew, would mean death. One mess-up. 
You’d asked him to end it, he shouldn’t feel remorse, guilt, perhaps—he was still human, despite his appearance, but remorse was deeper. It left wounds that were harder to lick clean again. 
…So why isn’t he sending a bolt into your forehead?
Ghost remembers the times he’d found you under the bed, your shaking, and the way you hadn’t allowed him to change your bandages the first few weeks you’d stayed with him; didn’t want him to touch you. The nightmares and the small smile you’d gain when he’d spew his dark, sarcastic words as if this was a joke. How you’d always thank him under your breath for the food he’d give you, hunted by his own hand. 
A silver cage. Crimson blood. The sight of your pleading eyes when you’d told him to shoot you.
Maybe the two of you were far more alike than he’d dare to admit. And he currently won’t, not even on his deathbed. Not even now.
Ghost watches, and he waits. 
He can’t do it.
Your body slinks closer, stalking with the sound of anger, nearly rib-shaking in its volume. Ghost’s jaw clenches, and his body shifts to face yours head-on. At the sight of the crossbow, your snarl turns into an air-biting rage, saliva flying through the rain.
“Spector,” he keeps his voice low, even. The sight he’d seen as you smelled his clothes had to mean something. Ghost tilts his head, moving out a hand from the side of his weapon in an appeasement gesture. “I’m not going to shoot you. We have a job to complete…get those fangs away.”
He wonders if ordering you around will even work. You had told him before—you’re not a mutt. Ghost agrees. No mutt was the size of a fucking boulder.
The werewolf’s claws drag—goring the mud as if a pig to tear apart. 
“Spector,” the Hunter tries again. But something’s different about his tone; he drops it, letting it pull on a softer string. “I’m here to end this. We’re here to end this.” He blinks and lowers the crossbow completely. “Breathe. The night can’t last forever.” A breeze whips the trees. “I made you a promise.”
There’s a second, he thinks, where he can see something shift in your gaze, pupils slightly widening above the deluge that wets down your fur into a sopping mess that hangs off muscle.
“That’s a girl,” Ghost grunts, taking a small step closer. “Never told you,” he utters, eyes locked with yours. He sees your nose twitch minutely. “But if we get this right, Spec, there’ll be no more painful shifts, hear me?”
Your dog-ish mouth is closed, hanging off every word as Ghost comes even closer.
“I kill this bastard,” the hunter breathes, gloved hand still outstretched, nearing closer to the near-silver of your form. “The moon’ll have no claim on you. She’ll let you off the leash, Little Wolf. You get to decide when it happens.” 
He thinks he has you now, back to some state of recognition in the addled brain that tries to see him as prey; as competition. Ghost’s fingers are close enough to almost touch you, but just before he can brush his gloves over your wet fur, your mouth opens in a display of untamed challenge. Your growl is enough to make the man unconsciously reach for his pistol, and in the time it takes him to realize the fault of it, you’ve already rampaged forward with an unhinged jaw.
Ghost’s eyes widen, taking a quick step back. 
Your legs push off, and you shove the hunter out of the way just before the fangs of an immense beast can clamp down on him, your own finding the shoulder of gray, thick fur.
Fighting as wolves do, Ghost only needs a moment to recover and get to his feet, though the sight in front of him can rival any that he’d seen before. His crossbow clatters a few feet away, sending the bolt off into the trees with a metallic ‘twang’.
The two werewolves roll around the pouring clearing, snapping teeth and rending claws drawing blood that’s deep enough to swim in to the green grass. White and gray meld together—blue eyes like a knife to Ghost’s chest when he takes it in from between the sound of tearing fur. 
“Bloody fucking…” the man trails, staggering as his palms slap to the pistols at his side. He blinks, shouting in more of a bark than even a dog could imitate. “Spector!” 
The wolves pull and rip the other to shreds, flesh torn and limbs grasping for purchase. Bodies are slammed to the ground before getting tossed to the side, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Ghost watches crimson stain your fur a pinkish-red.
He can’t get a good shot.
The werewolf that turned you sinks its claws into your sides, dragging them downwards as you yowl, eyes tiny with aggression before your jaws connect with its snout, biting down with more force than a horse’s hooves. The monster screams—a garbed thing of fangs and saliva. 
Just as easily as it called you here to it, as it stalked your Hunter, it bashes your body back into the earth and takes you by the scruff of your neck. Eyes wide in that lupine way, you lock on Ghost’s profile before your body is lifted, and tossed away violently. 
Spine slamming into a tree, you hear the cracking and bending of your bones in your ears just after you hear the sharp shout from the man in the clearing, body dropping to a heap into the grass and mud. Angled head flopping back and forth, black infests the edges of your vision, coughing up blood that seeps from between your gums and slips down the back of your esophagus. Fur and flesh are stuck at the base of your throat. 
Whining, your limbs drag and pull futility, eyes flooded over with crimson and fogged by rain. A great roar worries the air, sending long shivers over your spine as you try to rise to your limbs, a five-fingered hand slamming you back down. 
Just before the fangs can clamp your throat, two great booms burst through the forest. 
The wolf atop you reels back, great bellow escaping its throat when you can finally drag your head to look over. This beast was clawing at its chest, shaking its large head in an arch to try and dispel the shock of having two silver bullets entering its back—the gray head snapped around to Ghost, who held his twin pistols aloft with eyes burning with anger from behind his mask. An avatar of vengeance; a bringer of death. 
The orbs inside of your sockets widened, nose twitching wildly as you bleat a quick warning bark. 
Blue-Eyes rises, body far larger than yours would ever grow to be—on two feet more powerful looking than a bricklayer many years into his craft; tall enough to reach to the sides of black-shingled homes and pull itself up. Ghost takes one look and growls under his breath, knowing there would be no time to reload the weapons in his hands. 
So he drops them and pulls slowly at the cruel blade in his belt until the gleam winks in the low light like a curved smile. Setting it in his hands, the small flicker of a sharp smirk on his lips is lost to you. 
Yet, there isn’t a chance for some brawl between two beasts—there’s only the flash of pale fur and the final crunch of a body hitting the ground. 
You bury your fangs into the wolf’s neck; the one responsible for all of your pain and torment spanning years of isolation. You feel the body seize as it drops, the last remnants of a dying brain trying to fight the inevitable nothingness that ensues, and, you only hold on the harder, the bloodlust seeping back in with every drop of life pooling into your locked jaw.
Your throat releases tiny growls of pleasure, biting a bit to make sure there wasn’t a sliver of a chance that something living was walking away from this scene. 
Ghost pauses, and in the back of his head, he knows he should stop you. Brown eyes see the animalistic sheen of enjoyment at a fresh kill, the way you pull at the flesh until chucks peel away from a gurgling wolf. Even when the thing is long dead and the rain still slaps the earth, you barely let go until you get a hold of the meat and tear with a backward jerk of your snout.
“Love,” the Hunter sheathes his knife, taking a step forward. The blood was pooling under your body. How many of those were treatable? He had to know. “Let me see what’s—”
The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 
Up to your ears, the entirety of your face was awash with the stain of life, dripping off the whiskers at your cheeks; your chin. 
Before he can utter another word, he finds himself on his back with a snapping snout right in front of his face, two dead eyes staring deeply into his own. Ghost sucks down a quick breath, hand snapping to the large wrist shoving down on his chest.
He pants out, gravel accent far more deep than it was before. 
“Easy, Spector. Easy. Eh—focus on me.” Your tongue licks at your fangs, body shaking. Ghost pushes out, “That’s it, then. It’s over, yeah? You did it; let's pack it up and head back home.” He grunts. “Recon even dogs get cold in weather like this—the bed’s waiting. Get a nice fire going.”
Ghost sees your face move closer, and his hand minutely shifts to the vial of wolfsbane on his belt. It wouldn’t kill you, but it could put you out of commission until your body shifted back into its proper form. He could carry you back—that wouldn’t be a problem at all. 
But he was worried about your injuries. Even now the droplets of blood roll off of you faster than the water can. 
Too much.
Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 
“Fuck,” he growls, seeing the carnage and the open meat. “Sweetheart, we need to get you checked out—you need to listen to me. Can you do that?”
He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 
Your mouth moves with fast pants, claws stuttering over his gear futilely. You blink rapidly, shaking your large head in fast increments with small snarls. 
“C’mon,” Ghost says slowly, fingers looping the vial. “Keep listening. Know my voice is utter shite, but only you can tell me it.” 
Your head drops to his chest just as the wolfsbane is popped open, and, for whatever reason, Ghost pauses. He waits. 
You take a long inhale of his gear—of the leather and the gunpowder, and just before the Hunter can dump the vial over your skin, the long blackish claw on your finger loops the bottom portion of the fabric under his bone attachment. 
The man’s breath hitches as you let it rest along his nose bridge…holding it there as you drag your head upwards as if it were an impossible chore. Your mouth dribbles out gore to his cheeks, but the Hunter stares upwards into your eyes as they soften in a lupine way. 
Inexplicably, you let out a bone-rattling sigh and slump into oblivion. 
Come morning, you sleep under the spread of large fur blankets—clean bandages over your bare frame as the man has tended to you for hours. He mutters for you to slip your arms into a spare shirt after he finds your eyes open, not uncomfortable by your nakedness, though he wants you yourself to be at ease. 
His brown eyes are creased, and you can’t remember what you’ve done. 
You comply with small grunts and moans; more sore and cut up than you can recall ever feeling as a large tunic is slipped over your head by scarred hands. 
Gunpowder. 
“What did I—?”
“You finished the job,” he says, sparing you a glance as he shifts back with his eyes averting themselves from your visible legs. The sun seeps in through the windows. “It’s morning.”
You blink slowly, and the man eases you back down into the furs. 
“I’m tired,” your voice yawns out—weak and brittle like the hope you’d had that this plan of his would work. Eyes half-closed, they blink at the hunter with a soft kind of care that you can’t remember showing before. Whatever pain medicine he’d given you, it was working. The underlying itch was still as strong as ever, though. 
“Tired is good,” Ghost nods slowly, standing still until he crosses his arms and sets his feet. He’s in a fresh shirt and pants. There’s blood under his fingernails; traces smeared over his flesh. “Means you accomplished something.”
“Don’t think that’s entirely true,” you breathe. A pause. “...Why is your mask like that?”
It was half pulled up—showing off his lower jaw and the stubble. The scars that you already have memorized. Ghost shrugs, blinking those dead eyes of his. 
“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”
He reaches up and slips the thing off in one motion. Your loose brain takes a moment to realize the entire face you’re staring into, but the second it does, the image is engraved into your mind forever. You make a noise in the back of your throat. 
“Better, Little Wolf?” 
“W—” Your lips stutter, new sutures pulling tight. “Why would you…?”
“Hungry?” Ghost asks, quickly changing the subject. “Know you like that venison that I caught.”
“No,” you breathe. “No, I’m not…I’m tired, Ghost. My head hurts.”
A hand sweeps over your forehead, staying as you sag into it with a hum and a fluttering of your eyes. 
“Bloodloss,” the Hunter murmurs. “Normal. Go back to sleep; take however long you need. I’ll be here.” 
The bond between the two of you has strengthened to that of a silver rope.
“Stay,” you plead under your breath, already slipping back into nothingness with no promise to wake up again soon. “Hold me, Ghost?”
“Simon,” he grunts to only himself, knowing that the words are lost to you. Perhaps that makes him all the more eager to share it with you when you’re better. “Stay still.”
It wasn’t like you could protest.
The broad man slips in, shifting the furs until you’re covered back up and your forehead is to his chest—keeping himself closest to the door where the runes still sit in their bloody glory. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear them humming him a tune.
No song was better to him than the one of your breath at this very moment. Alive. Moving. There were many times in the night that he thought...hm.
“Better, then?” The dry tease slips out. 
A kiss to the side of his mouth is what he gets in answer, and he doesn't say a peep more until he knows you’re back in the clutches of a dream—a good one, he knows, because he watches your expressions like a loyal guard dog would.
Ghost, Simon, rests his lips on the top of your head, and in a delicate murmur, eases, “You did good, Love.” 
There was much to do, but for now, all he had to do was hold you a little bit tighter and let his stone heart beat a little bit faster.
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americancowgirl19 · 9 months
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clara oswald - picnics in the park
clara oswald - she leaves and accidentally comes back three years later
two - he introduces you to the T.A.R.D.I.S
nine - he tells you he loves you after you hurt yourself
ten - he saves you from war
eleven - you argue and he apologises
eleven - he tells you he loves you
eleven - he pretends to be your husband
eleven - not you
eleven [DRABBLE] - when you’re sleeping
twelve - he’s jealous
MCU
bucky barnes - goodnight sweetheart
bucky barnes - remember me
bucky barnes - let it end here
bucky barnes - nightmare
bucky barnes - monsters don’t cry
peter parker - you find out he’s spider-man
peter parker - he’s jealous when you get attention at a party
peter parker - you’re sick but he’s busy with spider-man duties
meeting peter parker as a member of the guardians of the galaxy would include…
STRANGER THINGS
billy hargrove - heaven-sent [series x OC] 
billy hargrove - babysitting duty
billy hargrove - i love you
billy hargrove - gone
billy hargrove - without you
billy hargrove - i need my girl
billy hargrove - dream
billy hargrove - the cure
billy hargrove - the sauna test
billy hargrove - bruises
billy hargrove - loving you is a losing game
billy hargrove - two ghosts
billy hargrove - yours
billy hargrove - drunk again
billy hargrove - i know it hurts
billy hargrove - exile | part one [ongoing]
eddie munson - a little too drunk
eddie munson - no light
eddie munson - never again
eddie munson - livewire
eddie munson - home
eddie munson - your song
eddie munson - migraine
eddie munson - back to the old house
eddie munson - dancing in the kitchen
eddie munson - home for christmas
jim hopper - only you
jim hopper - safe
jim hopper - ours
jim hopper - ours | part two
jim hopper - hold on
robin buckley - everything has changed
steve harrington - no monsters
steve harrington - movie night
steve harrington - why him?
