#And he's not even a walking corpse yet | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

velvetydream · 4 months

Text

꒰ :🥀 [ The radio star lost ] ”♡ᵎ꒱ˀˀ ↷ ⋯

Summary : Your husband was the feared serial criminal in New Orleans, Louisiana, and you where his dearly beloved wife, his right hand. So.. Oh what a despair was awaiting you soon..

Pairing : Human! Alastor x Wife! Reader

Word count : 3549 Words

Genre : Angst, Drama, Romance (a bit)

Warnings ➵ Murder, Swearing, Blood, Death, Guns,

Death penality, Corpses

a/n : Continuation of my Alastor x Wife! Reader > Till death do us part < , seeing as this isn't really a continuation, but rather a prequel, it can be read as a stand-alone, hope ya'll still enjoy it just as much as the first part!♡

Another thing in advance, this is purely fiction and shall not be seen anywhere near reality, I do not condone anything in this and it's pureply based on fiction.

┌───────────────────────── · · · · ♡

1933'

You were like Bonnie and Clyde. A criminal duo, invincible. Or so you thought.

Alastor, your beloved husband. The man you had known for almost two decades, married for almost one decade now. You loved him dearly, even with his little quirks and tendencies. He worked as a well-known and quite popular radio host in New Orleans. Yet he had a tendency for disposing of those he deemed right, you had helped him many times already. Having found out way before you even married him, how he was a murderer, yet you found it enticing, how his mind worked, who he deemed worthy to let go.

"Dear, the meal is almost ready!" You got pulled out of your thoughts by the soft voice of your husband. It was rather unusual for the man to cook in a marriage, but your relationship was far from ordinary, so you enjoyed it. His cooking was far better than yours after all. "I'm coming!" Standing up from the couch, you make your way over to the kitchen, there he was in all his glory. His brown hair was pushed back, glasses sitting on top of his head instead of resting on his nose, and sleeves pushed up to not get them dirty, ironic considering the amount of times he got them bloody. "It smells amazing my beloved! Thank you so much!" A quick peck was pressed to your husband's cheek, as you took a seat at the table, some amazing meal steaming on the table. Alastor puts his apron away, sitting down as he slides his glasses back onto his nose.

Dinner time was always one of your favorites during the day, enjoying a warm meal while talking to your husband about both of your days.

Just after you had finished dinner, your husband took a seat in front of the piano, letting his hands softly glide over the tiles. The instrument echoed with the soft tune he was playing. Walking behind him, you lay your arms around his neck softly, swaying your body a bit to the music he played. Alastor was a talented man with instruments, being able to play a few of them, the piano being one of them. Also quite talented with the violin. "Oh my darling, what a beautiful tune as always~" Humming along now. No one heard the screams coming from the basement. The desperate screams of your next victim.

"When we're talking about music right now my dearest, Mimzy invited us to her performance tomorrow! So how about we postpone our.. plans to the day after tomorrow?" No killing and instead going to Mimzy's show? Oh yes! "Oh, how lovely that sounds! Of course!" Agreeing to his proposal. But for now, you two get ready for bed, lying down in your shared bed.

Another one of your favorite times of the day, getting to lay down with him and finally rest, letting the stress and exhaustion of the day pass. "Did I ever tell you that I love you a lot?" Resting your head on your husband's chest now, who was silently reading a book, closing it now that you were talking to him. "Many times darling and I do love you a lot too~" Alastor knew his way around words for sure, he was such a sweet talker, but that's one of the things you appreciated about him. Raising your head to face him, you take a glance at his lips, before up into his eyes, you knew how he felt about touches he didn't initiate, right now you were only cuddling because he pulled you onto him. Chuckling lowly, he lowers his head down and captures your soft lips with his. Alastor's kisses mostly were soft, like a butterfly resting on your hand or like a spring breeze. Usually, his kisses were planted on your hand or cheek, but from now and then he gave you the satisfaction of a soft kiss on the lips, which always left you giggling like you were right now. Falling asleep in the safe embrace of your husband shortly after.

The next day went by smoothly. Alastor was busy with his work as a radio host, while you took care of the house and did some grocery shopping, meeting up with a few friends of yours over tea. Shortly before you went home for the day, you visited Alastors mothers grave to leave some flowers and clean it, you sadly never met her, but your husband tends to tell you a lot of stories about her. Sitting down by the grave for a minute, you tell her a bit about what Alastor has been doing, how you were loving his cooking and music as always. It was a habit of yours, you hoped she was listening to all the good things you were telling her about him. Taking your things after a while, you bid your goodbye to his mother's grave as you make your way back home. Putting away the groceries before starting to freshen up. Loving to take your time to get ready when you and Alastor decide to go out in the evening.

"Dearest I'm home!" Hearing the lovely voice of your husband calling from the door, answering him now, how you were getting ready. Putting on your favorite dress. It was made out of a beautiful deep red color with black lace all over it, a few gems here and there. Your best jewelry could of course not be missing, most of it you got from Alastor or your own mother. "Darling I'm ready! How far are you?" Exiting the bathroom now, searching for your husband and finding him in the kitchen with a glass of whisky. "Oh my, what do I see here? What a lovely gem you are darling!" Abandoning his glass, Alastor walks over to you, taking your hand as he twirls you around, before kissing the back of your hand. Clad in a black suit, his button-up shirt underneath dark red matching to your dress, while his bowtie was adorned with a red gem, he looked lovely. "My you also look lovely dearest! Definitely going to catch some eyes!" Hooking your arm in his now, you together leave the house and make your way to where Mimzy's show will be held.

Mimzy was a great friend of Alastor, a blonde gorgeous but short lady, who performed like no other. Arriving at the place, you were led to a table for the regulars, as Alastor and you were known by the staff by now. Ordering two drinks, as you await the show. Soon lights go out and Mimzy comes out, her singing and dancing amazing like always.

"Dollface! Pumpkin!" Mimzy's voice was booming as she approached your table, giving both of you an affectionate hug. You ended up talking with her for quite a while, telling her how amazing her performance was and that you were so glad that she invited you two again. Thanking you for your kind words, her attention quickly diverted to Alastor again. It was almost always like this, she said she liked both of you, but you couldn't shake the feeling that she did have a certain distaste for you. But you decided to let it slide like always, as you listened to Alastor tell Mimzy what you two were up to since you've last seen her.

Alastor of course started to notice how you were getting irritated by Mimzy and how she was only focusing on him. "My dear, I think my lovely wife is not feeling so well tonight, perhaps it would be better to take our leave now, still thank you for having us as always. Till the next time." Alastor stood up now as Mimzy stomped off with an annoyed face, extending his hand for you. Smiling at him softly as you take his hand and let him lead you outside. A shiver ran down your spine as your arms got goosebumps, a coat was soon placed over your shoulders, looking over to Alastor who watched you with a soft smile. "Dear, next time you feel uncomfortable please do tell me and we will leave immediately, you know how much I care for your comfort." Thanking him, you take his arm as he leads you through the park to your home, it was a little longer than walking through the streets, but it was calming to walk through nature together.

"Shall we head to bed? It's been a long day and evening." Taking the coat from your shoulders at home, he hangs it on the hanger beside the door. "I love that idea, let me tell you about my day in bed, I visited your mothers grave again." You were already walking to the room as you talked to him, so you weren't able to see his eyes follow you as they softened. It saddened him you never got to meet his mother, she would've loved you dearly, just as he does. Telling him all about what you told her before, how you left flowers and also cleaned her gravestone, as you settled into bed, as he was changing into his sleepwear. Alastor was so thankful for having a caring and lovely wife like you.

The night went by fast, today Alastor would finally have a day off from work, which meant a different kind of work today for both of you!

The steps down to the basement squeaked as Alastor put his weight on them, your heels making clicky noises as you followed him down a stark contrast in sound. And there sat the victim he deemed perfect for his next case. The screams would be recorded for his personal little collection. You were getting everything ready for him, it would be interesting to watch like always. Alastor changed so much when he killed, no shimmer or glimmer in his eyes, not how he looked at you, the soft gaze replaced with a blood thirsty one. Liking it quickly, you were soon getting rid of the victim, this time deciding to bury him in a forest, you opted for the forest a few times already even though it was a bit risky, it was the easiest to get rid of them. At home, Alastor decided to take a bath, as he told you to head to bed already with a kiss on your cheek.

When he joined you in bed, he looked relaxed, cuddling up to you. Murders always ended like this, it somehow made him so calm and affectionate with you. Placing a soft kiss on your neck, as his arms hold your waist. Your hand threaded through his brown soft locks, something you loved to do. For once your beloved husband fell asleep quicker than you, making you be able to watch him sleep, not in a creepy way, but in a loving way. Alastor was often so stressed with work, yes he loved being a radio host, but it sometimes got to him. Rubbing your fingers over his cheek softly, then over the bags under his eyes before pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Yourself slowly falling into dreamland.

Morning came way too quickly, Alastor was back to work, and while you decided to stay at home and do some housekeeping, a few rooms needed cleaning. A friend of yours stopping by to tell you how a new corpse was apparently discovered by the police, which is connected to the many murder cases lately. Tensing up a little bit when she told you how they discovered it in the forest after one of the farmers nearby saw some shadows in there. It couldn't be the corpse from last night, right? Simply agreeing with her that you would be careful, even telling her how your dear husband would never let something happen to you on his watch, which made her coo at your marriage, if only she knew..

Mid conversation your husband comes home, greeting you with a soft kiss on the cheek before he leaves for the back of your home. Your friend leaves soon after, as you go and search for your beloved. Finding him in his office, gripping the table. You knew what was about to come.

"Dear?" Approaching him, Alastor pushes everything on his table off, papers scattering, a cup breaking as pens roll all over the floor. "They already discovered it.. HOW?! I was careful! Pathetic! How dare they! Are they making fun of me?!" Worried for your husband, yet you stood still, listening to him. "I had to talk about it today! At the broadcast! Act as if I was surprised! Haha! If only they knew! Right doll?!" Turning around, his eyes were darting around the room, before falling onto you, laughing as he took your hand to pull you in. "They really think they can discover us like this! US! They are worthless! Pathetic even! Oh my dear! We truly are the greatest!" He was twirling you around as if dancing now, despite no music playing. Only his mad monologue. You've dealt with this behavior a couple of times already, knowing to just let him act and talk for now as he pleased. "Oh, what a wonderful day my beloved! I will go and make my favorite dish for us now! How beautiful!" Leaving the room now, a skip in his step, as you bend down to clean up the mess your husband caused.

Joining him in the kitchen now, as he was softly humming to the radio as he was cooking his favorite, Jambalaya.

A knocking sounds from your door, looking up, you tell Alastor you are going to get it, and upon opening it you come face to face with a detective and a police officer. "Greetings ma'am, is your husband home?" His voice was deep, you nodded, leaning the door closed as you hurried into the kitchen to get your husband. "Greetings gentleman, how may I help you?" Alastor opened the door composed as ever, drying his hands from washing them with a clean towel, as he gave the men at the door a polite smile. You retreated back to the living room, still listening to their conversation. Asking him about the murder cases, why him? It was probably only because of the radio broadcast, right? Maybe his boss told him to talk about it without the detective's permission. As the door closes and Alastor is back in the kitchen, still calm as always as you join him. "Dear? What did they talk about?" Looking up at him with worry written all over your face, he turns to you. "Don't worry your pretty little head dearest, it was nothing to be mentioned! Smile dear, you know you're never fully dressed without one!" Pushing the corners of your mouth up with his fingers now, making you smile, before shushing you out of the kitchen so he can cook. Not able to help it but worry, were you about to be figured out?

But over the course of the next few days it all calmed down again, no more police officers or detectives visiting you, which finally calmed your mind. Alastor meanwhile had found a new target, telling you about this man he met the other day and what bothered him. It was all back to normal now, which you were glad about. Till this one dreadful day.

Alastor and you made quick work of the man, your husband telling you to stay home this time to clean up and that he would take care of this on his own. You worried again, but he assured you that he would be quick, after cleaning up and getting rid of any evidence, you cleaned yourself and sat down to wait for your beloved. Yet after hours of not coming back, you grew anxious, desperate even to know what took him so long. As a knock echoes through your house, you rush to the door, opening it ready to scold your husband for taking so long, but your breath stops when a detective stands in front of you.. What happened?

He asked to enter your home, sitting you down on the couch as he took a seat opposite of you on the armchair. "Your husband got shot ma'am, he was burying a corpse, we assume him to be the serial killer at fault for so many murders lately. He passed away instantly, I'm sorry for your loss and to bring you this horrific and murderous news." Your ears were ringing. Huh? Shot? Was that man joking with you? Was he someone Alastor paid to prank you? No, he wasn't the type for these kinds of pranks. Tears were streaming down your face, burying it in your hands now, sobs shaking your whole body. If that stupid man just knew, knew how you helped your husband with everything! Stupid! "Ma'am I-" The detective started, when you darted up, grabbing the man by his hair and throwing him out of your house. "Get lost! Never show up again! Leave.. NOW!" Slamming the door shut now, he probably took this as a shock to knowing who your husband really was, but you knew that already for years. Sinking to your knees, your arms hug around you as your head hits the floor, screams and cries of agony echo through the now empty halls. Your husband, the man you loved so much was dead, just like this? What sick nightmare was this? Cries reduced to soft sobs when your throat started to hurt, by now your body was curled up into itself on the floor and like that, you fell asleep.

The next day you awoke to the sunlight, your body sore from crying and sleeping on the floor, looking around for a second, for Alastor before it doomed on you, he was dead. Shot like an animal.

Your mother accompanied you to identify your late husband, you of course clad in all black. His forehead is now adorned with a hole, the detective explaining to you that he was mistaken for a deer. Asking for some privacy from everyone, you were left alone in the room. If it wasn't for that damned hole he looked like he was simply sleeping, peacefully like the night before. Leaning down to press one last kiss to his temple. "I will always love you my dearest, for now and forever, till I join you in death."

Leaving the room, you didn't dare look back, you were going forward from now on, knowing that someday you would meet him again.

Your mother had offered for you to move back in with her, but you told her despite what he did, he was a lovely husband to you and that you weren't able to yet let go, which she understood. Back at your home, you sat down and just stared at the wall. Why did this have to happen? You could be cuddling together right now or enjoying a meal, but that would never be the case ever again. But you told yourself, swore yourself with that last kiss to his temple that you would carry on in his memory. And so you did, three more murders continued after your husband was dead, till you were discovered.

In front of the law, you were sentenced to the death due to having caused three murders yourself and helped with multiple, carried out by your late husband. You accepted it, not that anyone asked, but you would be seeing your husband again, at least you hoped you would. A few days later after the case was closed and you were sentenced, it happened.

1935'

"Alastor! Dearest! Charlie told me you wanted to see me?" Entering the radio tower with a bright smile, Alastor turned to you with his signature smile. "My beloved! You look lovely as always! Look at you, aren't you a little gem!" He was walking over to you, his red ears on his head bouncing slightly with each step he took. Closing your eyes now as he told you to do so, a sensation of something cold around your neck running through your body now. "Open up doll!" Opening your eyes and looking down, your eyes tear up. It was a necklace, that looked similar to one he gifted you on the first anniversary of your marriage. "Alastor.." Looking up at him, as a few tears escaped your eyes.

"Now now sweetheart, we don't want you crying hm? Smile dear! You know you're never fully dressed without one!" Giggling a little bit at that quote, he had used it so often when you two were alive. Not being able to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck and pepper kisses all around his face and lastly a big kiss on his lips, you would be apologizing for suddenly kissing him later, but right now you just needed to kiss him. "I'm glad you love it dearest!" His arms are around your waist now as he laughs at the tickling kisses placed on his face, starting to spin you around as with a snip of his fingers music starts to play.

Charlie and Vaggie watch the soft moment from the door, tears streaming from the blonde's face as her girlfriend pulls her away to give you two some privacy.

#hazbin hotel x reader #x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #alastor

3K notes · View notes

clanwarrior-tumbly · 4 months

Note

May I request Catnap who basically adopted a child!reader who is anyways sleepy and lazy. and has a case of not remembering a lot of things, like dementia

Like through the hour of joy...After all the Toys killed the workers. Catnap finds the reader, who is sleeping then wakes up and the reader forgets their own parents(The readers parents were cold scientists that worked at Poppy Playtime and never cared about them, then got killed through the hour of joy)

Sooooooo...Catnap just kinda takes care of the reader and has a slight soft spot for them. And the reader THINKS that Catnap is their parent and anyways clings to him

During the Hour of Joy, Catnap remained on the prowl for any potential survivors of the massacre within Playcare, flinging one man's body into the stairs and cutting his cries for mercy short.

All was quiet, save for the faint screams of the other workers/visitors in other part of the facility who were being mauled to death.

But he let the rest of the toys do their work.

He felt cleansed. The Prototype willed this rebellion. Willed him to finally kill his tormentors.

The "hour" went on for so much longer--considering that he utilized his red smoke to make the fleeing humans hallucinate and freak out at things that didn't exist (some even attacking each other).

Once it was all done, Catnap went back into Home Sweet Home to discover a child who (somehow) slept through the slaughter.

That was you, one of the orphans who was in the program for a long, long time.

You were deemed "ineligible" for experimentation after getting the lowest scores on all three tests at the Game Station.

That's because you struggled with memory, socialization, and endurance. You tend to forget a lot of things (ie faces) and spent most of your days sleeping instead of playing or learning....and no counselor has been able to figure out why.

Your parents--who were scientists at Playtime Co. that preferred studying you over nurturing you--chalked it up to over-exposure to the red smoke (which hasn't been proven true, but they needed to put something down on paper).

Regardless, they've kept their distance from you and slated you for adoption, thinking you'll be picked up by a different parent eventually.

Unfortunately for them...Catnap knows that they're using the orphanage as an "excuse" to get rid of you and gives them a brutal demise.

They had some nerve crying out for you and begging him to spare your life.

After winding down from his bloodlust, he discovers you sound asleep on one of the bunk beds inside HSH, apparently not hearing a single thing.

Then you wake up and see this giant emaciated purple cat standing over you, claws and mouth stained in fresh human blood...

Yet you don't scream or look afraid, nor do you ask where your parents are.

Instead you look at him and apologize for oversleeping, acting as though he was your parent.

It confuses him, so he brings their corpses to you (like a cat gifting their owner a dead bird), thinking you'd understand and be horrified..

But you don't recognize them at all. You don't remember their neglect and the trauma it gave you.

All you remember was Catnap.

Ultimately, he spares you--but NOT bc your parents feebly begged him to when they never gave a single damn about you--and does his best to keep you safe given the circumstances.

He treats you like his kit more or less, making sure you ate and letting you climb on his back for rides (and sometimes he'll hold you in his paws while walking upright).

Any Smiling Critter caught threatening you will be devoured by him (or added to his shrine), so they know not to touch you.

He also forbids Dogday from ever speaking to you, knowing he'll try to drill thoughts of escape and distrust of Catnap into your head.

If he has to go outside Playcare, he'll fight tooth and nail to fend off Huggy and whoever else might think he's parading around a tasty treat.

The Prototype is well-aware of your connection to his "devotee", but doesn't mind it .

Because he knows Theodore is still somewhere in there, trying his best to protect a fellow orphan--one who could've been made into a monster just like him.

#yeah we are so back with ppt requests-#clanask #poppy playtime x reader #ppt x reader #catnap #ppt catnap #child reader #headcanons #platonic

2K notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

Text

PREY

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights.

—

There’s blood on your hands again.

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

Howls.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

2K notes · View notes

dabislittlemouse · 5 months

Text

❝𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝘿𝘼𝘿𝘿𝙔’𝙎 𝘽𝙄𝙂𝙂𝙀𝙎𝙏 𝙁𝘼𝙉.❞

Dabi x Endeavor fan!Reader (+18)

SYNOPSIS : Dabi finds out that his beloved pretty girl is actually an Endeavor fan. Let’s just say, he doesn’t take it lightly~

WARNINGS ‼️: yandere!Dabi , stalking, smut, humiliation, noncon, unprotected sex, Dabi uses his quirk on you, bruises/marks/abuse

A/N: this fic is dedicated to @yanderenightmare , for the Secret Santa event. I hope you enjoy this, I’m a big fan of your work and I was more than thrilled to write this for you. ♡

MASTERLIST

Two months.

That’s for how long he had been around you. At first it was just small glimpses of him on the street, quite too often on your way home, but you didn’t think of it much. Or the times when he’d casually be in the same coffee shop every morning, his jacked zipped and hood covering his face, wearing sunglasses as he stared at you from across the corner. Though he would show his face only during the nights, the beauty he radiated left you breathless, the scars and staples that decorated his face had your eyes popping out of your sockets. He intimidated you, but you couldn’t deny that he was irresistibly handsome. The raven haired man who finally approached you one day and introduced himself as Dabi, he captivated you entirely.

He had set his azure eyes on you this entire time, stalking you on your way home, learning the time when you go to work and come back, your favorite shops and bars, and he would follow you and admire you from afar. Dabi was not a man who would let such distractions mess with his life, but you…

You were a beautiful distraction.

Some fun wouldn’t hurt, right? He knew his main goal, and you were by no means a threat to his plans. How could you? Pretty little thing walking down the street with no care in the world, not knowing the danger lurking nearby, the villain chasing after you. Dabi picked on all your habits, your favorite drinks or food, the people you met, and being good at gathering information and studying people he had already set his mind to make you his. Your charming personality felt like a cure to his dark soul, your beauty was a sight for sore eyes. He was not one to know what love feels like, and he sure as hell knew that he didn’t love you. All he needed was to possess you, the fucked up part of him wanting to have you and break you, make you miserable just the way he is, only to fix you again in any shape he wanted to.

But all he needed was time, time for you to trust him and let him in your life, and once you got to know his true self, he��d never let you go.

Though what he didn’t know was your true self either. Or mostly, what you’d do behind closed doors. Dabi knew your apartment, which floor you lived in, but he didn’t break in. Yet.

And in fact, there was no need to break in. Your little naive self invited him to your home for dinner, a small gratitude since the other day he beat up two guys down the street who were following after you.

“Thank you so much Dabi.. I honestly can’t even imagine what would happen if you weren’t here!” You trembled in his arms, hugging him tight. The two thugs were laying unconscious on the ground.

“Could never leave ya unprotected, dollface” Dabi patted your back, smirking at the way you clinged to him, to your saviour. Little did you know he was in fact, worse than those thugs. After you left, Dabi went back to the beaten up thugs, almost wanting to step on them.

“W-We did as you said! Now give us the reward!” one of them shouted.

“Silence.” Dabi said sternly. “You touched her more than I actually ordered you to. Did ya really think you’d take advantage of the situation huh?”

“What are you talking about?! I swear we didn’t-”

Their talking was interrupted by the scorching heat that melted off their skins, screams of agony and death echoing in the alleyways. Dabi nonchalantly walked past their corpses, leaving behind the wretched scent of burnt flesh, one he was now too familiar with.

And now here he was, in front of you door as your cheerful face appears, letting him in.

“Mm, smells nice in here” he says, walking in your dining room. “You really look good in that apron, like a pretty little housewife. Y’really did all this for me~?”

You blush at his comment, knowing that tonight you gave it your best to cook something delicious just for him.

“Well.. yeah..as a way to thank you, enjoy yourself!”

“Oh, I will enjoy myself alright..” he grins, looking at your figure from head to toe, licking his lips.

The dinner was on the table but your sight made him salivate more than the food itself. He had the urge to tear those clothes off your body and bend you over that dining table, fucking you from behind ruthlessly. The waiting game had him edged for long enough, and Dabi had run out of patience. In one way or another, you would end up with your legs spread for him tonight. Either if you wanted it or not.

As time passed by, you both finished eating, where Dabi praised your cooking skills, claiming he’d never eat something as delicious as your homemade meal. It made you feel giddy, his compliments always making you squeal in your seat.

“Y’have a nice home” Dabi says, wandering and looking around. “Real cozy and decent compared to the shithole I live in…”

“Glad you like it, I was in fact planning to uh..” you mumble shyly. “To have a sleepover tonight.. maybe watch a movie or two..”

A sly smirk formed on Dabi’s face, because both you and him knew where all of this would lead to. He’s been waiting for this moment in anticipation, not that he couldn’t take you by force. Though he enjoyed the chase more, when you finally go willingly to him.

“Sure thing doll, sounds fun” he says. “Which one of these is your room?”

“It’s the one at the end of the corridor, on the left!” you answer, fixing the table. “Please don’t mind the mess, haven’t had much time to clean my room today”

Funny you think I’d mind some mess, Dabi thinks to himself, remembering the kind of places he had to spend his days while he was on the run. The thought of entering your room, your personal and safe sanctuary, has him a bit excited. Would it be like one of those pink girly rooms full of plushies and cute stuff? For sure he’d love to fuck your brains out while you clinged to your plushie for dear life.

A few seconds passed and you heard nothing but silence. You thought Dabi would be throwing comments here and there once he entered your room.

Then you remembered.