TED LASSO
jamie tartt - this is me trying
jamie tartt - if somebody hurts you, i wanna fight
roy kent - just friends
THE LAST OF US
joel miller - nightmare
joel miller - don’t let me drown
joel miller - first kill
joel miller - protect
joel miller - too late
joel miller - left behind 
joel miller - survive
joel miller - shelter
tess servopoulos - birthday
TVD
damon salvatore - you tell him you love him after risking your life for him
damon salvatore - he tells you he loves you
damon salvatore - all i need.
elijah mikaelson - he hurts you when he’s drunk
klaus mikaelson - you’re the salvatore’s sister
THE WALKING DEAD 
daryl dixon - this ain’t a fairy tale
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Brimstone and liquor
Right, so I’m not really sure how many of y’all would have read Strawberries and Cigarettes (which is a part of my Gunpowder and cinnamon series) but this is like a prequel to that particular part. And that also means that this fic will be a part of the same a/b/o universe of the pairing of John Constantine x Reader x Lucifer Morningstar (I have had them circling my head since the beginning of the year, and now here we are.)
An exorcist, a soul manipulator, and the Devil meet each other in Hell. This is a story of soul searching, danger evading, and a trio of adults who need to get some problems (both mental and in regards to danger actually coming for them) sorted. They’ll help each other out, and maybe they’ll fall in love in the process? 
This will be the last fic of the year, folks! It somehow feels right to end it with an omegaverse fic lmao- And also I can make the excuse of ‘the Devil made me do it’ when future me asks about why I haven’t done my coding work yet. 
All my love to my beloved @no-te-lo-voy-a-dar​ who is my enabler and an absolute god send. Am kissing their hands as I type this
Masterlist/ Next Part
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You were in Hell. Not in the sense of the metaphorical way, but in the literal sense.
You were literally in Hell.
Some would call you suicidal. Some would call you brave. But most would call you soulless. Because, in a sense, that was what you were. You lacked a soul. You didn’t sell it, and you didn’t give it away. You simply… lost a large proportion of it in an attempt to strengthen your powers.
Soul manipulation.
At least, that was what your parents told you when you asked about the pretty lights circling you. You could control your soul, reaching out with it to connect with other souls. Not human souls, but of the soul-like essences lingering in the elements, in the air- in most things. You could reach out to them and offer pacts to these spirits- pacts which promised them a small portion of your soul and the magic store you held.
Your parents were also soul manipulators, with your mother having a pact with a high ranked water spirit called a Ciquel, which let her form and control water. She could also summon the wolf shaped spirit to aid her. Your father had a pact with a middle ranked spirit of the wind called a Slyph, and could control the winds to a certain degree. Both were betas, as was the way of people dabbling in mystical arts.
You were an exception though. In many ways.
You sighed as a shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t scared- You didn’t feel scared. But it seemed as if instinct was a different thing.
Maybe you were cold. Hell was colder than you expected, and had far less fire and screaming than you assumed. It was fascinating, in a rather morbid way.
You were an exception. An alpha in the sea of betas making up the mystical community. And holding pacts with four general ranked spirits of the elements. And you craved for more. Hence your trip down under.
You ran your hand across the grey walls surrounding you.
Soul manipulators were rare, and sought after by a wide variety of organisations. Both of the mystical kind, and the non-mystical side. It was only natural that your parents died before they could grow old. Both sides would rather have soul manipulators dead than in the hands of another’s side.
“Saleana,” you whispered out, and although weak, you could feel a rush of warmth surround you as flickers of fire erupted near your face.
You ventured onwards, even though you could feel a sense of dread creeping up on you. Your link with your elemental spirits were weak down here, although thankfully not non-existent.
You had the paper and the sigil ready, and you could attempt to call upon a spirit right now, because you were half-certain that you were safe here-
A whisper in your mind. The heat of it told you that it was Saleana talking to you. They told you to-
You ducked, just in time as a fiery blast of fire whistled past where your head would have been.
You swivelled around, fully expecting to find a demon, or a hellhound, or something- But paused when you saw… a man. A normal looking man. No horns, no rotting flesh, no nothing. You tilted your head at him curiously without even attempting to protect yourself.
He was… ruggedly handsome. Dirty blond hair, cold blue eyes, wearing a ratty trenchcoat- stubble growing from his chin- His hands were ablaze with fire, and you absentmindedly concluded that he was the one to throw that fire at you.
Keep reading
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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soft and warm mornings w/ azriel
(a/n: hi!! this is my first fanfic like ever so feedback is highly appreciated!! i hope you enjoy :))
The morning sun crashed through the windows much, much sooner than it should have. Before she could open her eyes and scowl at the open curtains, and silently curse her mate, darkness washed over her face. She was confused, before feeling the warmth of the Shadowsinger against her back. She softly smiled to herself and rolled over to look at the beauty of the Illyrian male holding her. He slowly opened his eyes, looking at her with pure love and adoration for his mate. 
“Did you forget to close the curtains again, love?” 
He nuzzled his face into her hair, softly saying something she couldn’t quite understand.
“Did you?”
“…maybe?” he said sleepily.
“Be thankful the baby isn’t making me sick this morning or I’d be upset with you,” she murmured while moving closer to him.
It still felt like a dream to her, being mates with Azriel, carrying his babe, wearing his ring and being his. His wife. His mate. It was her he always came home to, and her arms he fell into after a particularly hard mission. After falling pregnant, he refused to go on missions that would require him to stay for more than one night. He wanted to be close to her should anything happen, and made sure Rhysand kept protective barriers around her. He increased the security at the House of Wind, just to keep her and the babe safe. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if anything happened to either of them. 
“Get out of your own head, love. I can feel it through the bond. Nothing is going to happen,” she said softly against his neck, sending a shiver up his back. He just held her closer to him, not wanting these precious moments to go to waste. Mother knows they would be scarce and hard to come by once the babe was born. 
“How did you sleep, darling?” he said into her hair.
“Would’ve been better if you remembered to close the curtains last night,” she said, muffled from being so close to the shadowsinger. Before she could finish her sentence, the curtains whooshed shut, bathing the room in darkness.
“Is that better?”
“Much better. Now hold me and let me sleep” she hummed. 
“As you wish, love.”
She tried to get comfy again, when the babe decided it was a great time to absolutely kick the shit out of her belly, reminding both of them that, yes, the babe was still here.
“Mother save us, he’s already strong,” she murmured.
“He?” he asked, “I thought we were waiting until you gave birth to know the sex?”
“We are, just mothers’ intuition.” 
“If you say so, darling.”
“I do say so, now let me up, I have to pee. Your child kicked me right in the bladder,” she said, trying to move away from him. He let out a loud sigh before releasing her, not wanting an accident.
He watched her as she got up and walked, no, waddled to the bathroom, long hair flowing down her naked back. He knew it would only be a month or so before she gave birth. He couldn’t wait to hold the sweet babe, teach them to talk, walk, but mainly, he couldn’t wait to teach the babe how to fly. He also worried for her during the birth. He hated to see his mate in pain and couldn’t imagine what he would do if he lost her. He couldn’t imagine raising the babe alone, without his mate by his side. Before he could get too deep in his own thoughts, she came out of the bathroom, waddling back to bed and laying down next to him, firmly planting her head on his chest. 
“I’m going back to sleep. I like not being nauseous, and the best way to achieve that is to be asleep,” she whispered to him, not caring if he heard her or not. “I also hope you don’t have a mission today, because I’m not letting you go.” 
“I did have one, but I’ll have Rhys send someone else.”
“Good.” She let out a soft yawn as he wrapped his arms around her, humming softly. 
“I love you, darling.”
“I love you too.”
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Temptress
Azriel x Reader
Word count: 3.9k
Synopsis: Reader has to play temptress/dancer at the Court of Nightmares for the IC as a distraction. She has to sit on Az’s lap (conveniently necessary) and eat from his hand. Friends to lovers. They can barely keep their hands to themselves.
A/N: visual aid. Coined diadem ~ The outfit  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You ran your fingers through the beautifully crafted outfit laid on your bed, mulling over the plan for tonight. You were going to the Court of Nightmares for the very first time as a new member of the Inner Circle. The role you’d be playing wasn’t a light one by any means; you were asked to play the role of Court Temptress, seducing the Shadowsinger. The distraction tonight, a figure that no one could place, that would not be named.
“I know it’s a little intimidating,” you jumped slightly at Mor’s voice suddenly behind you. You turned to face her. “Remember it’s not too late to back out.”
You smiled at your friend. “It’s okay, the mask will definitely help.” In the spirit of the intended mystique, Rhys had a dancer’s veil fashioned as part of the outfit; a diadem draped with intricately organized gold coins that would cover your whole face save for your eyes.
Mor patiently waited to help with your hair and makeup while you changed into the outfit. You wore an off-shoulder corseted black bodice glittering with beadwork that replicated the night sky. Jewelled strings hung off the bottom in an overlaid formation, draped like necklaces resting on your exposed abdomen. The bottom was a matching chiffon black skirt that hung off your hips in a floor-length piece, one down the front and one down back, slitted to expose both your legs.
When you walked out wearing the two-piece ensemble, Mor squealed in delight, making you laugh. “Beautiful! It’s so perfect!” You sat at the vanity to let her do your hair. She curled it into generous waves that fell down your back, fixing the back of the diadem into your hair. “He’s going to love it,” she said as she finished your hair. You perked up, cheeks heating.
“Who?”
Mor rolled her eyes, smiling. “You know exactly who. I’ll be right back,” she winked and left your room. You continued to take yourself in the mirror. Despite your nerves, you couldn’t help but admire your look. The black lining your eyes in a fierce upward sweep, the thick lashes, the way the coins moved with your movements.
Most of all, you appreciated the way your eyes shone behind the gold coins decorating your face, reminding you of a creature of seduction. A siren.
A knock sounded on your door. “Come in,” you said to Mor, inspecting the various crescent moon and star jewels adorning the length of your hair. Mor didn’t say anything upon entering, the silence prompting you to turn and see what was wrong. Except it wasn’t Mor who stood in your room, taking you in.
It was Azriel.
His mouth was parted slightly in astonishment as he gently closed the door behind him. You stood to face him fully, feeling exposed under his inspecting gaze. His mouth closed, jaw clenching and unclenching as his eyes travelled down your form, then back up again. Thank God for the veil, you thought as pink tinted your cheeks.
“Wow,” he said, letting his eyes rake your form once more. “You look… you look stunning.”
You ducked your head at the compliment. “Thank you.”
When you looked up again, he was smiling fondly. “Come on, none of that.”
“What?”
“No bashfulness. Not tonight. Look at you,” he said, walking towards you. A smoky look appeared in his eyes as he held your gaze. “Beautiful,” he said lowly, making your gut twist.
You swallowed. “Thank you,” you repeated. You and Azriel had become best friends over the few months you’ve known each other. The kind of best friends that toed the line a lot, the kind with lingering gazes and extra caresses that they didn’t acknowledge.
“Mor said you needed help with the jewelry.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Did she now.”
Az smiled cheekily. “Don’t shoot the messenger. It’ll be a good warm-up for tonight.”
“Ah yes,” you mused. “My partner in crime for the night.”
You turned to face the vanity again in search of the jewelry. None was laid out, making you frown. You met Azriel’s gaze in the mirror. “Rhys had these custom-made,” Azriel said, pulling out a velvet box you hadn’t seen when he entered. You began turning to see the contents, but Azriel stopped you with a gentle grasp on your shoulder. He began retrieving the contents of the container; a set, you presumed. He looks beautiful too. He donned a black dress shirt and dress pants, the fabric straining under the movement of his muscles. His golden skin glowed in contrast to his dark attire. Azriel pulled out a celestial gold necklace, placing the container on your seat. He unclasped it and brought his hands over your head to place it on you. The pendant fell above the swell of your chest. You moved your hair up to allow him to clasp it in place, and he moved even closer to do so. If you leaned back even an inch, you’d feel his abdomen on your back. You’d feel his breath, feel his warmth. Just an inch – 
“There.”  
You snapped out of your trance, meeting his gaze again in the mirror. He gestured for you to turn with his finger. You turned and craned your neck back to compensate for his towering height. He gazed down at you before finally stepping back. He reached for more jewelry in the box, but you didn’t take your eyes off him as he did. He moved to your side, grasping your right wrist gently to pull your arm up. You did as he silently requested. He treacherously grazed the length of your raised arm with the back of his knuckles until he reached your bicep. There, he clasped a thin, golden cuff in place. He then met your gaze.
“Was that necessary?” you asked despite yourself.
“Oh, yes,” he smiled.
You rolled your eyes, once again saying a prayer of thanks for the veil masking your blush.
He walked to the other side of you and placed the matching cuff in place. You reached into the box and began stacking rings on your fingers to distract yourself. He then held out a bracelet between his fingers, allowing you to rest your wrist on it for him to secure it. He repeated the motion with the second bracelet. You didn’t mind being under his care like this, you thought. “Is that all of it?”
He met your gaze, and that intensity from before came to life in his eyes again. “No.” He reached for the final piece in the box.
You frowned at it in confusion. “What is that?”
“It’s for your thigh.”
Your eyes widened. “Oh.” You took it from his hands and bent to clasp it around your upper thigh. You struggled to clasp it behind your thigh while keeping the chains draping in correct formation, prompting you to begin again and again.
Azriel placed a gentle hand on your wrist. “Let me,” he said. You gave him the chain.
To your shock, Azriel dropped to one knee. The gesture was startlingly intimate, making you hesitate. “Az, you don’t have to do that.” He just shook his head, brushing off your worry. He clasped it in place easily. When he finished, he didn’t immediately rise as you expected.
He gingerly grasped the backs of your calves, meeting your gaze. “Nervous?”
You tried to compose yourself. “What?” Your breathlessness betrayed you, though he didn’t comment on it.
“For tonight,” he clarified.
As if you could focus with his hands grasping you gently. “A little bit.”
He smiled, fondness snuffing out the previous look of fervour. “You don’t need to be. Let them see you as I see you.”
You dared voice your question. “How do you see me.”
“Beautiful, clever, charming.”
Despite his praise, despite what it did to your heart, you felt your nerves arise. “I don’t know if I can do this, Az.”
He stood at your admission. You kept your gaze lowered, prompting him to raise your chin gently to meet his gaze once more. “You can,” he said. The certainty in his voice made you believe he meant it. “I’ll be wearing a mask too,” he said softly.