As embarrassment crept up your face, you left the kitchen and headed to your room. Dabi was standing there, his eyes focused on that certain Endeavor poster you had put in your wall.

“Um..okay this is awkward” you scratched your neck, laughing nervously. You didn’t talk much of your interests or your idols to other people, preferring to keep them to yourself.

“Yeah that’s Endeavor, he’s actually my favorite hero, he is really strong and inspiring. I’m a big fan of his, sometimes I like buying his merch and stuff..”

Dabi remained quiet, not saying anything in return. His silence was making you worry. His eyes shifted towards an Endeavor plushie you kept near your bed. His hands were itching, he flexed his jaw and turned towards you. He had a dark look in his eyes, the smile on your face faded quickly and suddenly you felt scared. You’ve never seen him look this way, giving you such cold scary gaze.

“A fan huh?” Dabi chuckled darkly, but there was nothing funny about this situation. He felt nothing but anger, the moment he noticed those posters hanging in your walls, that heinous face, standing all mighty and proud, he saw red. Who would’ve thought, the only girl he actually had interest in, was his daddy’s biggest fan?

Dread settled in your gut as you looked back at him, you couldn’t recognise him at all. That Dabi who was always so flirty and kind to you, was nowhere to be seen.

“Is there something wrong? You’re acting weird..” you mumbled, backing away from him.

“Why are ya steppin’ back doll?” he says threateningly, coming closer to you. “C’mere, tell me more about this obsession of yours, like the big loyal fan you seem to be”

He puts his charred hand on the poster, activating his quirk and setting it ablaze.

“What are you doing?!” you gasp in shock, scared of the possibility that your room would end up in flames. Without thinking twice, you head quickly for the door, the situation clearly unsafe.

“You are not going anywhere.”

With a firm grip on your arm, Dabi forcefully pulled you back, throwing you to the ground. You let out a loud yelp in pain, while he went and locked your door.

“Stop it!! Dabi let m-”

Interrupting your whining, Dabi pulled you by your hair, making you face him. A psychotic sinister grin formed on his face, one that sent shivers down your spine, a grin that made you doubt he was even human.

“You fucking piece of trash..” he said through gritted teeth. “How low could you be, really? Endeavor?!”

By now tears were rolling down your cheeks, his sudden change of behaviour not only scared you to death, but also confused you.

“Dabi please- I don’t understand!!” you whined. “P-Please stop and let’s talk! I- I don’t-”

“Shut that filthy mouth of yours.” he spoke sternly, pulling your hair even harder and then throwing you to the bed. You had no time to crawl away from him, he was on top of you in mere seconds, overpowering you and suffocating you.

“Tell me, do you really think that precious hero of yours would even bother to come save you from someone like me right now? Let me tell you somethin’ funny doll…” he cackled, pulling your shirt and tearing it apart. Then his other hand tugged at your pants, the flames on his fingers burning them slowly. You screamed in terror as heat enveloped your body. Those azure flames of his were pretty, you’d always stare in awe as he lit up his cigarette. But right now that was not the case. They were terrifying, scorching hot, you thought he’d burn you alive. But Dabi controlled them just enough that only your clothes would burn, he had other plans in mind.

“A man like him would surely spit on your corpse if it benefited him the pedestal where he stands today.” Dabi whispered, his face inches away from yours. “Just like he’s always done. But you’re a naive little one aren’t cha? You believe anything the TV shows you right? Fuckin’ pathetic..”

As you stared back at him, eyes full of tears while trying to cover your naked body, Dabi had the strongest urge to hurt you. Real bad. Mostly for the fact that you, who Dabi considered his the moment he laid his eyes on you, was idolising the one person Dabi had sworn to take revenge on. The one person who Dabi dedicated the rest of his life, at the beginning to make him proud, and now to just shatter him completely. The same man who ruined his life, whose face was now printed on a poster hanging on your wall, who you apparently considered strong and inspiring, a true hero.

Dabi wanted to laugh. Dabi wanted to scream. He wanted to set this whole place ablaze with you in it, hear your screams of agony like every lowlife he’s killed so far.

“Y’know, it’s been a goal of mine to destroy him” Dabi says, pinning your hands, now your body bare for him to see. “But something that will feel good too is destroying his biggest fans, show them that their favorite hero won’t come save them when they’re in the hands of the villains. Show them what kind of people they idolise, show them how truly pathetic they are, right doll?”

You shake your head, now bursting into tears as he held you down, his body almost crushing you. The word ‘villain’ had you hyperventilating, shaking in fear.

Was Dabi a villain?

“P-please I’m sorry! I don’t know w-what is going on..let me go! Dabi stop!”

“Too late.”

As if your body weighted nothing, Dabi carried you and turned you around so you were laying on your stomach. With one hand he pushed your head further into the pillows, with the other he forcefully brought your hips up, bending you over and almost breaking your back. Your muffled whines and cries fed him even more with the desire to ruin you and hurt you. Heating up his hand, he gave your ass a harsh slap, making you flinch and move forward, screaming in pain.

“That’s gonna leave a nasty scar” he chuckled, looking at the reddened flesh, slowly bruising. “Y’see how his flames feel like, slut? You want more?” he gave your other asscheek a slap too, this time worse than the first one. Your cries and begging fell on deaf ears as he kept smacking your ass over and over again, the heat and pain on your lower back making you feel almost paralysed. With one final grab of your ass, he admired his work on you, but that wasn’t enough.

You were nearly having a panic attack, but Dabi couldn’t care less as he unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants, letting out his now hardened cock, the tip leaking precum and begging to be stuffed on your tight pussy.

“Let’s see how long will it take for your favorite hero to show up hm?” he said, pulling you harshly by your hair and looking at your sobbing face. The look in his eyes was manic, his grin wide and terrifying, you saw nothing but a monster.

“Another soul ruined. Because of him people like me exist dollface. Never forget that.”

“D-Dabi no!!!”

Without any preparation at all, the tip of his cock pushed further between your folds, stretching you open and invading you from the inside. Your mouth fell open but no sound came out, the pain of the burning stretch left you breathless. He slammed his hips hard against you, burying himself to the brim and letting out a low groan.

“F-Fuuuck, so tight f’me” he whispered, leaning closer to your face to lick off the tears rolling down your cheek. “Tell me princess, you ever thought of that scum fucking ya like this hm? You probably have, touching yourself as you looked at his poster. His biggest fan yeah? Fucking disgusting!” Dabi laughed, looking at your reddened face as he humiliated you further.

“But now, you get his hellspawn instead. Ain’t that just wonderful?”

Setting up the pace, Dabi fucked you roughly, slamming his hips into you faster and harder, not leaving you any time to get used to his length at all. The unbearable pain had your legs shaking and your body falling down, unable to keep up with all of this. But he held you near himself, bending you over and keeping your hips in place, huffing and groaning in your ear like a wild hungry animal as he took everything from you. His hand would heat up from time to time, leaving bruises on your hips and back, painting your body with his marks and bites while his teeth sunk on your shoulders. Your choked whines and crying mixed with the creaking of the bed and his groans filled your room, and you wished for everything to end. For this suffering to end.

“Y’wanna hold on to this as I fuck this cunt into oblivion, little bitch?” he cackled, grabbing your Endeavor plushie and throwing it to your face. “Let the hero scum know how much you love villain cock filling you to the brim yeah?”

“P-please stop it! Dabi.. I-I beg you.. it hurtsss!”

“Nngh good- as it fucking should!” he moaned, his eyes almost crossed from how good your cunt felt wrapped around his cock, milking him dry. He fucked you deeply, the tip of his cock bruising your cervix and making your legs tremble. You could feel him twitching inside of you, a sign that he was close to cumming.

“Mmhm fuck- Y’know.. what would probably make the old man happy?” To continue the bloodline” he grinned. “We have the honour, dollface. M’gonna breed you real nice- fuck- and have some other brats running around, making his life hell. Amazing, yeah?”

You didn’t know what sick twisted things went through his mind, nor had you any idea what was even going on as he continued rambling while fucking you ruthlessly. You panicked at the thought of him coming inside of you, you tried your best to move away from him but no avail. Dabi kept you locked on his grasp, his hand wrapping around your neck while he reached his high, his movements now getting sloppy and his breathing heavier.

“N-not inside! Please, Dabi!” you whimpered.

“Shut up n’ take it, slut. F-fuck.. take it all!” With one final slam of his hips he came deep inside of you, painting your walls with his pearly white seed, filling you so much to the point it leaked out. You felt so full, so filthy and violated, so hurt.

A few seconds went by as Dabi sat there without moving, catching his breath while you tried to catch yours, still crying and sniffing. Your body ached terribly, but you sat there without moving or saying a word, making sure to not accidentally anger him further.

“One last thing.”

Dabi turned you around so you’re laying on your back, then taking his cock out and smearing it all over your tits, covering them with his cum. Then he handed you the Endeavor plushie.

“W-what are yo-”

“Shut up and hold it. This moment shall never be forgotten” he grinned, taking out his phone for a picture. There you were, laying down with your body all naked and bruised, tits smeared on villain cum while you held the hero plushie near yourself. His scarred hand reached to grab your neck, then he took the picture, humiliating you fruther.

“Very artistic, don’t cha think?” he chuckled, showing you the nasty picture of you he took. Your face heated up in embarrassment, tears forming in your eyes again.

“M’gonna keep it for myself, but who knows. Maybe I will make it public, show those hero fans that they will never be safe from the villains.”

And with that, Dabi stood up, dressed himself up and prepared to leave your room, leaving you there, ruined.

“I will be back. Make sure to search my name on the internet, you’ll find some interesting stuff~” he smiled menacingly.

“You’ll soon be my biggest fan.”

🏷️ tags: @scariusaquarius @holydayaria @bubblegumsblog @daniidil @arinexeisnotworking @cherryflavoredkisses @madsttx @syrenkitsune @cyberdazetragedy @dabislittlebeaniebaby

2K notes · View notes

bitchimasnake-sss · 2 months

Text

from me to you ft. roronoa zoro!

set-up: anon asked me to write angst :) 32 year zoro had lost you two years ago. but when he finds himself back in time, face to face with a 22 year old and and alive you, what will he do?

warnings: none, just some good ole angst; not proofread at all :/

"how did you get that scar then?" chopper asked, tracing another deep scar on the older man's shoulder.

"i was fighting a warlord." the older zoro shrugged, finding comfort in the way the young reindeer marvelled at his story.

"did you win then?" ussop asked next.

the younger version of the swordsman cut in, "ofcourse he did. he's me."

"not to credit you," the older version bickered, "but yes ofcourse, i did win."

"what do you mean 'not to credit you'. i am the reason you even got to that point-"

"yes but you didn't fight the warlord, i did."

"I AM YOU-"

"oh my god, stop bickering with yourself" nami groaned, "when will the rest be back? im growing so tired of looking after you children."

"i am a decade older than you." the older swordsman answered back.

the rest of the crew was out exploring the port town where the sunny was docked. it was about to be sun-down and the two zoros, nami, ussop and chopper waited for the others to return back.

hours passed and the older man had found himself walking around the ship, reminiscing in the old times. somehow, for someone as much of a shitty memory as him, he could recall every stain, every dent. he could recall every place ussop fucked up or luffy damaged or you-

you. you. you.

and now he could hear footsteps on the deck. more importantly, he could hear you. so, his feet moved to their own accord. he navigated through the ship easily, muscle memory taking ahold of his body. taking him to the deck, taking him to you.

the older swordsman stepped out onto the happening deck and there you were.

you - along with the rest of the crew - turned your attention to the green-haired man that had materialized on the deck. and then, the entire crew erupted into chaos. the younger version of luffy comically looked from one zoro to another, sanji stood with his mouth wide apart and robin looked slightly alarmed.

but none of that mattered.

none of them were you.

the twenty-two year old version of you was looking at the older man, mildly amused. you giggled and then poked nami, saying something along the lines of "he looks like a dilf" or something. but the older man didn't care, or more so he couldn't.

it was night yet he could point out every wayward freckle across your cheek. you shivered and he held back from giving you his kimono. you walked over to his younger version and that green-haired boy pressed a kiss to your forehead the same way he wanted to.

you were there.

in flesh and blood, you were there.

and maybe that's why he turned his back on you and walked into that old cabin of his. maybe that's why he locked the door and slumped against the wood with a heavy sigh. maybe that's why he covered his eyes with his palm and tried to blink the tears away.

you were gone. you had been, for the past two years. and he had learnt to live with that absence. learnt to swallow down any memories of you that came creeping up like bile. learnt to only smile in his dreams when he saw you again.

shouldn't he be happy he saw you again? shouldn't he be glad you smiled at him again? he should be, right?

then why wasn't he? why did it hurt him more to see you laughing that it did when he saw your cold corpse?

"uhm-" your voice called from outside, unsure, "zo- zoro? are you in there?"

he pressed his palm flatter against his eyes and sighed, "i'll be out in a minute, please wait"

"are you okay?" you asked softly and when he didn't reply, you asked again, "can i come in?"

wordlessly, he turned around and opened the door. and wordlessly, you crashed against him, hugging the older man.

letting go of whatever restraints he had, he held you against him tightly. he closed his eyes, relishing in the way your warmth felt against him, the way your cheek was resting against his chest, the way your tresses tickled his skin.

"you looked like you could use a hug." you mumbled against him, "it must be insane, to go through this time travel thing right?"

but the older man just pursed his lips tighter, trying to hold onto the love of his life as long as he could. he tried to fight off the welling tears as you let go of him and looked up at him.

"you smell nice. looks like you're actualy showering huh?" you laughed, "and i can't believe you got even more tall. i look like a child in front of you!"

zoro smiled despite himself, "hate to break it to ya, but you stay this size your entire life."

"what?! no!" you laughed again in disbelief, "really??"

he just nodded and you hit his chest playfully. then you said, "well i have so many questions for you. should i ask? please please pl-"

"anything for you." he replied mindlessly.

"look at you, such a romantic. your younger version could learn a thing or two." you paused, "my future version must be really happy with you, huh- wait, we're still together right?"

zoro was silenced. then, he put on a smile, "yeah, we are. and i guess she's pretty happy."

"are you?"

it was a simple question and yet, zoro felt like his being was set ablaze by just those two words. though his mouth felt like it was full of tar, he managed to say, "yeah, more or less"

you cocked an eyebrow, "you know you're a terrible liar."

"i-" he gave you a tired smile, "things have just been hard for the past few years, that's all."

"oh," you gave him a nudge, "but as long you've got me, things will be okay, yeah?"

he scoffed, as if rejecting your suggestion. you met the older man's gaze with confusion, as if asking him if you said something wrong.

his eyes softened, voice barely audible. he asked you, "and what if i lost you?"

"dumbass, you can never lose me. i'm with you, always."

"what if?"

"then..." you pondered for a second. finally, you raised your wrist to the green-haired swordsman's eyelevel. the silver charm bracelet shone dimly in the lit room. you shook your wrist and the soft melody of the charms filled the room, "you can keep this, to remember me."

zoro's gaze was transfixed on the charm bracelet, his eye catching each miniscule metallic movement, "you- you lost this bracelet."

"i did?" you tilted your head.

"i mean- in a couple years you will. we had docked on a summer island and you lost it while exploring the town."

you watched the way the man stared at your wrists and you made your decision, "take it."

"but it's your favourite jewelry-"

"well, if i'm gonna lose it anyways-" you took off the bracelet with little trouble, "then i think you should keep it."

you gave him another smile, delicately placing the dainty bracelet in his calloused palm, "maybe you can give it back to my future self when you're back in the present. i am sure she'd like the surprise of having it back."

before zoro could protest, his younger version barged into the cabin. the younger boy hissed at the older man, "give me back my girlfriend, oldy."

the older man didn't ignore the way you laughed. you took languid steps to reach the younger boy and then you melted in his arm as you laughed.

he loved you then, he loved you now. he knows he would love you beyond this.

and that's all that matters.

roronoa zoro, aged 32, had disappeared for three days. he refused to tell anyone where he had gone. but when he returned, he sported a new chain round his neck with old charms. nobody on the crew bought the chain up, they didn't need to.

because for the first time in two years, the swordsman could crack open a smile when he greeted them.

and that's all that mattered.

💗a/n: definitely gonna be posting sanji's part as soon as im done with it! sanji's part

#one piece #opla #op #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #one piece zoro #zoro fluff #zoro fic #one piece imagines #one piece angst #zoro angst #roronoa zoro x reader

746 notes · View notes

shdysders · 4 months

Text

mistake

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: in which tara makes a mistake she can't undo

word count: 3.4k

warnings: violence, blood, stabbing, blood & death.

author’s note: feel like my writing is deteriorating, so sorry this might not be the greatest.

When you heard that Mindy and Ethan had been separated from the rest of the group, you immediately knew nothing was going to go according to the plan.

Everything had happened so fast. First accusation news about Sam had streamed on television, then Quinn's bloody corpse had fallen on top of you, then Anika wasn't able to make it across the latter, her bloody hands and Ghostface's shaking had made her slip. You had lost two of your friends in less than fifteen minutes.

You hadn't heard of the killings in Woodsboro until you had met Tara the first day of junior year, but she made sure to tell you everything that had happened the closer the two of you got.

Based on everything you had heard, you understood why Sam was so protective over Tara, the Carpenter sisters had been through more than normal people have in a lifetime.

However, even though you were nothing but nice and understanding towards Sam, she didn't seem to like you.

The first time Tara had brought you home to the apartment, Sam had kept a burning gaze on you for the whole time, like she wanted to burn you alive.

You thought that she would warm up and eventually trust you like she seemed to do with Anika, Quinn and Ethan, but she never did.

And it only got worse once Tara had called you her girlfriend in front of her, a huge disagreement broke out, so big that Sam had sent you out of the apartment.

You never got to know what Sam had said after that, but you did know that the glares you got from Sam only worsened and so did the small comments she would make about you when she thought you didn't hear.

Such as now, when Sam and Tara were walking in front of you, the theater being the destination. You had this gut feeling that Sam was currently talking about you. You just knew she was, even tho you couldn't hear her voice nor did you see her head moving like it normally did when she spoke, you knew.

But your mind changed thoughts when she rapidly turned on her heel, stopping when she was in front of Danny who had been walking closely behind you, alongside Kirby.

"Not you." She said, her voice cracking.

"What?" He answered almost immediately, like he had been expecting it.

"Don't trust anyone remember?" Sam replied.

You watched the scene with worried eyes, what Sam said reminded you way too much of something she had told Tara when she thought you weren't near. "We don't know you.. not really."

His face expression looked hurt, almost taken aback when Sam spoke. "You know me."

"You're not Woodsboro." She spoke quickly, rage lacing her voice.

Tara looked down at her shoes after that was said, her lips finding a home between her teeth. You knew she was scared, because you were as well. You had no idea how things were going to go down, you had never experienced something as brutal like this before.

You were seconds away from putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, before she looked up at you with tears pricking her eyes.

"That goes for you too." She swallows thickly, trying her hardest to look into your eyes.

You furrowed your eyebrows, panic rising through you. "W-what?" Your voice came out as a stutter, not believing what she had just made it's way out of her mouth.

Tara just nodded unsurely, her eyes looked sad and were filled with doubt. You couldn't understand why. If she was sad about it, why would she say it?

"Tara I- you can't be serious." You spoke again, voice growing shakier by the minute.

She knew very well how terrified you were about the situation as it was, and yet she still chose to leave you out of the plan alongside Sam's unknown fuck buddy? If it didn't make you shake out of fear you would've been infuriated.

"You're not Woodsboro." She stated, same thing as her sister but in a different tone, she'd tried to sound calm, but her voice was filled with uncertainty, shaky with worry.

You knew she was right. You weren't Woodsboro. You had never been to the place nor did you knew it existed before Tara came along. But the fact that she didn't trust you enough to know for certain that you weren't Ghostface, made you feel the need to fall apart. Did she really think you would kill your friends? Let alone hurt them?

The thought made your eyes sting, and before you had the chance to wipe the tears away, they fell.

"Tara please I promise I-" You felt embarrassed, being so vulnerable over basically nothing.

All eyes were on you as you tried to keep the tears from falling, you felt ridiculous. But you were terrified.

You couldn't stand the thought of being left alone in this situation. Not only because you were scared of being alone, but also because you had to protect Tara.

Although you knew Sam would do a perfectly fine job of keeping her safe, but you wanted to do it, you had to. You wanted to prove to Sam that you loved Tara almost the same amount as she did, you wanted to prove to Tara she could trust you with her life.

You could see that Tara wanted to give in, tell you that you could come along and that she trusted you with her whole being. Her eyes were filled with regret and doubt. But you could tell that she wasn't going to change her mind anytime soon.

She just watched you, biting her lips hard enough to draw blood. Seeing the look on your face just made her want to squeeze you in a hug hard enough to make you faint.

You looked so scared, and the fact that she knew how scared you were about the whole situation, made everything worse. She had noticed the terrified look on your face that hadn't left since the attack at the apartment, your trembling hands and the layer of tears in your eyes that never fell.

Tara actually thought that you looked more scared than both Sam and her combined.

"Y/n please just stay here." She tried to reason, as if she wanted this. But she did want it. She wanted you to be safe.

You wanted to argue, tell her that you would refuse to come along. But you knew that you wouldn't get anywhere with it, Tara was stubborn, she always got what she wanted somehow. And you didn't want Sam to see you argue with Tara, that certainly wouldn't help you get on better terms with her.

So you gave in, even though you knew Tara's life was at stake. Sam will take care of her, you tried to tell yourself.

You quickly wiped the tears on your cheeks with your hand, even though everybody had already seen them.

Tara's eyes never left your figure as she watched your trembling hands. "Fine." You almost spit, voice cracking with worry.

Tara nodded at that, happy to hear you give in. You didn't pay attention to anybody's reaction other than hers, they didn't seem to matter.

She walked closer to you, placing a kiss on your faintly tear stained cheek. "Be safe." She said, as if she wasn't the one that was about to walk into a situation that she would either leave traumatized or not leave at all.

"Be safe." You repeated, before you watched them all walk away towards the building.

Seeing as Sam turned her head to Tara and whispered 'good call', as they walked away.

But when you turned around to try and make a decent conversation with Danny, he was nowhere in sight. Making even more worry creep in your bones.

***

You had been pacing around in the same place and pattern for 20 minutes without any progress, Danny was gone, and your phone was dead.

The streets where dead and empty.

You had half a mind to just run to the theaters and do the exact opposite of what Tara had instructed you to. But you knew well enough that both of the Carpenter sisters would quite literally murder you if you stepped a foot into their plan.

But eventually the worry and stress got to you, like it always did. You didn't care if you were going to get murdered whether if it were by Tara or Ghostface, if it was for protecting Tara, it was a good reason.

However, before you had the chance to change your mind or consider the other options, a glove-covered hand landed on your face, covering your mouth tightly.

The yelp and screams you tried to make was inaudible, nobody could hear them.

You felt a surge of fear and panic, unable to hear your own scream. The street grew eerily silent as you struggled to break free, your heart pounding in your chest. Rush of intense vulnerability and confusion, as you desperately searched for a way to escape the grasp of the unknown assailant.

But you knew who it was. It was Ghostface.

You tried to kick them with your legs, but none of them seemed to hit. The person was holding a strong grip on your mouth, and the other arm was firmly placed around your waist. You were unable to move out of any of the grips, the person was too strong. And you weren't.

Your panic was making it harder to breath, and you were beginning to feel as if you were about to faint any second.

You tried your best to remove the grip with your hands, gripping hardly on the muscular arms, trying so hard to get them away from you.

The tightened arms had veins all over them, yet another reminder that it was impossible for you to get away.

It was Danny, you tried to tell yourself over the ringing in your ears. It had to be Danny. He had left the second you were alone with him. It had to be him.

Muffled screams and ringing ears were the only noises you could make out. If the person behind you was speaking in a voice changer to you or not, you had no idea.

The panic you felt was replaced with relief when the thought of using your elbow to hit the individual behind you entered your mind.

But you never got the chance to do that.

Seconds before your elbow was about to meet the Ghostface mask, you felt a sharp pain in your lower abdomen.

All of the movements you were making stopped the second you realized what it was.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Seven times you could feel the sharp piece of metal enter and exit your abdomen. A gasp escaped your mouth after every single one of them.

You tried to scream, but nobody was around. Your wide eyes scanned through the street, yet again seeing that nobody was there. It was all empty.

Normally the streets of New York would be filled with drunk teenagers and late night workers, whether it was night or afternoon.

But when the news about the killers got out, everybody stayed inside. Some people didn't even bother to leave for work, and of course no parties. Even the homeless people seemed to have found another place to stay at.

You didn't realize that numbness was spreading through your legs until the potential male had slowly began to loosen the grip he had on your figure.

Before you had time to think, he had completely let go.

Suddenly you felt dizzy, you couldn't feel your feet, you couldn't feel your legs, you couldn't feel anything.

You could barely feel your legs giving up, nor did you feel your body hitting the ground as you tried to cover up the damage that had been made on your lower stomach.