“What mask?”
He smiled again. “The big bad Shadowsinger mask.” That made you laugh, easing your nerves. “I’m going to be acting very unfeeling and ravenous.”
“Big words,” you smiled up at him.
“Indeed,” he smiled back.
Silence fell upon the two of you as you looked at each other. This wasn’t uncommon, though neither of you ever acknowledged it. “What’ll it be like when I walk in?” You broke the silence.
Azriel’s eyes glinted with something predatory. “They’ll be on their knees for you. As any male should be.”
The thrill that went through you had you raising your chin. “Is that so?”
Azriel smiled, all masculine satisfaction. “Did I not just give you a demonstration?”
You smiled coyly despite the butterflies in your stomach. “I suppose.”
Another silence fell, though you had no intention of breaking it this time. Azriel reached to the veil on your face, gingerly tracing the coin above your mouth. You watched as he did, wanting to see what he’d do next –
“(Y/N), we’re leaving in five,” Mor shouted from outside, knocking on your door. You startled, stepping back. You looked back to Azriel. He gave you a nod, then turned and lead the way to meet the rest of the group outside.
~
Upon entering the foyer, you found everyone standing getting ready to winnow. They turned to you as you arrived with Azriel. Cassian let out a wolf whistle, making you laugh. “You’re a knockout,” he said.
You gave him a cheeky raise of your shoulder, grinning at him. Rhys and Feyre were smiling at you, though you knew you wouldn’t be seeing those smiles when they’d ascend the Court of Nightmares throne. “I knew you’d be perfect,” Feyre said.
“It’ll be a good look for Az, too,” Cassian said, wiggling his brows suggestively, making you laugh. A reminder about your intended role for tonight. Not just any Temptress, but Azriel’s.
“Remind me again why I’m assigned to Az?” you asked.
Rhys’s mischievous smile had you immediately regretting the question. “Because you two can just look at each other exactly as you do anyways, and it’ll get the job done.” You glared and gave your High Lord the middle finger, making Feyre and Cassian laugh as Rhys continued to smugly smirk at you.
“Slanderous allegations,” Azriel quipped. You turned to look at him, and he only winked at you with a crooked grin. You went to elbow him, but he easily caught your elbow before impact, returning your arm in place.
“They make it too easy,” Feyre said to Cassian who nodded easily.
“Whatever,” you said.
“Ready?” Mor asked.
You took a deep breath, remembering what Azriel said to you. They’ll be on their knees for you. “Ready.” You took her hand, Azriel took the other, and the world disappeared.
~
You found yourselves in the antechamber leading to the throne room, prompting everyone to put on their subjective masks; the cruel, tyrannical inner circle outsiders believed you all to be. Cassian was to enter first along with Azriel, then Amren, Mor, Nesta, and Elain. Rhys and Feyre would follow, and you’d be the last one in.
Azriel turned to you as everyone prepared themselves. “Remember what I said,” he spoke softly with no trace of humour. “When you walk in, just keep your eyes on me. Don’t worry about anyone else.” You nodded.
A hushed silence overtook the room as each member walked in. When Rhys and Feyre made their way in, you heard vague shifting. They’re kneeling, you realized. As your high lord and lady made their way to the thrones, you walked to the threshold of the throne room, taking it all in.
Someone inside began playing slow, mesmerizing music. Notes from a violin, then the slow, rhythmic beat of drums that you felt in your bones. Your friends flanked the thrones. You remained standing where you were, letting the music wash over you as you watched Feyre and Rhys finally ascend onto their thrones. They sat, though Rhys made no move to address the room. The court remained on their knees, parted on either side of the walkway like a sea.
An energy passes through you that’s equally as nerve-racking as it was thrilling, making you shiver. A siren, you said to yourself. Be a siren. You caught Azriel’s eye watching you from where he stood to the right of Rhys’s throne. Despite the mask he donned, his face cold and calculating, all hard lines and taut jaw, you saw the slightest smirk uplift the corner of his mouth, as if he were saying I told you they’d be on their knees. You steeled your nerves, drawing strength from Azriel. The male you loved so dearly, who called you so many pretty things tonight that you lost count.
You let your body go lax, stepping into the threshold of the room. You followed the beat of the sensual music, letting your hips sway as you walked in, keeping your arms relaxed at your sides. Temptress, you reminded yourself. With all eyes on you, you fell into the necessary headspace and sauntered over to the throne.
When you finally reached the throne, you fell to their feet in an exaggerated curtesy, your skirts fluttering dramatically around you. Only then did Rhys finally allow everyone to stand. “Rise,” he said simply. Everyone did except for you, where you continued to sit on the floor of their thrones, though you did look over your shoulder to the room and found that all eyes remained on you. You adjusted your position with full intention to find a more comfortable seat, turning to face the room. You leaned lazily with your back on the middle of their thrones, extending your feet and making a show of rearranging your skirts over your legs.
It was then that Kier came to address his high lord and lady. They spoke, Kier’s animosity barely concealed, Rhys and Feyre’s unhidden. Kier’s gaze kept flitting back to you in distaste, which you knew your friends noted. “We brought you a gift since you’ve been so obedient lately,” Rhys said. That was your cue.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Feyre asked as you stood.
Kier looked you over, clearly unimpressed, but simply said, “yes. Lovely.”
“Dance for us,” Feyre told you. You obeyed, stepping around Kier like he was a stranger on the street. You made your way to the middle of the room. The music picked up, the rhythm was loud and soothing. You fell into a sway, winding your arms around you gracefully. You dropped your hips rhythmically, following the sound of the drums. Once again, all eyes were on you. The distraction was working, allowing Mor to slip out and retrieve the orb that was needed. Don’t be nervous, you heard Feyre speak in your mind. Just look at how he looks at you.
You dared look back to find Azriel’s gaze between your slow, sensual twirls. Sure enough, he could barely conceal the hunger in his eyes. His head was slightly elevated, giving his eyes a heavy-lidded fall. Bedroom eyes, whether that was part of his mask or not. He’s just playing his role, you replied to Feyre in your mind.
I promise you there’s nothing ingenuine in his look, she whispered back. At that, you matched the look he was giving you, raising your chin as you danced and lazily took him in. But not for too long, as you twirled away, letting the whispers commence. Under his wistful stare, you finished your dance number, the music ending. You remained where you were, still holding everyone’s attention. The court applauded, and you turned to make your way back to the thrones.
You fell back to your previous position at their thrones. Feyre poured a glass of wine for you herself, giving you a pleased smile. You were wonderful.
You drank, letting yourself cool down in the chilly air of the courtroom. Rhys asked for food to be brought out; on his command, tables filled with food appeared, but everyone waited for the inner circle to first take their places. You stood, waited for Rhys and Feyre to sit, then followed your friends. The table laid in front of the throne only had eight seats. You hid your confusion, looking to Cassian as he took his seat. He simply winked at you and gave a small smile. Then it dawned on you. Azriel’s temptress.
You’d be seated in his lap.
Sure enough, Azriel turned to you, silently summoning you over. You walked over and took your seat, sitting on his left thigh, your own thighs falling on either side of his leg. He was so large that even on his lap, you weren’t at his eye level. He brought his arm and lazily wrapped it around your hips. You kept your composure externally, though any bravado from before melted away internally. Though he was your best friend, though affection wasn’t rare between the two of you – hell, he even put your jewelry on you himself earlier – this was certainly new.
Once you’ve adjusted, you feel yourself relax into his chest. Only then does Azriel let his hand fall onto your leg. His hand is substantially warmer than your leg, and he notices this because you feel his shadows gently stroke up your legs in an attempt to warm you. You put your hand over his and squeeze it in silent thanks.
His right hand brought food to your mouth before you could protest. You move your coined veil with your free hand, opening your mouth. He places a grape in your mouth, fingers shamelessly grazing your lips as he did. You don’t stop him. He continues to feed you, and for a moment, you wonder if any element of the alleged masks were truly inhibitory, or if in reality all they did was allow the two of you to be more authentic with each other than you would otherwise dare. A tempting contradiction to mull over as you ate grapes directly off his fingers, relishing in the warmth of his body encapsulating you.  
You continued to eat, occasionally drinking wine between bites. Azriel’s hand resting on your thigh slowly makes its way up your leg, over your hip, and then drags across your abdomen. You sigh quietly at the sensation, only loud enough for him to hear. That sets Kier off. He leans over to a vizier. “He’s hand-feeding his harlot.”
Before you could even turn, you hear Kier sputter. Then you hear glass breaking. You begin to turn, but Azriel stops you by squeezing your waist. “Don’t,” he whispers. You turn to look at him.
You hold each other’s gaze, and he simply brings another grape up to your mouth, which you accept. The sputtering sound turns into outright gagging and coughing. Azriel is choking Kier, you realized. With his shadows. The rest of the court halts their eating to watch Kier struggle to breathe, clawing at his throat while Azriel keeps his eyes on you. Kier manages to wheeze out an apology. Only then do you hear him exhale in relief, breathing raggedly.
You don’t deign to look at Kier, but you do peer over to Rhys. He hadn’t objected to the punishment. “Ever the mouth breather,” he said simply. Everyone returned to their food at that.
You look back to Azriel who was still watching you. He drew lazy circles with his fingers on your abdomen. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured lowly in his baritone voice for only your ears to detect. You nodded once in agreement. Just you and me.
~
Back at the house, everyone was lounging on the couches in the living room, in no rush to get up after all the drinking. You’d removed the diadem upon arrival. “You did such a good job,” Mor praised you. You saluted your friend with two fingers. Everyone was tired at the late hour, but you were still buzzing with energy. Azriel was sitting next to you on your couch, an arm draped behind you on the couch. Whatever leash the two of you had kept on your friendship had been released tonight. Cassian lazily looks over at you and gives you a pointed smile. You just shrug and smile back.
Rhys praises the group on their good work, takes Feyre’s hand, and they head to their room. One by one, everyone follows suit. Cassian and Nesta, then the remaining females. Alone with Azriel, you turn to look at him. In the continuity of this evening, you found him already gazing at you. Sure enough, that hunger you noted in the court of nightmares was waiting for you in his eyes.
“Nice and ravenous,” you joked. He gave a relaxed smile, catching your echo of his earlier words.
“Indeed.” He held your gaze. “You did amazing,” he said more seriously.
“You helped me feel comfortable,” you told him. His hungry eyes burned into your own. You swallowed. “Maybe you can help me out of all these jewels.”
He didn’t so much as blink. “It would be my pleasure.” You get up off the couch and he does as well. You take his hand and lead him to your room.
You turned your faelight on, the rest of the room remaining dark. He came up behind you, placing his hands on your hips. He bent down and places a kiss on your exposed shoulders, trailing the kisses up towards your neck. You let yourself sag into his body, taking off your rings. His hands move up your sides, onto your arms. He repeats his earlier motion of grazing up your arms until he reaches your gold cuffs. He released them without raising his head. You took off your bracelets.
He circled to your front, holding your gaze, and he sank to his knees. Bringing his hands to your knees again, they slowly moved up your legs, cupping your thighs from behind, making you shiver. He reached for your thigh jewelry, unclasped it, and he bent forward to place a kiss where it had been. His hands continued their upward path, making their way to your hips once more. He leaned in closer, placing another kiss, this time on your belly. He pulled you closer to him by the hips, making you gasp as your back arched. He trailed more kisses up your abdomen. You put your hands in his hair, nails grazing his scalp.
He stood once more, making you peer up at him. You caught sight of his dilated pupils. He pulled you to him by the waist, bending forward once more to trail kisses up your neck. When he reached your jaw, your eyes were too heavy to keep open. He finally pressed his lips to yours feverishly kissing you.
He walked the two of you back towards your bed. To your dismay, he broke off the kiss, breathless. “You ate fruit off my fingers,” he rasped. You nodded, dazed. The backs of your knees hit your bed, making you fall back into it. Azriel simply sunk back onto his knees for the third time that night, grasping your knees, and pulling them apart. “I have every intention of also being fed.”
~
I drew inspiration from my culture w the implied bellydancing and attire. :)
taglist:
@iimisty-a​ @feyretopia​ @cityofidek​
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Thank you @semieitabby and everyone who got me to 3000 reblogs!
Your Forever
Summary: It's you're seven hundred and twentyish birthday and you spend it with Thomas Shelby, a human, who makes promises to be with you forever
Warnings: angst! Fluff! Smut! Dark moments, possessive moments, bloodyish sex, light gruesome death details, character death
Reader: Male Vampire Reader
Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Male Reader
Word Count: 7,624
A/n: Requested by @charliedakotariley ... First off I'm so sorry it took forever to get this out! Secondly I'm sorry it's so long! I got carried away! I hope it's good! I've been working on it forever! So I'm sorry if towards the end it gets stupid, I'm tired. lol... I really want to post it so I'm going to and then reread it tomorrow to fix mistakes and if you don't like it I can fix whatever you don't like. I hope you enjoy it! I hope this is kind of what you were thinking!
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As the last light from the sun disappears below the horizon your eyes open. The room is pitch black but you never needed light to see. Your tired eyes adjust the longer you're awake.
You shift onto your back and release a low sigh. It had been a long week and knew that the days to come would be just as tiresome. Needless to say it took you longer than usual to leave the comfort of your bed.
Normally by the time you're walking downstairs you're dressed and ready for the night but you couldn't find it in you to look put together. So, you ignore your freshly pressed pants and ironed button up in favor for your thick robe.
You leave your room in your comfortable sleeping pants hanging low on your hips accompanied with severe bedhead. Your bare feet scrape across the hardwood floors as you make your way toward the kitchen.
When you enter the maids all pause. They had never seen you like this before. As stated earlier you usually looked put together whenever you're around others.
Why was today different? Why didn't you have the energy to compose yourself? The simple answer is because it's your birthday.
Birthday's are all fine and dandy when you have a limited amount of them. However, this one is roughly your seven hundred twenty-ish birthday. Somewhere around there.
One thing you have going for you is your young body and handsome face. You were a peasant when you were human and didn't really care about your looks. Your mind was far too focused on surviving to the next day.