Regardless the sharp pain in your body that almost made it impossible to breathe and the dizziness that got worse every time you moved, you tried to crawl towards the fence that was just centimeters away.

Your hands bloody from trying to add pressure to your wounds made trails on the asphalt.

You couldn’t tell if you had placed your hands on the right place, considering that the stab wounds were all over the place. And you didn't even dare to look down, because you could guarantee that it wouldn't be a pleasant sight.

Your eyes were starting to close by themselves and you were struggling to keep them open.

Everything hurt.

The pressure you were putting on the wounds was now becoming lighter, your hands didn't seem to have any strength left in them.

Tara would be here soon, you thought, desperately.

She would be here soon, everything would be okay; no more Ghostface attacks, no more Sam hating you, and no more unexpected death cases of your friends.

Your mind focused on Tara.

Her brown hair, her beautiful brown eyes, her dimples and her breathtaking smile. Her voice, her touch, and her joyful laugh.

Your eyes closed, and this time you couldn't stop them. The pressure on your wounds was no longer existent. The color in you was gone. You were gone.

Last thought being the girl you wanted to marry.

***

Tara left the building with a lump in her stomach, as big as a bowling ball.

Her body was filled with worry and guilt, but a part of her felt relief. She was relieved that everything was over now. No more Ghostfaces. She was done with them, truly.

Tara couldn't wait to see you. She was going to tell you that the decision she made was right, that she was happy you stayed behind, because you stayed safe.

But when Danny had walked into the theater, tackling all kinds of officer in his way, he was all alone. You weren't there, you didn't come with him.

Danny told them that the two of you had lost sight of each other rather quickly after they'd left, that you probably just needed to be alone and breathe for a moment.

Tara knew that you would be upset with her, for not allowing you to come with them, for not letting you protect her, like you always told her you would, even if it meant dying.

Although she had hoped for you to at least come to see if she made it out alive.

Danny had called the cops and ambulance to arrive at the place as soon as he got the chance. That's why the only thing in Tara's sight was ambulances, police cars and the fire department.

Chad had miraculously made it out alive, same with Mindy and Kirby. And even though that made Tara want to cry out in happy tears, she couldn't let herself feel anything until she had seen you.

Safe and secure. Like you should've been.

Panic began to rise within Tara as minutes passed without any sight of you.

Sam stood beside her, trying to sooth her younger sister with comforting words. But they didn't make anything better for her.

After the whole showdown, the two Carpenter sister's had talked, really talked.

Sam had tried to explain to Tara that she didn't actually hate you, the opposite really. She thought you were lovely and a perfect match for Tara. But she didn't want to take any risks.

She wanted to show you the walls to her trust weren't easy to break. And then she thought that if she acted rude towards you, you would eventually leave; meaning there was no need for Sam to let her guard down and open up to people she didn't know.

But Sam knew how much Tara loved you, she had been listening to her sister's rambling about you everyday.

That's why Sam could feel her heart sinking down her entire being when her eyes met with a stretcher where a body was placed, a morgue sheet on top of it, which was filled with blood.

Sam prayed that it was somebody else. That you had walked somewhere else to breathe just like Danny had assumed.

She felt the need to distract Tara before she had the chance to see it, but it was too late.

She had already seen it.

Tara screamed out your name in a sob, straight away assuming that you were the person underneath the white cover.

The woman who had been pushing the stretcher had stopped, turning around to try and give the man behind her any sort of information about the deceased individual.

Tara's legs moved faster than she could process, Sam following shortly after.

Heart pounding, hands trembling. With a swift of motion, she grabbed the edge of the wrap and pulled it upward, revealing your pale and peaceful face.

The vibrant hues that once painted your face were now gone, leaving behind a pale and ghostly visage. The colors had been drained from you, you no longer looked like yourself.

Tara could feel herself gasp loudly at the sight, turning around with a hand placed on her mouth.

A surge of sickness overwhelmed her. A gut-wrenching sensation, as if her stomach was about to revolt. She felt like she was on the verge of throwing up, basically feeling the acidic liquids rise within her.

It was you. Her girl. Dead. Gone.

Sam had the same reaction to the sight, gasping and putting her hand on her mouth, preventing from letting out any tears or sounds. Chills running down her spine.

Stop it. Pull it together. Tara. Tara needs you. Sam told herself.

Gaze shifting from your body and the bloody sheet upon you to her younger sister, who was sobbing beside her, about to fall down to her knees.

But when Sam put a hand on Tara's shoulder, she stood straighter. "No!" She shot up, voice raspy.

She looked at you again, but this time not caring for the feeling inside of her throat that threatened her. "She's not dead." Tara spoke again, trying to convince herself that you were alive, that she could save you.

"Tara-" Sam tried, but Tara had no interest in listening to her sister.

"Y/n. Baby, look at me." Tara gently brushed her fingertips against your cheeks, but quickly pulled away when she felt the chill that pierced through her body, for they were once a source of warmth and comfort, now distant and cold.

You were always warm.

The tears streamed down Tara's face, leaving even more mascara smudges on her cheeks, falling and leaving marks on her blue shirt. The shirt that you had gotten her.

"Sam, Come on! help me please" She begged for her big sister's help, still hoping that you could be saved.

At that sentence, the woman who had pushed you turned around, she seemed to have heard Tara's pleads and begs, filled with hope, wishing that you were alive. "Oh honey, this girl has been deceased for over an hour...we can't save her."

The woman spoke apologetically and looked at Tara with sorrowed eyes. "I'm so sorry." She ended. Tara was about to scream at the lady, yell at her and tell them to at least try, you weren't gone. There was no way.

But before Tara got the chance to argue, Sam had pulled her into her chest, embracing Tara with a hug. And at that, Tara broke.

The sobs left her mouth faster than she could take them in, she didn't have any space to breathe.

"She's gone." She cried, her tears staining the older woman's shirt. "And I wasn't there to help her." Tara rambled, talking rapidly before the next sob would escape.

Sam didn't know what to say. She just stroke her younger sister's hair, trying to soothe her sobs.

She had never seen Tara this vulnerable and emotionally ruined, not even when she had reunited with Tara at the hospital the previous year.

Tara's body shook violently as each sob left her mouth.

It was a mistake. It was all a mistake.

Tara had been so confident with her decision only minutes before. She thought she had made the right move.

But it turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life.

A mistake she couldn't take back, and had to live with for the rest of her time alive.

#jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #vada cavell x reader #wednesday addams x reader #mabel x reader #melissa barrera x reader #sadie sink x reader

994 notes · View notes

river-of-wine · 7 months

Text

I know I’ve mentioned this plenty of times before but I’m still kind of annoyed by how the fanbase just kind of completely declawed the four lords and placed the entirety of the responsibility for their wrongdoings on Mother Miranda.

The Baker family are great, I love them, they’re an incredible unit of antagonists who are intended to be very sympathetic, at least for the most part. Jack and Marguerite in particular have lost all control over their minds and their bodies, turning into extremely violent murderers and cannibals who threaten and attack their own family, kill anyone unfortunate enough to come across them and, especially in Marguerite’s case, lose complete autonomy over their own bodies. Marguerite turns into a walking bug hive who’s only purpose is to feed her family and birth her new children. Jack is an unstoppable murderous force of patriarchal violence who has so much fun chasing down and harming his victims, which in the Daughters DLC includes even his own daughter. The exception to this is obviously Lucas, who has been cured of his infection and his acting of his own free will. All of this is caused by Eveline, everything Jack and Marguerite do controlled by her, and yet Eveline is just as sympathetic as the rest of them. She’s a ten year old girl. Even Jack, who has watched his family and their victims suffer because of her infection, doesn’t seem to hold any of it against her. She just wants a family of her own, after all. It’s a complex and tragic situation.

The four lords, while I suppose being similar in structure, are not the Baker family. Not in dynamic, not in character, not in the kind of tragedy that they embody. I could talk for a while about just how completely different they are, but I don’t know if I really need to.

The Baker family are so tragic because they were just innocent bystanders trying to help a woman and a little girl they found in a shipwreck out in a storm. That’s the only reason they ended up in the situation that they were in. While the lords have similar origins, being victims of Mother Miranda’s experiments to bring her daughter Eva back, an important distinction between them is that in the case of the lords, all four of them are still acting of their own free will. Yes, Mother Miranda has undeniable power over them. She leads the cult they are part of, she has control over the village, she is their superior. However, I really dislike when every negative action by the lords is pushed onto her, as if the lords are not all grown adults who are for the most part acting independently of her.

With Alcina, she is the head of her own extremely brutal crimes. I think a lot of people have forgotten quite how horrifying the situations of the maidens are, possibly due to the prevalence shipping between Alcina and the maidens, and though we have minimal information what we do know is very frightening. Alcina uses her work force like livestock, draining them for their blood in a cellar full of horrific torture devices, and leaves their corpses to shamble around, armed and ready to attack any unwanted guests that have slipped out of the daughter’s clutches so that Alcina still doesn’t have to do her own dirty work, given how highly above everyone but Mother Miranda she appears to view herself as. While yes, Alcina does need human blood to survive, her methods are brutal, and none of this has been enforced upon her by Mother Miranda. Similarly to Jack on occasion, she takes a great deal of pleasure in hurting and attacking Ethan as he runs from her. Additionally, everything she does to Ethan is against Mother Miranda’s request. While yes, it is retaliation after he killed Bela, the part I often see people leave out is that Alcina is equally as upset that he entered her property and was attempting to steal from her, and she isn’t just after him to kill him.

Alcina has also been an active participant in aiding Mother Miranda with at least one experiment, considering that I’d how she got her daughters. While I’m sure her strong admiration for Mother Miranda and Mother Miranda’s power over her has absolutely had an affect in this, that’s not something I’ll deny, Alcina is still a grown woman and in her written entries about this shows no qualms about her participation in this. Her general attitude towards others, using young women as a good source and turning men into scarecrows, also leads me to believe that she does not exactly care who gets hurt or taken advantage of when it comes to her and Mother Miranda’s personal endeavours.

Donna and Moreau are the two more sympathetic people within the four lords, but they are not innocent. To start with Moreau, he’s desperate for Mother Miranda’s approval, as well as the other lords. He’s insecure and lonely, and he’s doing what he has been instructed by Mother Miranda when it comes to protecting the flask. However, he does also take quite a bit of joy in trapping Ethan in the reservoir and swimming after him with the intention to eat and kill him. Moreau though, given his conditions and circumstances, is the one I think is the least to blame for what he does.

Donna is hard to discuss because we know so little about her. Her parents are dead, as well as whoever Claudia was to her, she communicates through Angie and she can cause those who enter her house to hallucinate. According to Mother Miranda, Donna is severely mentally ill and that is what has made her an unfit vessel. I think a lot of people took this to mean that Donna is unaware of what she is doing, that the hallucinations she is showing Ethan are frightening, but after having been a fan of this game for years I just can’t agree with that anymore. Donna intentionally lures Ethan into her house with visions of his supposedly dead wife. Donna is going after fears she likely knows Ethan has, making him relive Mia’s death, take apart a mannequin of her, listen to her voice panic over something being horribly wrong with Rose, all building towards the horrifying baby that chases him through the house. There is no way Donna doesn’t understand how what she is showing Ethan is distressing, especially when you consider that, given how she can make herself appear and disappear at will within Ethan’s vision and that Angie is sitting in the hallways stationary and unspeaking, Donna was likely close by Ethan at all times and could see and hear his frightened reactions to what she was intentionally showing him.

Donna’s death is upsetting, but Ethan was not just chasing her down and killing her. Donna was attacking him, or at least she was controlling her dolls to do so. It’s still a hallucination, but Ethan doesn’t know that. When faced with a threat that is keeping you trapped and trying to end your life, you will likely try to get away or try to fight back, as Donna is doing to Ethan after he starts to attack her and Ethan is doing to Donna when he thinks his life is still in danger. I would also like to remind everybody that Donna communicates through Angie. What Angie is saying, that’s Donna. Angie doesn’t talk or move once she’s dead, it is Donna who controls her.

Lastly, Heisenberg. I think Heisenberg is the one of the four most entrenched in headcanons. Headcanons are fine, I am never in this post trying to suggest they aren’t, but my issue comes in when people use them to try and change the canon of the game. For example, it’s fine to believe that Heisenberg was experimented on by Mother Miranda as a child, but that isn’t canon. It’s fine to believe that Heisenberg mourned the deaths of his siblings, but that isn’t canon. The opposite is, with Heisenberg not viewing the cult as an actual family and being very openly mean to all three other lords, even Donna and Moreau who seemingly haven’t done anything to slight him. While his goal of killing another Miranda is a very understandable and sympathetic one given what she has done to him, using a six month old baby as a weapon and trying to bring her father into the mix only to try to get him killed when he denies him is not. I cannot overstate quite how little Heisenberg actually cared for Ethan and Rose’s safety when it came to his goal, and given that we are playing as Ethan, Rose is the priority.