As the centuries passed you went through phases with your appearance. Some years you enjoyed how you looked while others you hated looking at any reflective surface. In the earlier years it was easier to avoid your reflection since almost all mirrors were backed with silver thus rendering you reflectionless.
Depending on your mood you did different things for your birthday. Some years you threw the grandest parties the world has ever seen. The parties ranged from royal and sophisticated gatherings to so scandalous that the devil himself would be hesitant to attend.
Then there were years where you'd spend the day isolated and moping. Living several hundred years had plenty of downsides and your birthday only served as a reminder that you would have to keep... living.
"Ladies," You greet, politely. The younger ones continue to stare until your head maid claps her hands and shoos them out of the room while quietly scolding them.
"Good evening, Mr. Y/l/n," She greets, standing by the entrance with her fingers intertwined in front of her.
"Good evening, Ms. Carlson," You return the greeting as you take a seat at the near by table. She goes toward the fridge and pulls out a red bag.
"Would you like for me to warm it up?" She questions.
"Please do," You mutter grabbing the newspaper.
On this day many years ago you fell sick with a disease that was destroying your village. You don't remember how it happened exactly but you turned into what was then called a 'demon in the night'. Today they like to call your kind vampires.
Being a creature that can't step foot in the sunlight can be tricky but you've gotten the hang of it by now. You have a very large fortune that pays for your home and the staff that takes care of it.
The more seasoned staff members know your secret and are compensated for their silence on the matter. The newer staff have their theories but don't truly know anything.
Ms. Carlson has been your maid for the last few hundred years. She's a dear friend and you knew you wouldn't have made it this long without her. Every so often you assure her that she doesn't need to serve you but every time you do she reminds you of how useless you are without her. A very true statement.
"Mr. Shelby rang not too long ago," Ms. Carlson says, bringing you a warm cup of blood. You visibly perk which brings a soft smile to her face. "He's stopping by in a few hours," She tells you.
"Good," You say, relaxing in your seat again. "Good," You mutter, bringing the cup to your lips.
Thomas Shelby. You've known a lot of people throughout your years. Over the last century or so you have come to the belief that there is no longer a person in the world that could surprise you. Of course once you get this in your head you meet Thomas Shelby.
You met him during the war. He had caught you feeding on one of the corpses during a battle. He had been horrified and even shot you in the chest. You found the entire situation amusing.
You had originally planned on killing the soldier but decided against it. Despite all the mud, sweat, and dried blood covering the man you could see how handsome he is. His striking blue eyes never failed to captivate you.
In fact you specifically remember thinking 'such beautiful eyes shouldn't close prematurely'. For those who don't have a poets mind you were thinking that such a beautiful man shouldn't be killed before his time or something like that.
You never thought that you would see him again. The war was spread throughout the world and you were constantly moving around. You weren't with a specific unit. You just enjoyed the killing and the daily feast.
Then the battle of Somme came. When you saw him huddled in the ground with a handful of his men you knew he was something special. He had a fire in his eyes and you knew that he wasn't done with the world yet.
When you got him and his men out of there alive he wouldn't let you leave without talking to you. He had asked what you were and why you had saved him. Thinking you would never see him again you didn't see the harm in telling him.
You had told multiple humans the truth of your existence over the years. It was more of a way to find entertainment than to expose your species.
The humans you told usually lost their minds. They would try to spread hysteria. They would try to get others to know the truth but nobody ever believed them. Maybe you were a little sadistic. You liked watching them fall to insanity and fear. Hey, you've been alive for this long you need someone to give you a laugh.
Only Thomas didn't lose his mind. He didn't give into fear or hysteria. He believed you when you told him what you were, how old you were, and what you were doing in the war (mainly feeding but also helping Britain win battles here and there).
You found yourself seeking Thomas out. You enjoyed his company and the way his mind worked. He took things in the way were no matter how insane they seemed and used everything to his advantage.
When the war ended you bought a home near Birmingham to stay close to Tommy. He knew that you couldn't step into the sun but also knew most of the work happened at night. He offered you a position with the Peaky Blinders and you took it.
You didn't always do what he told you to do but your ability to say no to him was nearly nonexistant. Plus you enjoyed the jobs he gave you. It ranged from hunting men down to hypnotizing one of his friends in an attempt to help settle his damaged mind. Anything he wanted you gave to him.
You hadn't even realized how close the two of you were getting until recently.
***
- Two Months Ago -
The rain was pelting down all around you. You had been soaked within a minute of stepping outside of your home. The jacket you were wearing was supposed to be water resistant but the rain had long since seeped through the material.
While you couldn't get sick you could still feel the coldness that accompanied the rain fall. Despite the rain and the wind and the dreadful cold you continued on your path. You were supposed to meet Thomas Shelby at the Garrison. You had never been late to a meeting before and you weren't going to let a little rain stop you.
When you arrived the Garrison was nearly empty. Thomas was seated at the bar while Harry was pulling on his coat. You bade Harry a good night and held the door open for him. You promised to leave the pub the way you found it before locking the door behind him.
You shed your jacket and hat off before approaching Thomas. In hind sight you would have realized how weird it was that he had yet to greet you. He wasn't even facing you but you thought nothing of it at the time.
"Quiet night?" You asks, walking around the bar to fix yourself a drink. It was a Friday night. Usually the Garrison was packed on Friday nights. Although, you assumed the heavy rain had kept some people away but usually the drunks made the trek no matter what.
"I sent everyone home," Tommy says, his voice deep and slightly scratchy. You hummed quietly keeping your focus on your drink. When it was finished you put the bottles back and then looked up at him.
You may have been cold before but the sight in front of you made you sent ice through your veins. You could feel your eyes darkening and your fangs trying to extend in response to the sudden anger.
There was a large bruise covering half of Thomas's face. His lip is split and eye is nearly swollen shut. Now that you listen you notice a slight wheeze in his breaths.
"Give me a name," You said, your voice calm in contrast with your surrounding aurora.
To a normal person you would look as calm as you sounded but Tommy knew you better. He knew the rage you were feeling by not only the darkness in your eyes but through the edge in your voice. He knew what you were capable of and a shiver raced down his spine when you spoke to him.
"Quinton Terek and his brothers on the west side," Thomas said. Those boys had been giving the Blinders trouble as of late. There weren't many of them but they were sneaky, highly trained, and had a thrill for causing trouble.
You first instinct was to leave and hunt down the men that had harmed him. You were already planning what you would do to them. They would beg for death before the first hour is spent.
Only a different instinct over took your initial one.
You walked to the sink and grabbed a clean rag. You drenched it with cold water before putting some ice in a bucket. You walked around the bar and took a seat beside him. Tommy didn't stop you from turning his chair towards you.
With a tenderness you didn't know you still had you began to wash the blood and dirt from his face. Every time he winced you would try to be gentler but didn't stop until he was cleaned up. You then used the rag to hold the ice.
"Put this on your face," You said softly knowing that his head must be pounding therefore you didn't want add to his pain. "What else hurts?" You ask, lowering your hands from his face to rest on his legs.
You don't know when you started to get touchy with Thomas but he never complained so you never stopped. Your hands always found their way to him in one way or another. Whether you were pressing a hand to his back, brushing your knuckles against his or caressing his thigh you had to touch him. Maybe that should have been a hint to where things were going.
"I'm fine," He gruffs, reaching for his drink. You watch the glass go to his lips and then watch his throat move as he swallows the contents. Your eyes zero in on his neck as you take in a deep breath focusing on his mouthwatering scent.
"You're struggling to breathe," You note, your eyes going back to his.
"That's a little bit of an overstatement," He says.
"Are your ribs broken?" You ask him. He stares at you for a moment before he shakes his head. "Mind if I look?" You ask. He watches you for a moment before setting down the rag of ice on the bar top. When he nods you hands go to his button up.
His eyes stay glued on you as you watch his slowly revealing chest. When you undo the last button you push the shirt open for a better view. You resist the urge to lick you lips as you gaze at his chest and abdomen.
It only takes you a moment to focus on the large bruise on his side. A second flash of anger courses through you when you see how dark the skin is. Your fingers delicately brush along it which causes him to breathe in sharply.
"Sorry," You mutter, glancing up at him. As always, his crystal blue eyes captivate you making it nearly impossible to look away.
"Will I live?" He asks jokingly with a serious face. A small smirk comes to your lips.
"It'll be close but you should pull through," You say, reluctantly pulling your hands from him. Before the return to your lap one of Thomas's hands latch onto yours. Your smile deepens and you give his hand a squeeze. "I'd tell you to take it easy the next few days but I doubt you'd listen," You whisper.
"How would you know if I did or didn't? You sleep all day," Tommy jokes lightly.
"Are you suggesting that you sleep at all? Thomas, my darling, you sleep less than I do," You squeeze his hand again. "At least go home and try to rest until the sun rises," You plead with him.
"Why would I rest at night when you sleep during the day?" Tommy asks.
"Because your human and that's natural," You remind him. "Besides, I have business to attend to tonight so I cannot be your entertainment," You say standing up. "Rest, darling, I'll know if you don't," You wink at him. You press a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead, trying to ignore the fact that he leans into you, before stepping back.
"Using my aunt as your informant is dirty work," Thomas calls after you knowing that she's your spy.
"We just want what's best for you," You say from the door. You pull on your jacket and hat. "I know you won't but I'll still say it. Take a day off of work and I'll visit tomorrow night," You promise.
"You'll visit either way," Tommy states. You smirk before disappearing into night.
***
- Present -
You had seen Tommy hurt before and it had never really bothered you until that night. That night you had felt more rage than you had in centuries. That night you spent every second before the sunrise dragging out their deaths.
When their bodies were found they made national news. Everyone around the country heard the gruesome tale of their deaths. No death that violent had been reported before.
You took pride in your work but Ms. Carlson spent a good couple hours scolding you for allowing the bodies to be found. She didn't like how ruthless you could be but always accepted that it was apart of who you were. However, she tried to get you to at least clean up after yourself.
Ms. Carlson may have scolded you for most of the night but you never regretted it. They hurt Tommy. You couldn't allow them to live after that.
The night after their death was when it occurred to you what was happening. You had only lost control like that for one other person. That person is the light of your life and the one you hold closest to your heart. If you were reacting like this for Tommy then that meant something.
When the realization hit you you didn't know how to feel. You were scared, you could admit that. But you weren't scared enough to run away. Only too scared to indulge any further than you already are.
When you told Ms. Carlson that you weren't going to progress with Thomas but continue as things were the old bat had the audacity to laugh at you. She knew what you knew deep down. Keeping your distance from Thomas was an idiotic thought.
"Oh, and happy birthday Y/n," She says, softly. You pout which just causes her to laugh lightly. She presses a motherly kiss on top of your head before slipping out of the room.
By the time Tommy arrived you managed to get dressed and comb your hair. Your trousers were a simple black with a plain white button up accompanied with black suspenders. You didn't style your hair as you normally did opting to just run a brush through it a few times.
When Tommy arrived he knocked but didn't bother to wait for someone to answer. He had taken his own coat and hat off before you had greeted him.
"What brings you by tonight?" You ask, leading him into one of your private study rooms. The walls were lined with book shelves and musical records. You walked to the bar table while Tommy made his way over to the records.
As he looks through the records he recalls his day. He talked about the fight Arthur had gotten into and the trouble John had caused. He spoke about Ada's newest act of rebellion and the new horse he's looking at.
You listened to his every word. Silently you handed him a drink while taking the record he chose and began to play it quietly. Eventually the two of you made it to one of the couches and sat closer than what would have been acceptable but neither of you cared.
"You must be tired," You mutter, shifting in a more diagonal position. Your arm rests along the back of the couch going behind Tommy. He releases a long sigh and slouches enough to rest his head on your forearm. The action makes you smile.
"I wanted a peaceful night," He whispers, closing his eyes.
You loved the fact that he found peace here. He knew that even if he went back to his place his family could still bombard him. They would continue to bring either business or family drama to his door step. He also knew that nobody dared step within a mile of your home unless they either knew they were welcome or had a death wish. He knew he was safe with you.
"Do you want to be alone? Or have company?" You ask him.
While you wanted nothing more than to be in his presence you would give him space if he needed it. It was enough that he came to you, that he's in your home.
He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at you while keeping it rested on your arm. His eyes are tired but oh so beautiful. You desperately wanted to pull him closer but restrained yourself.
"I always want your company," He mutters candidly.
"Then you shall always have it," You say softly. The two of you spend a few songs simply being in each others presence until you take his class, along with your own, and set them on a nearby table. "Come here," You whisper, slowly laying down.
Tommy doesn't miss a beat. The two of you shift until he's laying between your legs with his head nuzzled in the crook of your neck. He breathes slowly. You rub his back helping him destress after a long day.
Your body tenses for a moment when you feel his lips press against your neck. You stay still for a moment not sure what he wants. You knew you wanted him. You knew Ms. Carlson was right to be amused when you told her you wanted to keep Tommy at a distance. You knew your desire for him was too strong to ignore. But you also knew you wouldn't do a thing without him wanting you just as badly.
Tommy slowly lifts his head until his crystal eyes are pouring into yours. Your hands naturally find their way onto his hips. You don't move. You don't pull him closer nor push him away. You wait for him and you don't have to wait long.
Before the song ends Tommy is pressing his lips on yours. In an instant your hands are digging into his hips. The soft kiss unlocks a primal desire to take everything Tommy is willing to give.
The kiss doesn't stay innocent like it had started. A low moan comes from your throat as his hips press down into yours. Every second the kiss continues you can feel your control slip.
"Thomas," You whisper, your lips brushing against his while you say his name. "What do you want?" You ask him. His nips at your bottom lip and bumps his nose against yours.
"You," He whispers back. "All of you," He kisses along your jaw. "Every inch,"
"If you let me have you, my darling, I'll never let you go," You tell him.
"Don't let me go," He whispers. Your hand leaves his hip and comes up between the two of you. You grip his chin strongly and force him to focus on you.
"I won't let you go," You tell him slowly. "You give me one tase of what you have and I'll keep you,"
"I'm yours," He says softly. A small smirk comes to your lips. You pull his head down and gently kiss his lips.
"You're mine," You whisper back. Your hand goes back to his hip. Both of your hands slide over his hand, giving it a long delicious squeeze, before stopping at his thighs.
Swiftly you pick him up and speed him through you home to your room. By the time you have him on your bed his eyes are wide and he's breathing heavily. He had seen you move that fast before but had never experienced it himself.
"You've had a long day, my beautiful gem," You whisper, taking off his shoes and socks. "Let me take care of you," You say, looking into his eyes.
It was clear that the thought of not being in control made him cautious. You waited for him to fight you on the matter but all he did was relax against the mattress. He may have been nervous but he let you take the lead.
"Good boy," You whisper, running your hands up his legs. You spread them and kneel in the new space. You hover over him and reconnect your lips with his while undoing his belt and pants. "I'll make you feel good," You promise against his lips.
"Please," He whispers to you. You smirk.
"I don't have your trousers off yet and you're already begging," You tease. "You're far too quiet though, we'll have to change that," You mutter, taking your kisses down to his throat. You nip and suck on his pulse bringing a low moan from him. "So responsive," You mutter. "I'm gonna have fun with you,"
Tommy shifts under you but you're quick to still him. Your lips return to his as you work on taking his shirt off. You lean back and he sits up not wanting to break the kiss. Your hands explore his warm chest and your fingers tweak his nipples. He whines quietly.
He shrugs off his shirt and practically rips yours open. You chuckles as you toss it into the dark beside his. The kiss between the two of you becomes more desperate.
His hands roam your back while yours make a mess of his hair. You straddle his lap and begin to grind against him. His fingers dig into your skin.
"You can't hurt me," You whisper. "Give me everything. Hold nothing back," You encourage before resuming the kiss. His fingers claw into your back. The pain is temporary for you but oh so delicious. You moan loudly showing how much you love him letting go with you.
You knew he had the weight of the world on his shoulders on a day to day basis. You didn't want him to have that stress on his mind when he's with you. You wanted him to be free. You wanted him to use you to let out his frustrations on.
As selfless you want to be with him you're nowhere near a saint. You let him grip you hard enough to bruise and kiss you dizzy but with ever move he makes the fire in your stomach is fueled. Your carnal desire to devour and claim him as yours clouds your head. You need all of him and as he shows you that he wants you just as much you feel your control slipping.
You use your speed to finish undressing not only yourself but him as well. You force his back against the mattress and his hands above his hair. Your eyes stare deeply into his.
"You're hands are to stay there until I say so," You command. Tommy moans as you begin to take complete control over him. He experimentally tries to breaking your demand but his hands refuse to move. His cock hardens.
You press a light kiss to his lips before going down his body. His eyes follow you but he otherwise stays still. You press open mouthed sloppy kisses down his chest. You were content with playful nips here and there but he wasn't.
"Bite me," He pants. For the second time this night he has you tensing. You're eyes snap up to him. He isn't a man who likes to repeat himself so he stares at you knowing that you heard him.
"Tell me if you need me to stop or slow down," You say, not moving an inch until he verbally assures you that he will. Your eyes slowly rake down his body. "Oh, so beautiful," You whisper, lowering your head. You take in his scent and groan. "What'd I do to get you?" You ask yourself, placing a gentle kiss on his sternum.
Unable to resist the temptation you go back up to his throat. You groan as he automatically moves his head to give you access.
"Such a good boy," You whisper, pressing a kiss under his jaw as a reward. He huffs in an attempt to suppress a whine.
You lick his neck a few times, your saliva providing a small amount of numbing sensation. When your fangs break his skin all he feels is pleasure. So much pleasure that his back arches off the bed and his eyes roll back.
His blood is unlike anything you've ever tasted. It's rich but also tainted. It's so him that there's no mistaking it. Within a few gulps you find yourself addicted.
You pull from his neck only to bite his shoulder and then your eyes set on his bicep. Every bite you take only sends pleasurable shocks through his body. The feeling of being fed from is so enrapturing that he's surprised he hasn't came yet.
When you pull away from his wrist your eyes instantly go to his face. He looks high and completely blissful. He has an almost loopy look to him. You give him a crimson smile which only turns him on even more. He realizes that he loves seeing you with blood covering your mouth. Especially if the blood is his.
You move faster than his head can register. When he catches up you have him in a deep and feral kiss. He moans and bucks his hip up into yours. You grind back down on him moaning when both of your cocks move against each other.
"You're a drug," You moan, nipping his lip. Not to draw blood but just to tease him.
"Please," He whispers. You hum and lightly press kissing over his face. "Touch me," He pants. Your look into his eyes and lower your hand down to your cocks. Your hand wraps around his. A smirk comes to your lips as his eyes roll back.
"You're a masterpiece," You mutter, slowly but firmly jerking him off. "So beautiful... A work of art," You compliment. You scoot down the bed and lower yourself to take his cock in your mouth. His jaw drops and he begins to pant again.
You swirl your tongue and bob your head. Your hand grips the base of his cock tightly while you tease the top. Curses escape his lips only to grow louder the deeper you take him in your mouth. You let him buck into your mouth until you decide to hold him down and take his cock all the way.
"Oh, fuck," Tommy pants. Sneakily, you slip a finger into his entrance. You instantly find that spot that you know will drive him wild. You add another finger and abuse the hell out of the spot while bobbing your head around his cock. "I'm so... so close... Oh, fuck! Please!" He pulls at his hands but is unable to break your control.
Deciding to be a little evil you stop all stimulation and pull away. The look he gives you is murderous. You love it. You rest your hands on the headboard above him and lean your face close to his.
"When you come you're going come with my cock deep in that tight ass and my hand wrapped around your throat," You whisper, trailing a finger along his Adams apple. "I want to year you cum to the sounds of the headboard banging against the wall. I want you to wake everyone in the house and show them all you belong to me," You whisper.
"Then fuck me already," He snaps. You smirk lowering your head to his ear.
"Careful what you wishful, little one," You whisper. You place a delicate kiss on his jaw before thrusting inside of him without anymore prep. His cries bring a sadistic grin to your face.
You give mercy by stilling until he's used to your size. As you wait for him to relax you begin to lick at your multiple bites which helps them heal while adding more stimulation.
"Fuck me," He mutters, his voice quiet. He knows you hear him and you know he knows you hear him but you still hum for him to say it again. "Fuck me," He snaps. The words barely leave his lips before your snapping your hips in and out of him.
"You can move your hands, my darling," You whisper to him. They go from above his head to clawing at your back. You thrust in and out of him until you flip onto your back. He sits on top of you and takes you in deeply. His hands trace your chest as his head lays back. "Use me," You whisper. He looks at you drunkenly. You smirk and massage his hips. "You want to come? Go for it, gem,"
He's slow and unsure at first but soon finds a rhythm. You moan watching him bounce on your cock. You whisper compliments on how perfect he looks and how good he is for you.
When he gets close again you sit up and bring his lips back to yours. He rocks back and forth. You help him find a pattern with your hands.
"Touch yourself," You whisper against his lips. His hand instantly goes to his cock. Your hand goes to his throat. His breathing becomes quicker as he remembers your words. "If you want it... beg."
"I want to come, please," He whines. You tighten your hand which makes it harder for the words to come out but you love the sound of the struggle. He begs and bounces and jerks himself off until you give him your permission.
The sounds this man makes when he comes is like sounding heaven. They're low groans and pants. His breath will hitch every few seconds before he relaxes and lets out another low moan.
He gasps when you flip him onto his back and begin to drill into him. He cries out from the overstimulation but you don't stop until you're own release is pumping into him.
When you relax, Tommy welcomes your weight onto him. You stay buried deep inside of him. You nuzzle into his neck.
"So good, baby," You whisper. "So good for me... You're mine now," You innocently kiss his shoulder. "You're far too good, much too delicious for me to give up," Tommy just hums and slowly falls asleep.
You slip out of him which causes him to whimper but you caress his body and place gentle kisses along his skin until he settles back down. You quickly clean yourself and him up before resettling on the bed.
"Come here," You whisper again. More than half asleep Tommy moves to cuddle with you. Your eyes close as the sun breaches the horizon.
Surprisingly, Tommy stayed with you. He stayed by your side during the day. He cuddled with you for hours before moving to the desk in your room to eat a little food one of the maids had set out.
His body felt sore. Pleasantly sore but there was still a little wince when he went to sit down. He could only imagine the pleased look that you'll have when you see it.
He doesn't mean too but he can't help but watch you sleep a little bit. With the sun up you barely have any other choice but to sleep. He had never seen you so vulnerable and he can only think of things he'd do to the person who'd try to hurt you while you're like this.
When night began you awoke. Tommy was in the kitchen doing some work he had brought with him when you sauntered in. You were half put together. Your pants were on and suspenders clipped but hanging by your legs. You button up was around you but not buttoned.
"You stayed," You whisper, a pleasant smile on your lips. Tommy glances at you. His eyes look down and slowly come back up. He gives you a small grin from behind his glass but he says nothing.
"Mr. Y/l/n," Ms. Carlson greets, coming into the kitchen. "Oh, will you button your shirt," She rolls her eyes.
"I'm sorry, I was under the impression I was in my home," You mutter playfully. She gives you a look.
"This may be your home but there are other people here and you had your lazy day yesterday. Now button up," She says pointing at you. Tommy raises his eyebrows at you but you just shrug and do as told. "Here, yesterday and today's mail,"
"Why didn't I see the mail yesterday?" You ask, taking the envelope's from her hand.
"Because you were sulking and then fucking. Which one was I supposed to interrupt?" She asks, tilting her head.
"You know the last person who tried to mother me died," You warn but her gaze hardens.
"I'm already dead," She states. "Thanks to you," She adds. "You don't intimidate me, Mr. Y/l/n. Now, be a good host and make sure Mr. Shelby eats. He looks far too skinny to put up with your ruthless behavior. Now, if you'll excuse me I have a house to run," With that she leaves the kitchen.
"She was never a pleasant woman," You mutter teasingly. You're quick to dodge and then grab the plate thrown at your head. You knew if you let it break Ms. Carlson would have your head despite the fact that she's the one who threw it. "Don't you have a house to run?" You ask. She points at your warningly but softens when you give her a flirty smirk.
When she leaves the kitchen you turn to the envelopes. You toss most of them on the table until one catches your attention. Instantly, you face lights up more than it was. You eagerly rip it open and read through it.
"What is it?" Tommy asks. You look at him, your hand on the card tightening.
"A birthday card from my daughter," You tell him. He's obviously surprised seeing as you have never mentioned her to him.
"Daughter?" He asks and you hum. "Why did you never mention her?"
"I don't make her existence known to anybody I don't completely trust. She's my most beloved daughter and I will protect her at all costs," You tell him. He stands up and walks towards you.
"And you told me," He mutters, grabbing your untied tie. You hum softly. "Can I meet her?" He asks. You nod.
"She'd like that," You say softly. His eyes glance up to yours. "I might have mentioned you once or twice," He smirks a bit. "Come. If we want to see her before sunrise we have to leave now," You say, walking around him.
"We're seeing her today?" He asks.
"Yes," You nod, your smile slipping. "You might not get many more chances," You say softly, before leaving the room. Tommy follows you out to the car. It's a little bit of a drive to her home but when you arrive you all but drag Thomas inside. "Edna!" You shout. "Sweetheart, I'm here to see you!"
"I'm in here," She says knowing you could hear her from anywhere in the house. You pull Tommy to see her.
Tommy had expected a young woman. A woman that shared your vampirism. What he saw was a frail woman well in her eighties.
"Hello, my sweet," You say, kissing the top of her head tenderly. "I brought someone to meet you,"
"Thomas Shelby, I presume," She says, looking at him.
"Ma'am," He nods politely to her.
"You're handsome," She says. "You didn't do him justice," She says looking at you. Tommy looks at you but instead of embarrassment you just smirk.
"I told you it would be hard to capture his beauty in words," You say, speeding to his side. "Relax," You whisper sensing his anxiety. You grab his hand and caress his face. "She's much more tolerable than Ms. Carlson," You mutter but amazingly Edna heard you.
"Don't be mean, dad," She lightly scolds. "Ms. Carlson is a godsend,"
"God can have her back," You tease, pulling Tommy to sit beside her. Edna smiles and shakes her head at you.
"I'm glad you came to see me," She whispers. You reach for her hand and she holds on as tightly as she can. You ignore the pain in your heart at the lack of grip. You lift her hand to your lips.
You stay silent as her and Tommy get to know each other. You were ecstatic that they were getting along so well. They clicked instantly. You didn't even mind when the two of them ganged up on you as long as it kept her smiling.
"The sun will be up soon," Edna whispers. You glare out the window. "You have to go," She says and your jaw ticks. "I know you don't want too but I'll be here tomorrow," You look at her. "Come and see me," She smiles. You relax and give in.
"I will, my sweet," You promise, kissing the top of her head. "I love you," You whisper.
"Do you mind if I steal Mr. Handsome for a few minutes?" Edna asks.
"As long as you don't steal him from me," You tease before turning to Tommy. "I'll be by the car," You kiss his head before leaving the room.
"I'm so happy he found you," She whispers. "I haven't seen him smile so much since I was a child," Tommy just smiles not knowing the words to say. "He was in love with my mother but she just wanted one thing. To be a vampire. She was pregnant with me when he met her and turned her after I was born. When she completed the transition she disappeared. She got what she wanted and left. He was devastated but for some reason kept me,"
"He loves you," Tommy tells her.
"I never once doubted that," She assures him. "And I love him just as much," She whispers. Tommy moves closer to her upon seeing the tears in her eyes. She clings to his hand and he lets her hold it. He uses his other hand to rub calming circles on her frail skin. "Look at me Tommy and what do you see?" He doesn't get the chance to say anything. "I'm old... I won't be around for much longer and he'll be alone again. Before he met you he was determined to finally end it when I died but now he has hope again. He has you and I can see it in his eyes. He wants to live. He wants to stay with you and he will. He'll stay for you but when I go he'll be broken for a long time. He'll heal but he'll always grieve. That's just who he is..."
"I'll be there," Tommy vows. "I'll look after him. I won't leave him. You don't have to worry. He won't be alone as long as I'm alive," He promises. Edna visibly relaxes as if the weight of the world was just lifted. "And I'll love him every second," Edna smiles.