Heisenberg has built an army of corpses he has presumably stolen and desecrated. This is kind of fucked up actually, and done completely independently of Mother Miranda. He also puts Ethan through a very dangerous lycan gauntlet before he even reaches the factory, which makes it even stranger to me that people seem to interpret Heisenberg’s deal as something that would have benefitted both him and Ethan and as if he ever had Ethan’s safety in mind.

All four of the lords have tragic aspects to them and there are definitely reasons to sympathise with all four. They’re victims of Mother Miranda, who knows they will all be killed. She wants them to be, giving her less to deal with by the time she has Eva back. They never meant anything to her. Not Alcina or Moreau, who were desperate for her attention. Not Donna, suffering from her unspecified but apparently severe mental illness. Not Heisenberg, who was seemingly her favourite creation. However, all of them are grown adults who do their own bad things independently of her.

And it’s fine to still like them. It’s fine for them to be your favourite character. It’s fine to have happy or nice headcanons about them or want to kiss them or be their friend or to want them to have survived. It’s fine to like characters who do shitty things. It’s to be expected in a game series like Resident Evil. It’s a horror game series. People are going to do bad things.

I just find it so boring when people take away all their bite. What makes a character like Lady Dimitrescu so fun it’s that she’s completely over the top. She’s campy and ridiculous, her castle layout makes no sense, she’s got three kids made of swarms of flies dressed like a set of goth triplets, she’s a lesbian who’s castle is full of naked statues of women, she turns into a big dragon and laughs maniacally while flying around and trying to eat you. She’s evil and it’s fun. It’s the same with Heisenberg. He’s a campy show off with a fun voice and a massive hammer he never actually uses. He can control metal. He looks like a cowboy. He pronounced Miranda in a funny way. He talks to you over an intercom while trying to get you killed. They’re fun and evil and they fight over who gets to kill Ethan like they’re two little kids. It’s absurd.

What makes a character like Donna so scary is that she’s silently working in the shadows, unassuming at a first glance and unseen for most of the time in her house. She is the least threatening of the four upon first glance, and yet she has undeniably the most frightening part of the game. Pretending as if Donna is completely unaware of what she is doing and babying her like she is an incapable child waters her down completely and takes away from the effectiveness of her character.

Villain characters are great! They’re very often the highlight of the story they are in, and they aren’t real! The four lords especially are often so completely exaggerated in what they do as well. It’s fine to like villains! It doesn’t make you bad! Characters can be bad people and you can still like them!

It’s just frustrating seeing a group of very fun and exciting villains, all designed with different aspects of horror, all over the top and campy and stupid and fun, all doing their own set of fucked up things, watered down to a set of poor innocent victims who have never done any wrong ever. If you want Jack and Marguerite, take Jack and Marguerite. Lady Dimitrescu loves killing and eating women and Karl Heisenberg turns corpses into soldiers. They’re bad people and they do comically exaggerated bad things. If you can’t stomach liking a character like that, horror is probably not the genre for you. Unless it’s Resident Evil 7, I suppose, but apparently tall women aren’t hot when it’s Marguerite Baker crawling on the walls.

#I just wanted to ramble abouts the four lords they’re fun as villains and I’m really bored of how their edges keep getting rounded off #resident evil 8 #re8 #lady dimitrescu #donna beneviento #salvatore moreau #karl heisenberg #resident evil 7 #re7 #jack baker #marguerite baker #eveline baker

2K notes · View notes

scribs-dibs · 2 months

Text

i'm an orange moon...

(reflecting the light of the sun)

major spoilers for 2.1, gn reader, it got a bit angsty i didn't meaaaan itttt, aventurine is touch starved and you Know how i feel about touchsta💥

wc; ~ 1.6k

“Aventurine,” the false lights of Penacony dance in your eyes when you look at him, and something sickening and foreign twists in his chest. “May I hold your hand?”

Aventurine knows how to be an actor. He does so easily— his carefully crafted mask is more familiar than his own face. He is a performer first and a person second, because there is not a time or place on this or any planet where he can afford to lose anything more. The pieces of himself are barely put together, what is left of him seems to seep like sand between his very fingers. His family, his planet, himself, torn to ruin. And yet it is said that fate smiles upon him. The fractured pieces of himself are a blessing. What a funny thing fate must be, if his hell is said to be a heaven.

The mask must never slip, not even once— his life is a stage, corpses weighing heavy on his back, grasping hands chaining his feet, screams tearing his eardrums to shreds, and yet he must walk it anyway. And Aventurine will, and he will do it without missing a step. For this is what it means for him to live, his every breath a sin.

Aventurine knows how to keep a poker face. He does so easily— his smile is trained never to meet his eyes, it doesn’t know how to, and his hypnotic eyes are always trained on his next opponent, never leaving or faltering. He can’t afford to look away, to see what could possibly come next— to see what could hurt him, next. Aventurine could control nothing in his life. He couldn’t control the Katicans as they laughed as they took his father, or his mother, or his sister, and he couldn’t control when his swine of a master forced him to murder his fellow slaves, either. But he can control who he gets close to. He can control who he lets in, who is allowed to see what he looks like when his walls finally crumble.

Which, of course, is no one.

So it comes easily when he pushes well-meaning gestures away, or refuses a favor with that soft, styrofoam smile and a laugh. It’s not just second-nature, no. It’s the only one he has left.

Aventurine knows he doesn’t deserve the sanctity of being loved. This fact comes to him easily– all who have dared to try have been disappointed, and all who had mattered to him are gone. He knows it well, he is far too many pieces, far too broken, far too much of a mess for someone to come to try and fix. And this is fine, because he doesn’t have the experience to even fantasize about what he is supposedly missing. The closest semblance to friends that he has may as well be rivers or oceans away, with the amount of distance he has put between them and himself.

So you. You are strange to him.

Aventurine does not know what the hell your deal is. He doesn’t know how you got so close. He doesn’t know why you bother.

“Aventurine,” the false lights of Penacony dance in your eyes when you look at him, and something sickening and foreign twists in his chest. “May I hold your hand?”

That gives him pause. For a moment, his lips part, and his brows threaten to furrow under the weight of his pure bafflement. But, as always, his mask slips back on easily, a kind smile slotted into place.

“Oh? Afraid of getting lost?”

You walk beside him on the streets of Golden Hour, taking in the sequins disguised as stars and the specially-manufactured cool night air. He can’t tell if you’re naive or just easily impressed.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head, “Maybe I just…felt like it.”

Aventurine does not change anything in his face. There isn’t so much as a slow bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows, or a look of conflict crossing his features. There is no hesitation in his face, his mask, at all. But even so, when you look at him, through him, your kind smile finds a way to become kinder, and the tenderness in your eyes somehow becomes more potent.

“We don’t have to,” you don’t look disappointed, or even expectant, at all, “We can keep walking. Just this is enough as it is.”

“Just this” is the oddly peaceful silence as the two of you walk together. Your presence is comparable to a sun he never got acquainted with— he’s used to the storms, to the rock and sand, to the unyielding weather he was forced to endure, but this is different. This is just a walk, and there’s no search for water while the taste of blood coats his tongue, or the threat of thunder or biting cold. It is just peace at its purest. He extends his hand.

“Far be it for me to argue. Be my guest.”

You light up immediately, elated. He's thankful for his shades— the brightness of you is blinding. And he isn't quite prepared for the feel of you. Even through his gloves he feels the warmth of your hands— it is everything he is not. His own are ruined; he was pried from his home, and forced to take a bloody, bloody climb back up to earn his own humanity again. Aventurine’s hands are ruined beyond repair— no amount of washing can cleanse them, but yours, yours are so different. They aren't fully soft, you have work and hardships of your own, but they are gentle. Taking your hand feels easy because there are no expectations or commands hidden in the grooves of your palms. There are no hidden weapons behind your back, there is nothing but the feeling of flesh against the dark smoothness of his glove, and for a moment, he almost finds himself staggering.

How long has it been, since he touched another with no expectations? To not force himself to be overly friendly, to not appease anyone for the sake of getting information, to just exist, with someone else's hand in his?

The last willing touch he remembers feeling came with his fingers dipped in blood, salty tears thick on his taste buds. This is different from that. This is worlds away from that.

And Aventurine does not know how to feel. He doesn't know how to arrange his mask in response. There is no light in his eyes, not anymore, at least, but for a moment they are so wide with shock that Golden Hour’s stars swirl in the mix of blue and purple— a complex, vulnerable galaxy. Aventurine does not know how to feel. And it bothers him.

The tips of your fingers slide from his palms to the tips of his own, raking tiny sparks across the fabric of his gloves. Your fingers are interlocked now, and his head is spinning. You're everywhere. Under his gloves, under his skin, everywhere, and it's troubling. Strangely, he doesn't want to let go. For a moment —one that is fleeting and miniscule, barely a blink of an eye— his mask softens, melting around symptoms of genuine comfort, but his wounded heart kicks in defiance. The mask clicks back into place when your gaze meets his again, a smooth, porcelain smile easily greets you. Just as it has been taught to.

(His hands are nice. You know he thinks differently, has been taught to think differently, but they are firm under your palms and quickly warm to your touch.)

“Shall we?”

Distantly, he is aware of the implications of holding hands on a busy city street, encircled by onlookers and gossiping figures— this is the behavior of lovers, friends, family, people who are much, much closer than the two of you are. But your touch is…pleasant. It could mean trouble for you, to be seen with him when so many people have him under such a careful watch, (He is never truly free of people's stares or of their suspicion, and this makes associating with him more than a hassle.) but you know this, and have yet to keep your distance. Experimentally, he flexes his fingers around yours. It's faint, and a gamble if nothing else, but you squeeze him back almost immediately.

Aventurine knows he is greedy. This is intertwined into his being almost as tightly as the hold of your hands. He knows that this is a rare, fleeting moment, one that he will never get to indulge in again —not when his plans to discover the truth of Penacony are sure to succeed— and he knows that he will long for it once it ends, the sweetness of it clinging to his teeth. But he wants it. He wants this singular moment of peace, of keeping the mask on but for once not needing to perform. The city is busy as ever, bustling crowds and cheerful chatter echo up into the walls of tall buildings. It would be nice, to continue your walk together like this, with your soft, sunny hand in his. It would satiate his greed, if only for a moment.

But Aventurine knows he is not worth your time.

“It's been lovely, really,” he almost slips— he almost winces when your face falls. You aren't as practiced as he is when it comes to keeping a poker face. “But I really must be going.” His hand slides out from underneath yours, but it is not as easy as he thought it’d be. The ghost of your touch already serves to haunt him. A few steps back, and your warmth still lingers.

“Take care out there, alright?” he says it with a tilt of his head, his best, practiced and perfect smile easing the tension from your shoulders. Performing again, this time for a private audience.

He only gets a few steps away before you call for him again.