"I know you will," She whispers, nodding. "You bring out the best in him... You bring out the man I knew as a kid and I can't thank you enough,"
"You don't have too," He assures her. "If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to ask,"
"I won't," She promises. "You should go. He needs to get back before the sun rises," Tommy nods and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. He kisses the top of her head naturally as if he's done it a thousand times. It brings a bright smile to her lips. "Look after him, please,"
"I will," He promises again before joining you in the car. The ride home is relatively silent.
When you both return home you're on Tommy. You barely make it into the home before you're pawing at his clothes. You make your way to your bedroom at a human pace. You push each other against near by walls and kiss the life out of the other.
This time it's less about claiming as it is about loving. You needed to be inside him. You needed to know you weren't alone and he needed you like he needed to breathe. It was slower but shared the same intensity and desire.
The next morning when Tommy awoke he noticed you weren't in bed. It was strange. The sun was up and you should be asleep but you weren't. Instead he finds you with empty bottles of liquor around you in one of your study rooms.
When you manage to look at him your eyes are dead tired and blood shot. Your cheeks glisten and Tommy's heart drops.
"She's gone," You whisper, looking away from him. Your eyes return to the picture of your beautiful girl. She's younger in the photo. She was always so bright and full of life. She made you smile and gave you the will to live.
Tommy sits beside you. He doesn't say anything but his presence is enough. His arm wraps around you and you fall into him. He tightens his hold when you begin to sob.
A watch falls from your hand. You stare at it but don't pick it up. The watch was her first gift to you. She had been so excited to give it to you because it was the first thing she was able to afford with the money from her job at the time. Her first purchase with her own money. She was so proud and excited. You had never take it off our person since she gave it to you.
It had worked perfectly until the early morning. Until the moment you felt it. The moment you awoke with the empty feeling. The moment her heart stopped.
You turned your head in his chest and Tommy held you even tighter. He hated seeing you like this and he could only imagine how many times you've been through this. You have lived for centuries. Centuries to gain and lose people. To love and be broken. An endless cycle.
"I want you," Thomas whispers. "I want you forever. I want you for your forever not mine. Mine's not enough, I want your forever," You lift your head.
"A life in the darkness isn't for everyone," You warn him. "Don't do this just for me,"
"You're more than enough to make this decision," He says, cupping your face. "I want you for your forever. I love you. You've ruined me for anybody else. I don't want you to be alone and I don't want to die without you. A human life isn't enough to do everything I want to do with you. I want a long future,"
"A future," You whisper, leaning your head against his. "Our forever," You mutter and he hums, crawling onto your lap. You lean back against the couch.
"Whenever you're ready to change me I'm ready," He says. "I want you, don't doubt that,"
"I don't," You assure him. "We'll have our forever. I promise,"
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Restless Dreams
Azriel x Reader
Word count: 2.7k
Synopsis: Reader has unrequited feelings for Azriel, which is actively breaking her heart. She dreams about him each night as she copes. Azriel finds her one night in her pain and they confess how they feel. Crazy angst.
A/N: I put my whole azussy into this
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seated by the window in the Town House, you were surrounded by the laughter and merriment of your friends, but all you felt inside was a cold that could rival the snowfall outside. You sat politely so your presence wouldn’t be suspected of its fraudulent nature, smiling when it was appropriate, raising your eyebrows when it was required.
It was a rare evening where everyone had unceremoniously made their way into the House at one point or another, coming home from missions and meetings. Rhys declared it an official family night in, breaking out the good wine and moving everyone into the living room. In the past, these were the nights you loved the best; that hadn’t been the case for a while. You knew you couldn’t turn down yet another get-together without raising eyebrows, especially with how much you’ve already been avoiding your family. And so you sat, swallowing down your drink where it would sink to the pit of your belly, neighbouring the feelings you kept buried deep in your ribs.
You let your eyes wander over your friends to see if anyone suspected your fleeting detachment and caught Cassian’s eye across the room watching you. He was seated next to him, who you’ve become very good at avoiding when the yearning got too raw. It helped the pain, just marginally, to avoid him. He laughed warmly with Feyre in your peripheral vision, reinforcing the ache in your chest. You shuddered at both the pain and desire that flared up at his laughter. You kept your eyes trained on Cassian to keep the intake of him controlled. Like a maximum dosage that bordered fatality.
Cassian studied you. You cringed knowing he caught onto you, so you sent him your most convincing reassuring smile. His brows only furrowed further. It was time to make yourself scarce, lest the others see what Cassian saw. You kept your smile plastered on your face and stood to go to your room. As you walked by Cassian, he gently grasped your elbow to stop your exit. You noted the hurt in his eyes, and you shook your head softly to dismiss his concern, shrugging out of his hold.
Once you made it into your room, you let that familiar feeling of anguish wash over you like a safety net you could count on falling into each night. You sat in your armchair by the window and let your tears spill freely now. The cold from outside seeped generously into your room, but you welcomed the sting it brought, a slight numbness to contrast the excess emotions reeling inside you. Meals had become few and far in between, as if the stale love inside you occupied the space in your belly, leaving none for food.
You closed your eyes and awaited the dreams that came each night, dreams of a hazel-eyed male, his beauty that rivalled artistic sculptures, his patience and attentive nature, his beautiful hands that held your heart. The male you were so in love with that it bordered on insanity.
The male that didn’t return your feelings.
Did it count as heartbreak if it was ongoing? Was unrequited love the same as rejection? The definitions and borders were all blurry, just like your drowning eyes.
~
You were startled out of your thoughts at the sound of gentle knocking on your door, maybe a half hour later. You took a deep breath and walked over to open the door. There you found Cassian taking you in with the concerned expression he donned before. He looked behind you, scowling. “It’s freezing in here. Why are you sitting in the cold?”
You shrugged, hugging your arms across your abdomen. When you looked back up at him, Cassian was still visibly worried. His hesitation to come into your space was a testament to how aware he was of your vulnerable state because normally he’d walk right in. “Do you mind if I come in?” he asked. You nodded.
Cassian immediately made his way to your window, closing it shut. You didn’t miss him eyeing the empty bottle of drink you had near the window, but he didn’t comment on it. He sat on your bed and patted the spot adjacent to him for you to join him. You obliged.
“What’s going on, sweetheart.”
Cassian’s kind nature was testing your composure. You inhaled deeply. “Nothing, Cass. I’m fine.”
“You haven’t been fine for a while. Tell me what’s bothering you.” You hesitated, mulling it over. “Why haven’t you gone to Azriel?” he asked quietly. This prompted you to look at him in alarm. “You used to go to him for everything. Did he do something that upset you?”
You shook your head. “No, nothing happened between us.”
Cassian was thoughtful for a beat. “You’ve been avoiding him, haven’t you?”
“Not because anything bad happened,” you assured, voice small.
“Hmm,” Cassian pondered. “Nothing bad… but it is something to do with Az?”
Shit. Maybe you should’ve started with stronger denial. You exhaled in defeat, frowning at your hands in your lap again as you felt tears warm your eyes at the truth.
“You sure he didn’t do anything to upset you? I’ll kick his ass. Just say the word.”
You shook your head. “He didn’t do anything, Cass.” That’s the problem. You blinked at the tears, willing them to stay put.
“Ah,” Cassian said quietly. You looked up, sensing him reaching understanding. Cassian’s eyes were full of empathy as he spoke lowly, gently. “Do you have feelings for him, sweetheart?”
That broke your final hold on your composure. You bowed your head and began softly crying, bringing your hands up to cover your eyes. Yes. Yes. Yes. 
“Oh, (Y/N). Come here,” Cassian said, moving closer to hold you.
You let him engulf you, leaning into his warmth. You kept your hands on your face, but Cassian didn’t mind, holding you to his chest regardless. You cried silently, save for the occasional sharp inhale. Cassian rubbed your back, murmuring sweet reassurances into your hair. You felt exposed, embarrassed to be caught liking his brother, having unrequired feelings – how childish did this make you look?
You pulled away from him and Cassian released you. You furiously wiped away at the hot tears, taking shuddering inhales as you forced the crying to come to a stop. “Sorry,” you said weakly.
“Don’t apologize.”
You shook your head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just drunk.”
Cassian saw through the dishonesty but let you have it. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“What difference would that have made?”
Cassian took your hands in his. “It would’ve helped. We’ve been worried about you, (Y/N).”
You looked at him, the unspoken question hanging in the air.
“Yes, Azriel is worried too. He thinks you’re mad at him.”
You huffed. “No, I’m not mad. It’s just, like… marginally easier this way.”
Cassian nodded in understanding. You saw him silently eyeing the bottle again. “It helps a bit,” you explained. “With the sleep.”
“What do you mean?”
“I… when I fall asleep, I, um, I dream about him.” You swallowed at the ache in your throat. “That’s the hardest part.”
“Why?” He asked, his patience endless.
“It’s just… he’s mine in the dreams, and then I wake up, and he’s… not.”
Cassian frowned. “You’re breaking my heart, kid.”
You smiled weakly, waving off his concern. “It’s not that bad. Sorry.”
He opened his arms to hug you once more, this time you reciprocated the hold. He murmured, “it’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. Give it some time.”  
You nodded, indeed feeling a bit better. Cassian eventually released you, making you promise to keep the window closed all night. You laughed at the request but agreed. He even tucked you in and left you to fall into a deep sleep.
~
The next day, you worked up the courage to sit through dinner with your family. No one said anything, but you didn’t miss the momentary shock when you arrived to join them. Feyre beamed at you. Azriel tried to catch your eye, which you avoided. Cassian smiled and beckoned for you to sit beside him, so you did. Conversation resumed as you all ate.
“How was your mission in Summer Court, Az?” Rhys’s question caught your attention.
“Not bad,” Azriel answered.
“Everything go okay with Cressida?”
Azriel nodded. You firmly planted your focus on the table.
“You know, it’s time to put yourself out there,” Rhys suggested. You couldn’t suppress your frown. What?
“I can always put a good word in,” Feyre added.
“That could be a great Court relation,” Mor mused.
“You’d be great with her,” Rhys added.
You flinched.
Your cutlery clattered where they toppled onto your half-eaten plate.
Fuck. 
Your stomach dropped. Azriel and Cressida?
Everyone’s attention slid to you, and your cheeks reddened. Rhys opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, so you rose abruptly before he had the chance to do so. “I—Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” you spoke weakly as you gracelessly backed your chair. Azriel’s gaze burned onto you as you did, which you also promptly ignored.
You didn’t mean to have a visible reaction. Didn’t mean to draw attention to yourself. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.
“(Y/N),” you heard Azriel say.
 “I—just—my head hurts—” you said to no one in particular. You couldn’t swallow from the dryness in your throat. The silence was deafening as they watched you leave the dining room.
Everyone remained in their seats, stunned by your sudden departure.
“What was that?” Mor asked.
Cassian watched his family piece together your reaction. Azriel had a troubled look, shadows swirling as they whispered in his ear. When Cassian turned to Rhys, he found him already watching.
Do you know what that was? Rhys spoke to Cassian mind to mind.
Cassian swallowed. Yes. 
Rhys urged him on with a nod.
She’s hurting real bad, Rhys. 
Rhys was silent for a moment. Let’s go somewhere else. 
~
Cassian found himself in Rhys’s office with Feyre. They left one at a time to reduce the suspiciousness of the ordeal.
“What’s going on with (Y/N)?” Feyre asked.
For your sake, everyone tried to pretend not to notice, to let you work through whatever was hurting you on your own. You’d never been the type to close yourself off, so they all tiptoed. Cassian wasn’t sure if this was a breach of confidentiality; he winced but began. “(Y/N) has feelings for Az. She’s had ‘em for a while. It’s why she’s been so off lately.”
Feyre’s mouth formed an o shape.
“How long have you known?” Rhys asked.
“Not long. I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s eating her up inside.” Cassian says.
“Damn,” Feyre murmured.
Rhys frowned. “I only suggested Az moves on because I know he wants (Y/N).”
Feyre nodded. “He’s been trying to get over her. It was just bad timing, the suggestion.”
“Did you know?” Rhys asks Cassian.
Cassian grimaced. “I suspected but didn’t want to give her any false hope.”
Feyre silently mulled over it all. “What should we do?”
Cassian rose. “Leave it to me.”
~
“(Y/N),” you heard a voice say softly. “(Y/N).”
You stirred.
You opened your eyes to find Azriel crouched in front of where you’d fallen asleep in your chair by the window, his face etched with concern. Your heart swelled with affection.
“Azriel.”
“Yes, angel.” He was speaking to you so gently, like his voice could break you.
There was no way he was here. This had to be one of your dreams. God, he was so beautiful. You reached out with both your hands and traced your fingers down his cheeks. They were so much warmer than your fingers. He was looking at you with his full attention, something like longing in his eyes.
“You’re here,” you said, half-asleep.
He nodded patiently. “I’m here.”
If only. The longing in his eyes turned to pain as he took you in, prompting you to frown. “What’s the matter?” you asked.
“You haven’t been okay,” he continued using that gentle tone.
You cradled his face in your hands, letting yourself have him freely in this dream. “It’s okay,” you reassured.
He shook his head. “It’s not okay. I didn’t realize that I—that I was hurting you,” he pressed. The concern on his face drew lines of worry between his brows. “I’d never want that. I thought you wanted space, so I—” he cut himself off. He reached up and gently took your hands in his, pulling them off his cheeks and securing them into one of his hands, holding them to his chest. “Why are you in the cold? Your hands are freezing.”
You shrugged, indeed feeling the bite of the cold in your room. He must’ve closed the window upon entering. You looked around you, rousing more fully, noting how crisp everything was around you. You looked back to Azriel, feeling the warmth from his chest seeping into your hands, feeling his shadows gently caress your ankles. Was this—
“This is real,” he whispered.
You felt your pulse quicken, confirming this was indeed not a dream. “Oh,” you whispered back. But how did he—
“Cassian told me,” he answered.
“Oh,” you said again. That traitor. “What did he—how much did he—?”
Azriel’s eyes softened. “Not much, but he did say you were having trouble with sleep.” You simply nodded, dumbfounded. “I brought you some food,” he added. He pulled a bowl of hot broth from the floor. The gesture and the confrontation of it all brought tears to your eyes all over again. Neither one of you commented on them as they freely fell down your cheeks.
Azriel brought the broth between the two of you. You reached for the bowl, but he didn’t let you take it. You settled for the spoon, eating spoonfuls of broth as your tears fell, the warmth soothing the lump in your throat. After you had a good helping, Azriel was satisfied with your eating. You placed the spoon back in the bowl and he put it aside. He reached forward and wiped away your tears.
“I’m sorry for not—” he took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m not good at these things. I didn’t know if you… if you wanted this. The whole time we were close, I wanted you so bad, (Y/N). I just didn’t think I deserved you.” You shook your head, but he continued. “I still don’t think I’m good enough for you,” he confessed.
“You’re all I ever wanted,” you said.
Azriel shuddered. “God, (Y/N). You don’t know how badly I... I just don’t want to be selfish, but I suppose that’s doing us more harm than good.”
Your tears finally stopped.
“I’ll spend every day trying to do right by you, angel.”
You shook your head. “Az, I want you for who you are right now. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. There’s nothing more you have to do or any part of yourself you have to fix.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”
You shrugged, smiling. “Maybe all of this was just a cry for attention.”
Azriel barked a laugh. “Right. All of this was for attention.”
You laughed with him, and he watched as you did, eyes sparkling. You reached for him again. He opened his arms to you, and you practically threw yourself onto him, where he caught you and held you steadfast to his chest.
“So you dream about me, huh?” he mused into your shoulder.
You laughed. “Shut up. More like night terrors.”
He chuckled. “Sure thing.”
You pulled back. The two of you sat across from each other on the floor. He cradled your face. “I missed you,” he breathed.
“I did too.”
He pulled you to him gently. You didn’t resist.
His breath fanned across your face, and his lips grazed yours. He kissed you gently, testing the waters. You needed more. He complied, wrapping his arms around your waist, and pulling you into his lap where you happily climbed into. He kissed you so deeply you felt warm everywhere. You followed his lead, the intensity of it all, matching his movements until he finally broke for air. The two of you stared at each other, dazed and wild-eyed.
“Don’t leave again,” he rasped.
“I won’t.” I can’t.
“Good.”
“Say you’re here to stay,” you breathed. He kissed you one final time.
“Always, angel.”
~
taglist: @iimisty-a @feyretopiaa @cityofidek @cullenswife @reiincarnatiion @sfhsgrad-blog @answer-the-sirens @mrstangerinejohnson @marigold-morelli
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Walk Away (Part 2)
Azriel x Reader
Summary: Confrontation continues.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 3,018
(Part One)
Notes: And now back to my regularly scheduled content.
_________________________________________
“Okay,” Mor drawls, “I think it’s time for you to slow down a bit.” She takes the shot from your hand and shares a look with Feyre. It would’ve been your fourth in a row if she hadn’t grabbed it, and you pout at the blonde who drinks it herself.
“Why?” you whine from where you’re stationed at the bar, hadn’t moved since you walked in and headed straight for the crowded area. “I don’t even feel anything.” 
What you meant was that you could still feel the hurt in your heart from the way that he was treating you. The bond had been completely silent since you had walked out that door after your argument, the look on his face burned into your mind.
“It’s all going to hit you at once, don’t you worry,” Mor scoffs, rolling her eyes. Feyre hands you a drink instead, a clear one that you squint your eyes at, wondering if it’s even alcohol at all. You take a tentative sip, shoulders relaxing and sighing out at the bitter taste of spirits. You thank her, clicking your glass against hers, it’s just how you like it and exactly what you need.
“Let’s find somewhere to sit,” the High Lady ushers you towards your usual table. It’s empty – not that you’re surprised as it was always reserved for the High Lord and his family. They slide in on either side of you, trapping you in the middle of the bench seat and you sigh, maybe this wasn’t going to be a fun night out after all.
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Just Hold On
Azriel x Reader
Summary: Anonymous request: Your blog is amazing!! I was thinking about how protective males are when their mate is pregnant and I was wondering what Az would be like if his mate and fellow spy was captured when spying on another court while pregnant? Or maybe another court took her further on in her pregnancy for leverage on the inner circle? Like what would his reaction be when he found out and the inner circle started looking for you, only to find you a little injured. I love protective badass Az who is a softy for his mate.
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 3,448
_________________________________________
You knew you shouldn’t have gone. You should have just told Rhys that you were feeling unwell and you couldn’t make the meeting. Or you could have just told them the truth.
Laying in your bed this morning with a numb mind, staring at the rays of sun dancing across the ceiling as the sun rose. Placing your hands over your stomach, you thought of what you would do, how you would tell him. You longed for the empty spot next to you to be filled with the warm body of your mate, holding you tightly to him in his sleep, his face restful and calm.
He was away for nearly two weeks now, deep into the land of Rask on a mission from Rhys. It had been fine at first, as you were used to him being sent away for such things all of the time, but this morning, a new scent filling the air of your bedroom, sweet and supple, you wished he was here with you.
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Horrors of Hewn City
Azriel x Reader
Summary: There were whispers of a traitor in Hewn City. Someone or someones trying to get people to rally against Rhysand and Feyre.
Who, and what they were going to be fighting for was what you were here to find out.
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 1849
___________________________________________
As far as parties went in the Court of Nightmares, this wasn’t the worst one you’d been too.
You scanned the room, holding your cup of wine casually, though you hadn’t taken a sip quite yet. All of this: the party, the revealing floor length dress, the sultry look on your face was all for show. All for the High Lord.
There were whispers of a traitor in Hewn City. Someone or someones trying to get people to rally against Rhysand and Feyre.
Who, and what they were going to be fighting for was what you were here to find out.
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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The Nature of Things
Azriel x Reader
Summary: As Rhysand’s emissary to the Illyrian camps, it was your duty to visit randomly, making sure that the camps were following the no wing clipping order. The rule itself wasn’t new, but after years and years of pestering Rhys, the consequences would be worse for those that did not follow the law.You were weary to visit this camp in particular, Basilia, on the northernmost point of the continent, alone. You did not voice your concerns to your High Lord though, not only because you knew he had his own business to attend to, but because as an Illyrian yourself, you were stubborn through and through.
Warnings: Depictions of Violence and Injury, Sense of not knowing who you are, wing clipping but worse (but I don’t want to give anything away) 
Word Count: 4,445
Notes: This is my first ever Az fic(?)! I’m so excited to share and hope you enjoy!
________________________________________________________
Not once had you ever begged for your life like this.
What was supposed to be a routine check at the Illyrian camps had gone awry quickly. 
As Rhysand’s emissary to the Illyrian camps, it was your duty to visit randomly, making sure that the camps were following the no wing clipping order. The rule itself wasn’t new, but after years and years of pestering Rhys, the consequences would be worse for those that did not follow the law.
You were weary to visit this camp in particular, Basilia, on the northernmost point of the continent, alone. You did not voice your concerns to your High Lord though, not only because you knew he had his own business to attend to, but because as an Illyrian yourself, you were stubborn through and through.
You’d arrived at the camp midday, the winter winds harsher this far North. You shuddered slightly as the wind licked across your exposed cheeks, cherry red and wind-burnt from flying.
You weren’t expecting the welcome wagon from Faustus, the resident Lord of douchebags, but you also wasn’t expecting the two Illyrians pinning your arms to your sides as another blew a dust you knew of all too well – Faebane – into your face. 
You put up a good fight, considering. Trying to simultaneously fight off two warriors thrice your size while calling out down the bond to your mate before the faebane could douse your powers… It was no use.
Your heart thundered in your chest as you fought, but the Illyrians held firm. You refused to scream out for help. It was pointless anyway, your family too far away to help you now.
The short warlord finally made an appearance, as he was known to do once all of the heavy lifting was done. His greasy hair was pulled up into a slick bun at the top of his head, his eyes filled with hatred for someone like you. A woman without clipped wings.
“Faustus,” you gritted, “Let me go.”
He smirked, his lips curling cruelly around his crooked teeth. It made your stomach drop. “Or what you little bitch? What could you possibly do to someone like me?” He flicked his head behind him and the two warriors holding you hostage began moving forward. You kicked your feet out, already feeling your powers waning from the faebane. 
“Rhysand will hear about this,” you spat as they dragged you past him. The man only laughed at your response.
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Can We Just Stay Here?
Azriel x Reader
Summary: Sometimes even the Spymaster has his bad days.
Warnings: Mental health.
Word Count: 673
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“Azriel,” you call, pushing open the door to his apartment, key in one hand, a hot bag of his favorite takeout in the other.
You stop short, halfway in the doorway and half in the brightly lit hallway. His home is dark, not even a fire raging in the hearth. Was he not here?
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Love For Books
Pairings: Cassian x reader
Warnings: none
⚠︎︎English is not my first language.
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You're reading your book when suddenly someone comes up from behind you, snapping it shut.
"Hey!" You exclaim, trying to snatch it back. The Illyrian‘s reflexes are too fast. He reads the book’s title, grinning slightly to himself.
"Never knew you read romances." He says with a little chuckle.
You feel your face get hot. "I don't."
It's a terrible argument, but the only thing you can think of to say.
“Oh right, my mistake. The title ‘10 ways to fall in love' must just be my poor eyesight." He says sarcastically.
You can’t help but laugh at the situation. He stares distracted, looking at your smile.
You take the opportunity to snatch the book back, jumping back into the sofa.
"You and your silly books." He says, rolling his eyes.
"They're not silly.“ You reply defensively, turning your attention back to the book.
"What's a guy got to do for a girl‘s attention." He whispers under his breath, with a small laugh.
You stare at your mate, with a little grin. “I’ve got something in mind.“
"How many?" He asked after a second of silence.
"| don't understand-."
He leans closer to you, trapping you against the sofa.
"How many books do you want?" His breath fans against your lips, mingling with your own.
Words seem to evade you as you can't focus on anything but his lips.
He leans even closer, his lips lightly touching yours and whispers.
"Tell me before I buy you the whole bookstore...especially that romance section you seem to love so much.“
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Piebald Mare/Stallion
The conjurers of this patronus have an air of uniqueness, always straying away from the norm to be free to be who they really are. This uniqueness can come across in many ways, including the way the individual dresses, their creativity in the many different types of art forms and their personality quirks. These people tend to be first nervous around new peers but when comfortable they’re willing to open up. For different people it takes a different amount of time for them to become an open book, it could be between half an hour or even a couple of days or more. Those with this patronus deeply enjoy outings with a close circle of friends, whether it’s just to catch up over a drink or a picnic in a park with beautiful scenery, nevertheless these people still need time to be alone and ‘recharge’ as they find the serenity of solitude soothing.  
Anyone who has a horse as their patronus, no matter which breed, always aspires to have freedom. It can be in different forms but these individuals always seek this particular thing out, whether it’s mentally, physically, spiritually or sexually. A different type of branch of freedom which is especially for the conjurers of the Piebald horse is that they hate having no choices, they need the freedom to know other options of a dire decision and figure out which possibility is best for them. These individuals are known to have strong passion and motivation for whatever they deem special and important and work tirelessly to achieve their goal.
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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You and Me
Summary: You come into Gotham to find someone the Green Arrow is hunting only to find your boyfriend about to kill him… You leave the guy for Arsenal to pick up in favor of some quality time with your man.
Warnings: Sex, violence, insecurities, fluff, angst, jealousy
Reader: Female Reader
Pairings: Jason Todd x Female Reader
Word Count: 3146
A/n: This started out as me working on a request but then it got out of hand… The request was about Jason x reader having sex for the first time and well this is evident that it is not the first time… So, whoever requested that (it was a long time ago lol) I still have it and I’ll work on it, promise!
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Jason was seconds away from blowing this assholes brain all over the brick wall when a purple arrow knicks his hand causing him to drop the gun. A second arrow, released only a second later, pierces right through the criminal’s shoulder and through the brick preventing him from running.
Cursing, Jason pulls his second gun out of the holster and points it at the intruder. You just smirk and jump off the fire escape and scale down to the alley floor. Jason keeps his gun trained on you, even when you walk up to him.
“Is this any way to greet your girl?” You ask, tilting your head.
“What did I tell you about getting in my way?” Jason gruffs, glaring at you through his red mask.
“Relax, big boy,” You roll your eyes, walking around him, completely disregarding the gun. “You can continue killing the scum of Gotham for all I care… This one, however, is coming with me,”
“Who is he?” He asks, holstering both guns. “You nicked my fucking hand,” He grumbles, looking at his torn glove.
“Want me to kiss it better?” You ask, sending him a sexy grin over your shoulder. He smirks back but you can’t see it. “This is just some asshole who knows bigger assholes that Green Arrow and Artemis are trying to track down. When we got word, he was in Gotham I volunteered to collect him,”
“How nice of you,” Jason smirks, standing beside you.
“I have my moments,” You mutter, turning toward him. “Though I must admit, I had alternative motives,”
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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Oh my goodness
Comfort in The stars has got me crying like a baby, I love it so much. Your writing is amazing.
Thank you! I loved writing it, something a little different than my usual stuff. I'm glad you enjoyed it thanks for the feedback!
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americancowgirl19 · 1 year
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You and Me
Summary: You come into Gotham to find someone the Green Arrow is hunting only to find your boyfriend about to kill him... You leave the guy for Arsenal to pick up in favor of some quality time with your man.
Warnings: Sex, violence, insecurities, fluff, angst, jealousy
Reader: Female Reader
Pairings: Jason Todd x Female Reader
Word Count: 3146
A/n: This started out as me working on a request but then it got out of hand... The request was about Jason x reader having sex for the first time and well this is evident that it is not the first time... So, whoever requested that (it was a long time ago lol) I still have it and I’ll work on it, promise!
Masterlist
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Jason was seconds away from blowing this assholes brain all over the brick wall when a purple arrow knicks his hand causing him to drop the gun. A second arrow, released only a second later, pierces right through the criminal’s shoulder and through the brick preventing him from running.
Cursing, Jason pulls his second gun out of the holster and points it at the intruder. You just smirk and jump off the fire escape and scale down to the alley floor. Jason keeps his gun trained on you, even when you walk up to him.