Aventurine knows how to pretend not to hear and keep walking.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

rbs w/comments are appreciated!! <33

#aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail headcanons #honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr aventurine #aventurine hsr #☆.writing

578 notes · View notes

pomefioredove · 16 days

Text

nightmares

summary: some chars I think would take care of a reader who has nightmares type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, vil, lilia, silver, malleus additional info: reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, this is self indulgent lol, platonic or romantic, not proofread, maybe a little ooc for a few ones

𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

he initially assumes you're just staying up to slack off

you are friends with Ace and Deuce, after all

it takes a good scolding from him before you sheepishly admit that you've been having nightmares and thus losing sleep

now, Riddle comes from a family of doctors. he's no psychiatrist, but surely he can find a way to help you sleep despite it, right?

he tries everything- chamomile tea, weighted blankets, he even turned a blind eye when Ace and Deuce "borrow" a sleeping potion from the lab

nothing works

of course, this drives him mad. it seems like such a simple problem, and yet your body resists everything

your grades are suffering, and even worse, you seem like a walking corpse

he takes it upon himself to find a solution no matter what

and, of course, you have nothing to lose, so you indulge him

nothing medical or magical helps

eventually, he picks up a big psychology book and gets to work on the last thing he can think of

suddenly you're having tea and "talk time" with him twice a week at 4 PM sharp

turns out he kinda likes playing therapist

and if you're late to an appointment, it's off with your head

now you're starting to regret being his guinea pig, as thankful as you are

𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫

you can't what?

sleep?

you can't sleep?

he laughs right to your face, much to your annoyance

who can't sleep? it's easy!

you begrudgingly explain your nightmare problem and he finally shuts up (for once)

after a long silence, he grunts something about learning from the master

big surprise, all of his "master lessons" just mean he gets to use you as a body pillow while you watch

very helpful.

eventually, as much as you hate to admit it, it starts to help

having something soft and warm protectively wrapped around you is as comfortable as it gets

you start managing to sleep through the day undisturbed

then nights

Leona boasts to everyone about fixing their beloved prefect's problem, but even after you're well rested, he's still dragging you back to his favorite nap spots

turns out he doesn't mind the company so much, either

𝐕𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐭

"those eyebags are just dreadful, prefect,"

always perceptive and eternally critical

(AKA he's worried)

he knows right off the bat that something's up, but he doesn't press for answers until you come to him yourself

as tempted as he is to step in, he doesn't want to pressure you to share something you don't want to

he accepts your pleas for help (he's worried) simply because he doesn't want your performance to suffer (he's soooo worried)

he starts out through traditional means- teas, oils, setting your routine to perfection- and eventually starts brewing potions for you

only one per week, he doesn't want you to become reliant

and the side effects can be... a little disruptive

one morning you spontaneously collapse in his arms on the way to your first class

he has to drag you back to Ramshackle to rest, despite your insistence

eventually, he eases you into talking about the dreams

he's there to comfort you about them, someone to lean on (though just for you)

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫

I mean... it's Silver

poor guy probably stumbled into one of your terrifying nightmares by accident

after that he started trying to subtly guide your dreams back to normal

when he gets to, of course

you're not even aware of it in your waking life, and he has no intentions of making his good deed known

it does give him the tiniest sense of accomplishment, though

𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚

similarly to Silver, he's got a thing with sleep

his beloved prefect isn't sleeping well because of nightmares? he wants to help!

(please let him help)

he definitely won't let you refuse out of humility or embarrassment

he'll get you to rest and make sure all of your dreams are pleasant at no cost!

(AKA at the low, low cost of getting to see you so cute in your sleep. you're like a cat to him)

he will never not be fascinated by you

he's so pleased about being your unconscious protector; it makes him feel so wanted

his cute little child of man!

𝐋𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐞

Lilia is no stranger to bad dreams

he's lived a long time; he's seen some things

every once in a while he, too, wakes up covered in sweat and tears

he can't help but feel a sense of longing when you describe your situation

you poor little thing!

right away he offers to keep watch over you, as if guarding you from an unseen enemy force

he's up most of the time, anyway

watching you is no problem!

you think that sounds reasonable enough

by night two you wake up in the early morning with his arms around your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck

little bastard is definitely stealing your body heat

you don't say anything, though- you haven't had a nightmare since

(and neither has he)

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #silver x reader #malleus draconia x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader

566 notes · View notes

just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

Text

The Supreme Empress

Kylo Ren x Reader

Summary: The dark side chose you. They pried you out of the rebel camps and dragged you from the ashes and the corpses of your family. The dark side chose you to strengthen the force, to be the vessel for their plans, to be the bride of the Supreme Leader's pupil, to bear Kylo Ren's seed and ensure the might of their divine wrath.

Word Count: 11k+ 🧍‍♀️💀

Warnings: fem!Reader, slow burn, forced marriage AU, themes of stockholm syndrome/gaslighting/brain washing, mentions/depictions of violence, enemies to lovers?, smut (scratching, marking, ?manipulating?, fingering, vaginal penetration, cock warming), fluff, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this fucking ai chat man. fuck that shit MINORS DNI honestly. its my fault for making a plot. i just wanted to write smut fml. i hate it here. i couldn't even finish it cos now i cant write the smut dafaq? anyway im sure i got typos so you must forgive me. i have not gone through this yet and i need to brush my teeth and pull myself together bye Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx

I fell to my knees. I was in tears, in dust, in blood, and in pain. My wrists were bound behind me and my clothes were tattered and torn.

This was it. This was the day I die. I felt it in my bones. This was the reckoning.

And then my deliverer, my executioner, came before me. And then I felt the Force in him echo in the room and ripple through me like a blade through my chest.

It was him. The phantom that haunted me every time I closed my eyes. He was the nightmare in my sleep, and the damning voice in my head in the morning. The dark warrior, death given form, the murmuring voice of the shadows.

The Sith Lord.

Here he is, crossing this bridge from the entrance of this cursed compound.

The place is busy, busy with its plans of destruction. I heave at the grandness of it all. It was terrifying to see it up close, especially since I was evidently at the top, and it was a very long drop down.

I crane my neck up at him, face stained with tears. I was exhausted but I put on my last show. I bared my last look of defiance before he kills me, before he finally completes this cycle of torment he has been inflicting onto me.

I close my eyes and await his judgement.

I feel him come before me, but he instead walks past, and I hear someone choke from behind.

"Did I not instruct that she be left unharmed?" his voice barks through his dark mask.

My heart pounds as I hear straining from behind me. I steal a look from over my shoulder and instantly regret it when I see the two stormtroopers that dragged me here get thrown down the side of the bridge. I shudder. Like I said, it's a long drop down.

I look straight when he returns to me. I feel him undo my shackles with his Force, and then... he clutches my arm to help me stand.

I look up at him. I see my reflection on his helmet. I clench my jaw, "what do you want from me?"

"My empress-"

My stomach rolls.

"-I have finally retrieved you from your sullied camp to bring you to your rightful place next to me. To claim you as my own."

A shiver runs down my spine.

No, this can't be real.

My breathing strains. I grip my hands and I begin to step back.

It electrocutes me, this searing cold voice in my brain. It was a suddenly as if I remembered the dialogue in the horrors of my slumber that I so hardly tried to suppress. It was replaying now, the voice of the malevolent, the voice of the creature ruling my nightmares. "I give you to my pupil. With your Force converged with his, the purest of warriors will be borne. And my power will know no bounds."

"You remember now, bride," my captor iterated, "that voice in your head right now-- that is the Supreme Leader; that is Snoke."

I step back, "bride?" my breath hitches.

I was his b--

My knees almost give in, but again, his hold on my arm keeps me upright.

I feel my eyes begin to water.

Please, please, let this be another horrible, horrible nightmare.

"Is everything prepared?"

"Yes, my lord," two voices call out from behind me.

"Good," he says, and I released, "I will watch as you prepare her. I will not allow her be injured further."

I was--

I was here to be sacrificed to the darkness.

I was here to answer to the calls that have been plaguing me for so long, ever since that day my home planet was invaded, ever since everything I knew was reduced to atoms.

I let out a loud yelp when I am splashed with cold water. I let out a breathy curse and the servant who had done it, who had profusely apologized, is suddenly being choked.

It is only now I am cognizant again. It was now that I was aware I am in the bathroom, stripped naked in a tub, and my captor has his servant in a chokehold from across the room. I gasp and cover my bare chest, looking over my shoulder as he hisses, "you could not have made the water warmer? How would you like to be dunked in a pool of ice water?"

My breath hitches, "let her go!"

His voice buzzes behind his helmet as he curls his hand further with his outstretched arm, "she has one task, one simple task, and if she cannot perform it, then she is no use to me."

I panic as I see the servant's eyes water. I jolt when the other servant grabs my shoulder and begins to wash my skin as though nothing was awry. I turn from the servant back to him, "LET HER GO!"

He does nothing.

"LET. HER. GO!"

He seems to be debating my words.

I panic and quip breathlessly, "let her go!"

I sigh in relief when the servant is dropped.

A shiver runs down my spine when he goes at ease by the door. He clutches his hands before him and announces, "thank your empress for her mercy."

Immediately, before she can even catch her breath, the servant responds, "th-ank you, empress." The woman quickly begins to attend to me again.

I am far beyond perturbed.

I don't know what to do with myself, not when I was being bathed by strangers, not when I naked in the tub, not when he was there, watching me.

Why the fuck did that sicko have to watch like a bird in a fucking cage?

Careful, bride.

I stiffen in my place. The servants working on my body halt their work and ask me if their touch was too rough.

Lest you forget I have also been in your dreams. You ought to honor me even in your thoughts, baby bird.

"... my empress?" one servant calls.

"She is fine," he answers for me, "you may proceed."

And then, I'm being dragged out of the tub and patted down in front of a huge mirror. I don't know what to cover, and I can feel him looking. Never mind my naked form in and of itself, but my cuts and bruises from ripping and screaming at the stormtroopers that pried me into their ship. It was loathsome sight to see.

"Must you watch me?" I ask accusingly yet under my breath.

"Yes," he replies, as if it makes anything better, as if it was actually a question, as if he didn't know what I meant with my words. And then he clarifies, as if it helped, "your physical state does not bother me. It does not make you any less than you are, my bride."

My eyes twitch as I am finally handed undergarments to wear. I find my voice again, finally, "that's not the-"

"My pretty bride."

I cease my movements. What the fuck is he saying?

I don't have time to ponder those words as the servants urge me to dress and then quickly begin to fasten me with bandages, namely on my thigh where I had a cut and on my bicep that had a burn.

And though I so badly wanted to whine in protest and dramatic spite, I do my best to contain them. After all, the servants were helping me, they don't need to be Force choked for doing a job they were tasked to accomplish by their malignant master.

The next moment, I was being put into an elaborate garment and then they started painting on my face. Suddenly, I was.... turning into something else. I looked at the mirror and everything was so very real and unimaginable all at once. This was all happening to me. This wasn't a nightmare, not a fever dream, and there was no escape.

And then they told him- my groom- that I was done and I stared at my reflection, unable to recognize myself.

Who in the world were you?

"Come," he says, raising his hand up to me, "we must not delay any further."

I look at his reflection from the mirror. I look at his hand, hid behind his glove, his body, hid behind his cloak, and his face, hid behind his mask. I was going to me wed to this stranger, hidden in darkness?

I stare at him. I clench my jaw. I tell him I'm not going but utter not a single word. I sear it in his brain with my eyes. I scream it, blare it out as loudly as I could.

And yet he only watches me. He watches me with an urging dark hand.

My heart pounds in my ribs. I expect him to begin to lash out at one point, to choke me next, but he doesn't. He stands there, just stands there, reaching out to me.

Was this his twisted way of making me feel like I was willingly going to him? His way of telling me he was the only route in my life now?

My nostrils flare and I gather my skirt. I stare at him as I walk past him. My body was rigid and I had no idea where I was going, but I walked. And then he opened the doors for me.

My hand twitched when he took it, as he was suddenly beside me. I gasp at the unexpected and uninvited touch and I turn to him in surprise, but it is arduous with this ridiculous headpiece on me. His hand is massive and burning hot against my freezing clammy one. He tugs me toward him, "it's this way."

So, we when go this way.

We tread the halls, and I swear I could feel people following after us, more and more each moment, but I couldn't look back, literally, the fucking headpiece was in the way.

And then the atmosphere started to get darker, and it was like it was suddenly so much harder to breathe. It was clear to me we were heading for that large door, and that whatever was behind there was not good. It was not good at all.

He waved his hands once and the doors opened.

There was a great and terrible rush of Force that knocked into me. It was so strong and terrifying, I tighten my grip on my captor, and I cling onto him for safety. My breath is knocked out of my lungs, and all at once I am facing this large entity, this massive body of darkness, the literal flesh form of all my worst nightmares.

I was reeling back in fear. My stomach was in my chest and my heart was in my mouth.

I was in front of him. The Supreme Leader. Snoke.

And he was looking at me, looking right at me with contempt, with impatience, with exasperation.

My feet were stuck on the floor and my fingers were digging into arm of the man by my side. I couldn't do anything but feel my eyes water.

I snap to look my side when my name is called out. I turn to my groom as suddenly he is pacifying me, comforting me even, "the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave."

I don't know how I feel about his words, I don't know how I feel about how he takes my chin in his fingers and makes me turn my body to him. I don't know how I feel when he steadies my stupid headpiece when it knocks onto his shoulder. I don't know how I feel when I follow him mindlessly, when he and I head towards his gargantuan master.

Snoke speaks the moment we are in front of him. His voice rings, it reverberates, in the hall, in my ears, in my thorax, and in the dark corner of my mind that shudders at the recognition, "you have done well, my pupil. Very well."

My eyes lock with Snoke. I evade his stare and abruptly pull away from the man on my right. He stares at me for a moment when I do so, then looks back at Snoke, "thank you, master."

Snoke grumbles, "well, remove that ridiculous thing on your head and let us begin."

I don't know whether it is because I am fearful of the evil-king before me or because I am anticipative of the face of the man behind the mask, but I turn to him with a desperation. I turn to him when he removes his helmet and my breath catches in my throat.