“Is this any way to greet your girl?” You ask, tilting your head.
“What did I tell you about getting in my way?” Jason gruffs, glaring at you through his red mask.
“Relax, big boy,” You roll your eyes, walking around him, completely disregarding the gun. “You can continue killing the scum of Gotham for all I care... This one, however, is coming with me,”
“Who is he?” He asks, holstering both guns. “You nicked my fucking hand,” He grumbles, looking at his torn glove.
“Want me to kiss it better?” You ask, sending him a sexy grin over your shoulder. He smirks back but you can’t see it. “This is just some asshole who knows bigger assholes that Green Arrow and Artemis are trying to track down. When we got word, he was in Gotham I volunteered to collect him,”
“How nice of you,” Jason smirks, standing beside you.
“I have my moments,” You mutter, turning toward him. “Though I must admit, I had alternative motives,”
“Oh?” Jason questions, stepping closer to you. You hum, draping your arms around his neck.
“I convinced Arsenal to tag along, I think he’s bothering his boyfriend Dick,” You joke, and he laughs. “How about we drop this guy off and catch up?”
“Or we can -” Jason’s voice drowns out as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tracker. “- just leave the asshole to hang here and wait for them to come get him -” Jason attaches the tracker, ignoring the man’s pleading and moaning. “- and I can show you my new apartment,”
“Well, will you look at that?” You couldn’t help but to tease. “You have a thought behind those pretty eyes of yours,”
Jason chuckles deeply, the sound going straight to your core. You place your hands on either side of his mask before placing a soft kiss where his mouth should be.
“Let’s get going,” You whisper.
Jason pulls away from you and leaps up the fire escape. You quickly follow after him. The two of you jump from building to building, leaping over walls and playfully shoving each other until you finally reach his apartment. He slides the window open before sliding in, you follow suit rather gracefully.
“Take that stupid fucking mask off,” You order, stalking towards him. He smirks and does as told, ripping the mask off just in time for you to leap into his arms. He stumbles backward, his hands cupping under your thighs to hold you close.
Your hands caress his perfectly sculpted jaw line, your fingers digging into his skin just enough to draw a groan from him. You smirk against his lips, leaning into him more as he carries you toward the bed in his studio apartment.
“You a far cry from the rich boy life,” You whisper when his lips leave yours.
“What? Don’t like the apartment?” He mumbles against your skin. You sigh softly, looking around as he begins to take off your suit.
The apartment is small. The only walls are the ones that enclose the bathroom. There’s a large table covered with his gear and mountains of paperwork. His plain clothes cover the couch, and the sink is filled with dishes.
“I love it,” You whisper, your breath hitching when he nips at your skin. “You were an asshole when you lived rich,”
“I’m always an asshole,” he says, leaning back to admire your body as more and more skin reveals itself.
“My asshole,” You claim finally getting his eyes to return to yours. His face softens as he leans down to hover over you. “I love the apartment... a little too manly, not really personalized but... it’s yours and your dad isn’t here up your ass,” Jason releases a breathy laugh. “I’m tired of sharing this ass,” You state, reaching around to grip it. He groans, smirking at you as he slides between your legs.
“My ass is all yours,” He promises, grinding into you. You moan, pressing your head back into the pillow as his rough pants runt your wet cunt through your underwear. “My everything is yours,” He adds, pulling you into another deep and desperate kiss.
You return the kiss with equal fervor, clawing at his clothes to get them off. You groan in annoyance at the excessive number of buckles, button and weapons that are on his person.
“Frustrated, baby girl?” He asks, pulling back with that arrogant smirk of his.
“Either you take everything off or -” You reach on the floor where your things lay and pick up one of your knives. “- I start cutting,” You warn.
“Kinky,” He winks, not moving off of you. “I might just be into that,” He whispers, bumping his nose against yours, kissing the corner of your lips.
“You would,” You whisper back.
“Some other night,” he says, leaning back. You pout and he grins. “I’m not a rich boy anymore, can’t go wasting clothes,” He begins taking his gear off, slipping off the bed.
“As if you don’t know how to access Bruce’s money,” You scoff, and he sends you a secret wink. “At least give me a show if you’re not going to let me cut you up,” You tease, tossing the knife to the side.
You laugh loudly when Jason begins to dance for you. He makes a show of taking his weapons off and then his shirt and pants. You cheer him on and act like you’re throwing money before making grabby hands at him.
“Come back,” You whisper. He crawls back on top of you, quick to remove the rest of your clothes so you’re both naked.
“Goddamn I’ve been waiting a long time for another piece of this pussy,” Jason growls, putting his hands on the insides of your knees to spread your legs apart. You let out a shaky sigh when you feel your cunt spread apart.
“You know, you are allowed to leave Gotham to come visit,” You mutter. Jason glances up at you. “Then you can have this pussy all you want,” You give him a sly grin.
Instead of answering, Jason dives in. He licks a long stripe from the bottom of your pussy to the top of your clit, his tongue circling around it. He smirked, holding your legs when they jolted from the sensation.
“Fuck, Jay baby,” You groan, loving the feel of his tongue and mouth working you.
“Hold your legs, pretty girl,” Jason mumbles, pulling from you for a gasp of breath before going back in. You hook your hands under your knees.
Your breath hitches when he slips a finger inside. Then another one. His mouth focuses on your clit while his fingers abuse your cunt. Your head turns side to side on the pillow as you feel your orgasm creeping up on you.
You blink down at him when he pulls your legs from your hands and throws them over his shoulders, burying his head deep between them. With them now free, your hands shoot for his hair. His pulls his fingers from your cunt and grip your hips determined to finish you off on his tongue - and Jason has a very talented tongue.
“Jason!” You shriek, your legs squeezing his head as you finish. Your eyes roll back as he refuses to let up. “Fuck, Jason!” You snap somewhere between annoyance and pleasure. He pushes your legs to the side, displaying his strength as you try to keep them closed around his head.
“You’ve got one more in ya, I know you do baby girl,” He whispers, thrusting his fingers back in. In and out, the pace quickening as he stares into your eyes. “There it is... almost there, isn’t it?” He whispers, recognizing your facial expressions. You hum, nodding your head finding words difficult. “Cocks not even in you and you’re going dumb but at least you’re still my pretty girl... Always be my pretty girl,” He whispers, continuing to finger fuck you until your cunt is pulsing around his thick digits.
“Fuck...” You whisper, thankful Jason eases you through the orgasm instead of working you up for a third one. You look at him through hooded eyes, grinning as he licks and sucks his own fingers. Your eyes travel down his body, your hands reaching out to touch him. You didn’t care where you touched him, you just wanted to feel him.
It’s been a couple of months since you last saw Jason. You first met him when he first became Robin, and you became Green Arrow’s sidekick. You both instantly clicked but when he died a part of you went with him. Then he came back and while it took some dedication, you were able to get close with him once again. There was a time when you were the only one that could get close to him - a part of you felt smug about that and loved having him all to yourself. Though, you were happy he was beginning to reconnect with his family but between them, the crime of Gotham and of Star City, it was hard for you two to get together.
While you were together, you weren’t official. When you two were literally beside each other, nobody else in the world mattered. Everyone around you two knew that you only saw each other. But you were apart more than you were together, and you knew his reputation.
A sharp stab of jealousy hit you at the thought of him possibly having other women in this bed. Jason curses when you suddenly flip him onto his back and pin him to the mattress. You claim his lips possessively, kissing the breath out of him.
“Damn baby,” Jason pants when you finally let up. You don’t bother responding, resorting to kissing down his chest, biting him whenever that jealousy returns.
You lick you lips when you get down to his dick. You grab him and begin to lick long strips, teasing him as he had teased you, before taking him into your mouth. He goes to grab your hair, but you smack his hands away. He narrows his eyes and tries again. Again, you smack his hands away and take him deep into your mouth sucking him long and hard. Jason groans loudly, his hands finally reaching your hair.
He grips your hair and fucks your mouth. He moans out a ‘good girl’ when you open your mouth allowing him to fuck your mouth easily. You gag around his neck, tears coming to your eyes when his dick pushes deeper into your throat. When he finally lets up you gasp for breath and look at him with spit falling from your lips.
“Come here, beautiful,” He whispers, grabbing your chin pulling you up to him. You crawl up his body, kissing his lips. You don’t fight him when he rolls you back over, slipping between your legs once again.
“We gonna play around all night, or are you gonna fuck me?” You ask, biting his lip and pulling at it.
“Needy needy,” Jason mumbles, spreading his knees thus spreading your legs further apart. “Gotta keep my girl satisfied, don’t I?” he asks, smirking as he grabs himself and pushes in.
“Yes...” You groan, your back arching into him. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes,” You whisper, as he pushes all the way in.
“Fuck I’ve missed this,” Jason groans, resting his head on your shoulder letting you warm him up for a couple moments. “Been so fucking long, baby... Too fucking long,”
Maybe he hasn’t been fucking other girls? You think to yourself. Jason isn’t the type to tell you what you want to hear. He doesn’t sugar coat things, he doesn’t lie - not to you. He holds nothing back, even if he knows he’ll hurt you. So, maybe, just maybe he is all yours?
Before you could think any more on it, Jason’s pulling back slowly and thrusting back in just as slow. Your arms wrap around him, fingers digging into his back as he keeps the slow pace. It felt like he was savoring the feeling and fuck, you were too.
“You feel so good- fucking perfect,” Jason curses. In and out, slow and steady. You could feel every inch of his thick cock sliding out of your pussy and going in until it was practically in your stomach.
“The best?” You ask, trying to bring about another round of teasing.
“My only,” Jason whispers, turning his head so his lips brush against your ear. “You know you’re my one and only, baby girl,”
Your cheeks instantly feel blazing hot, your arms tightening around him to the point where he becomes concerned. Did you not know that? He wonders to himself... Did you not know that you were his and his alone just like he was yours?
This time the jealousy was coursing through him as he thought of the possible guys fucking this perfect cunt meant for him and him alone.
You gasp loudly when he switches from slow and sensual to fucking your brains out. He sits up, your hands falling to his forearms. He grabs your waist and pulls you onto his dick with every thrust.
“Who’s your man, baby? Who fucks you so good?” He grunts, not letting up.
“You,” You whisper, gripping his forearms tightly. Jason growls, slowing the pace but the force has the bed rocking. “Fuck, Jason!” You cry out.
“Who’s my girl?” He snaps, his fingers bruising your skin. “Who’s my girl?” He asks again, snapping his hips burying his dick deep inside of you, leaving it there. “I’m not moving till you answer,”
“I am,” You pant, looking into his eyes desperate for the orgasm you feel fading away. “I’m your girl... Please Jason, I’m so close. Please,” You beg.
“That’s right,” He whispers. “You’re my girl and I’m your man,” he says slowly, waiting for it to sink in your head. “Say it,” He snarls.
You knew what he was doing. It’s a touching moment. But he walked right into your teasing moment.
“You’re my girl and I’m your man,” You smirk. Jason’s eyes darken, though there’s a hint of amusement in them.
You have a moment of dizziness when Jason suddenly pulls out, manhandles you onto your front and forces your hips up into the hair. You cry out into the pillow as he thrusts back into you from behind, picking up his brutal pace.
He allows you a moment to rest in the pillow before he grips your hair and forces you to sit up on your knees to lean against his chest. His name falls out of your lips in repeat.
“You know what I want to hear,” Jason grumbles in your ear. “Say it and I’ll give you want you need,” You whine, reaching around him to grab his thick ass. Jason moans in your ear. “Go on baby, say it,”
“I’m your girl,” You whisper. Jason’s hand falls down your stomach and ghosts your cunt. You whine again. “You’re my man,”
“Again,” He grunts.
“I’m your girl, you’re my man,” You pant. Jason smirks, biting your neck while his hand slips to your clit rubbing it in various motions until your cunt is pulsing around his dick.
“There you go... That’s it baby... cum on my cock,” Jason grunts, feeling your pussy milk his orgasm out of him. You moan softly, feeling his cum shoot inside of you.
The both of you fall onto the bed, Jason sliding off of you but holding your close. You’re both silent for a while, feeling the euphoria of your orgasms course through your body.
“Baby,” Jason whispers. You turn your head to look at him. He brushes your hair out of your face and gently caresses your skin. “You’re my only girl... always have been and always will be,” He declares.
You couldn’t help but to smile, feeling your heart speed up a bit. You grab his hand and move it to your lips giving it a soft kiss before lowering it but still holding on. You snuggle into his chest, his head resting on top of yours.
“You know, Dick is usually stationed in Bludhaven but he came over to visit for a couple days,” Jason mentions.
“Oh?” You ask, tilting your head up to look at him. “A little brother time, yeah?” You ask, happy to see the two of them reconnecting.
“He wants me to come to Bludhaven... get out of Gotham for a while... Things are still pretty tense between Bruce and I plus he said he could use an extra hand on some matters,”
“What are you planning on doing?” You wonder, your fingers dragging over his chest.
You couldn’t help but to feel a little hurt that he was considering going to Bludhaven with his brother but wouldn’t go to Star City for you. You knew you shouldn’t be upset with him, after all the trauma and shit he’s been through you knew he needed to do things his way. He needed to have control over his life and make the decisions he wanted to make.
“Planning on asking if you were tired of following Olly’s orders all the way in Star City?” He wonders. “From what I hear from Roy, Olly’s be a fucking pain in the ass recently,” You snort.
“Olly’s always in Roy’s ass about something now a days... It’s like you and Bruce but with arrows,” You comment. “I guess Dick’s trying to recruit Roy as well? You three, plus whatever Titans are in Bludhaven, will be one hell of a team,”
“I don’t think you’re getting what I’m trying to say, baby,” Jason says, crawling on top of you. “I want you-” He kisses your neck. “-to come with me-” He kisses your chest. “-to Bludhaven-” He kisses your sternum. “-and share an apartment where you can personalize and girlify it to your liking-” He kisses your left boob. “-and have amazing sex all the time-” He kisses your right boob. “-and be an ass kicking, crime fighting duo that occasionally helps out losers in need,” He finishes, his lips hovering over yours. “What do you say, baby? You and me?”
“You and me,” You agree, with a shit eating grin. He matches your grin before kissing your lips in celebration.
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