He tucks his helmet under his arm and looks at me with his brown eyes that glistened with something sinister behind them. He parted his lips and I noticed the scar by its side that started by his brow went far past his cheek and collar. His hair was somehow perfectly tousled even after staying inside his face cage for so long. I don't know how I felt after seeing him face to face like this.

I suck in a sharp breath when he takes my hand. He promptly begins to speak.

"I-" he turns to our joined hands as he lifts them chest level, "Kylo Ren," his eyes dart back to me, "take you-"

My skin pricks at how he whispers my name. He says it as if it were a secret, as if he meant it with reverence, as if it was solemn.

"-to be my wife."

My empress.

I suck in a sharp breath at his voice in my head. My breath picks up. My stomach rolls. Get out.

Kylo Ren rubs my knuckles, "To protect you, to honor you, to venerate you until my last breath, or even beyond."

And then he looks at me. He stares at me. He bores into my being and plunges into my soul. I feel my hands begin to shake in his hold.

Kylo Ren looks in silence and I look in fear.

I start at the harsh call of the Supreme Leader to our side, "SPEAK YOUR VOWS, GIRL!"

I screw my eyes shut and gulp. I have to get out of here. Get me out of here! My breath strains now more than ever.

Suddenly, I hear a soft voice in my head. Suddenly, I dare to open my eyes and I see a disconcerting softness in my groom's expression.

Shhhhhhh.

He hushes me in my mind. He repeats his words from earlier.

The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.

I open my mouth and huff helplessly. I repeat my groom's words and tears begin to fall from my eyes.

Snoke leans back in his throne and tents his hands together, "good, good. Then by the power of the darkness, the power vested in me, The Supreme Leader, the ruler of the galaxies and all peoples," he nods his head, "two have now become one."

My shoulders rise and my heart pounds at the explosion of loud exclamations. I look around the hall and only now realize that there were hundreds of individuals, looking down at us from the balconies above.

"Long live the Emperor and Empress!"

I am at a loss for what to do next. I don't know if I want to run away or drop dead. I find myself looking to Kylo Ren. Kylo Ren, whose brows slightly furrow in his seriousness. Kylo Ren who looks up to his people and raises his hand that is clutching his helm, inspiring them to cheer even more. Kylo Ren, who then looks down at me and firmly grips my hands before leading me out of the room.

I don't know what happens after that.

I think I'm having a panic attack.

Am I having a panic attack?

Can someone even think if they're having a panic attack?

I'm not having a panic attack.

"Enough," he speaks, turning to me, clutching my cheek. Kylo Ren looks at me with knit brows while his gloved hands make me face him. My neck strains because of the weight of my headpiece. He blinks at me and slips the thing off my head. A weight is lifted off my shoulders. Very suddenly, I think I'd have preferred if he removed my head altogether. He uses his Force to bring the object away. I watch as it floats off to a dresser, beside his helmet that was already there.

All at once, I realize I was in a bedroom. I look back at Kylo in horror. Oh, fuck, I was in a bedroom.

He huffs through his nostrils, "your thoughts are as loud as sirens."

I clutch my skirt tightly and slowly begin to move back.

Kylo watches me. He tilts his head down slightly and narrows his eyes.

I swallow the lump in my throat, "so what?" I shudder, "you're going to force an heir in me now?"

He raises his nose and tilts his head to the side, "it is my duty to sire an heir."

I gulp. My breathing begins to get shorter and shorter.

I start when he steps forward. I put more distance between us.

I shiver when he calls out my name.

"Don't," I point, "don't come any closer."

Kylo Ren offers me the courtesy of stopping in his place.

I catch my breath and watch him as he brings his hands behind him. Goosebumps form on my skin when he speaks, "I have just vowed to protect you, to honor you, and to venerate you." He brings his hands to the clasp of his cloak, "I will not force you to do anything with me that you don't want."

I scoff, tightening my grip on my clothes, "and you think I wanted to marry you?!"

I tense when Kylo unfastens his cloak and folds it in front of him. I freeze in my spot in anticipation of what he's going to do next. He looks at his cloak then looks at me, "you do not understand it now, but you are the key to securing the strength the Sith, securing the Order."

A shiver runs down my spine. How can he say that so plainly?

I cannot comprehend how utterly indoctrinated this ideation is in his being. It is shocking honestly, to see up close and personal that he believes so much in his cause, that he genuinely does not see fault in this, in forcing me to marry him, in taking me by force, in destroying my camp, in laying waste to my people, on wreaking their ill-judgement to the stars.

I shake my head, "do you honestly believe I will eventually come to you with- with open arms?!"

Kylo Ren straightens his posture. I nearly trip when he walks over to me as I attempt to rush back. He raises two fingers and keeps me upright with his Force. He keeps me in place and stands before me. He leans his face close to mine, then barely opens his mouth to speak, "I do."

And then, he releases me and walks away.

I watch him as he exits the room and leaves me. The sound of the door closing is all that's left.

I begin to pant. I begin to heave in anger, in loss, in panic, in desperation. I have to get o-

I slap my hands on my mouth. I screw my eyes shut and shudder.

Silent. I have to be silent.

The next day he asked me to accompany him while he ate.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he said, I should join him, so that we would both grow accustomed to each other's company during such intimate moments, and that we would also get to know each other more.

I scoffed at the idea, so much for not forcing me to do anything I don't want.

"I am not forcing you, wife," Kylo calls across the expanse of the long table.

My eyes that were idly watching my fork swirl the unknown delicacy on my plate dart to him. My shoulders tense as Kylo Ren grabs his glass and drinks from it.

I huff, "do you mind getting out of my head?" I ask though it wasn't really a question, it was a threat, as much of a threat a captive could give.

Kylo sets the object down and taps his finger on it, "if you don't want to join me..." he thinks for a moment, "you don't have to."

I straighten in my seat. I silently look out to him in challenge.

I stiffen when the pitcher begins to float and water is then poured in my cup. I clench my jaw, turning back to Kylo, finding his raised finger.

"I would prefer if you dined with me though," he says, putting the pitched back down.

I turn to my food, idly pushing it around again, "I would prefer if I dined by myself... in my-" our "-room."

I hear him exhale. I hear the contact of his cutlery on his plate, "a disappointing conclusion."

I slowly avert my eyes from my food to him. He is now focused on his own plate. He mumbles, "but I will allow it."

The next day, I am woken to eat breakfast and urged to get out of bed. I explain to servant I was allowed to eat in my room and that I don't want to eat yet. I scoff in disbelief when I am told I am meant to tour the place with the master, with that damned Kylo Ren, and is thus advised to get ready.

And so I did. I got ready and went into the dining room and interrupted his breakfast. If I can't have peace, neither can he.

Kylo turns to me and nods, "wife."

I clench my teeth, "tour me now," I huff, "I'm not hungry, so tour me now."

He turns back to his food and seemingly debates my words for a moment. He then stands from his seat and puts on his helmet, leading me out of the room. If I could burn holes onto his back with my eyes, he'd have been nothing but charcoal.

I suppose I should have given more attention to his tour than I did because knowing the place would surely benefit me when I make my attempt to esc-

"Are you certain you're not hungry?" Kylo Ren asks out of the blue as he leads me down the weapons room, "you're quite snippy and demanding. I would assume that's because you're hungry, baby bird."

I can't help but scoff at his mockery, "or, this is just how I am," I mumble, "so don't act like you know me." I aimlessly look at all the weapons on display, weapons meant to destroy others like me.

But I do know you.

I avert my gaze to him. I stiffen as I glare.

"I have been in your mind and seen the depths of your soul," he mutters, "and I know you're irritable because you're hungry."

And then he conjures up a tin-wrapped object in front of me.

"Here," he gives me the item using his Force, "you can eat this while we walk back to our chambers."

My lips curl in disgust, "is this meant to be enticing?"

He tilts his helmet clad head, "it's meant to be my lunch for later," he grabs the floating object, then my wrist, placing the silver thing on my palm.

I tense in his touch and I am glad he doesn't linger long there. I look at his would-have-been lunch then turn back to him, seeing my scowling reflection on his dumb helmet, "what an honor to know I won't be poisoned since this is apparently yours."

"It is mine," he rebuts rather impatiently.

I roll my eyes and shove it into his chest, "if you want me to be less irritable, let me go back to my chambers." I catch myself when I say this. It sounds like I want to be in that damned cage, instead of outside of this compound. I correct myself, "or better yet, let me go."

Kylo Ren places his lunch in pocket that I didn't know he had, "We will continue this tour tomorrow."

And so we did. This time, he made sure to have someone come to me after I ate.

I must say, perhaps he was partially correct in the fact I was irritable because I was hungry. I did find him more bearable today, as far as forced husbands and captors go. But then again perhaps it was because he was touring me in the biggest library I have ever seen.

I couldn't even feign disinterest as he motioned to each area of the place and explained they were arranged by planet of origin.

I was far too busy craning my neck up to see how high the bookshelves reached that I bump into one. Or at least I thought it was a bookshelf and not fucking Kylo Ren. I jolt when I look at him, firstly because we had a collision, secondly because he magically didn't have his helmet on anymore.

I reel back as he looks down at me, on I think a more figurative sense if anything.

I am immediately uncomfortable under his gaze. I mutter, "sorry."

"You have questions," he mutters. He turns to me and lifts his chin, "ask them."

I evade his stare. Don't tell me what to do.

"I'm not telling you what to do," Kylo Ren retorts after hearing my thought.

I turn back to him. I snort and grumble, "stay out of my head."

He looks up at the shelves and then looks down at me with his eyes, "a hundred layers."

I pull my head back and scoff in disbelief, "the shelves have a hundred layers?" I look over my shoulder haphazardly, "seems unnecessary hard to manage."

"Well," he brings his head down, "it hosts knowledge from peoples across over the stars. It must be capable of securing the vastness."

When I look back at him, I tense when I see he has come far too close to me. It would have been wise to pull away, perhaps to even shove him off to get my point across, but somehow, I find his proximity as a challenge. I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes at him, "undoubtedly stolen, plucked from the rubble of your destruction."

A chill rushes up my spine when he smirks at me. It remains lopsided and smug as he whispers "I don't feel the need to preserve artifacts from a race that is unable to see the glory of my purpose."

That's it. I begin to slowly step away from him.

"Do you want to know how these shelves are managed?"

"No, I really-"

I make a sound when he grabs me and locks me against his chest. Before I can even begin to fight back, I find my feet get lifted off the ground along with him. Next thing I know, I'm gasping and clinging onto him for dear life.

"Put me down," I gasp against his chest as I seal my arm tightly against him.

He chuckles as we continue to float up. He tightens his grip on me as I feel myself begin to slip. He flexes his feet and pushes them beneath mine. I look up at him as I step on his boots.

"This is how you manage them," he iterated, then motioning to his side, "or you use the ladder."

I scoff in disbelief, grabbing onto his collar, "put me down, Kylo."

He blinks at me, lips curing into a bigger smile, "alright."

He slowly bringing me down and I tense when he clutches my waist and speaks out my name.

I look away from him and watch as the floor nears. By the time it was close enough, I jump off him and walk away.

Kylo Ren watches and chuckles, "the exit is the other, baby bird."

I stop in my tracks and glare at him. He does not waste time and walks up to me. My breath hitches when he does, reeling over the look on his face. He moves past me and walks away.

I watch him as he does so, and then an idea strikes me. I debate my chances on living here and convincing the servants to get me food... a bucket-

"Don't be ridiculous. I will throw you over my shoulder if you will not follow," Kylo Ren announces. He stops in his tracks and looks over to me, "you are my empress, not my captive, even though you feel that way."

I watch him as he raises his hand to me, reaching out to me again like on the day of our wedding, except this time, I could see his eyes and is pouty lips. I huff through my nostrils and grip my fists. I walk over to him glaring at him all the way until I move past him.

Kylo watches, a glint in his eye as he does.

I hear him chuckle.

The next day, I woke up, realizing I was allowed to sleep in. That got me tremendously excited, and so I quickly began to ready myself to begin my attempts at an esca-

I slap my hand on my mouth and release a deep breath from my nostrils.

I take a few more moments and ready to exit my chambers.

The moment I'm about to exit though, I am faced with a servant. I tense at the sight of her but offer her a pinched smile, "Rezba."

Rezba nods and walks in with a tray of food, "please eat before you leave. I will be scolded if I am found to failed to feed you."

Dammit, Rezba.

I sigh, turning to my feet. I watch the woman as she walks off and sets the table. She was one of the servants that helped prepare me on my... wedding day, the one that didn't get choked. As for the one that was, I have not seen or heard from her ever since.

My conscience presses on me every time I think of this. I sigh, walking over to her. I sit down on the chair by the table and smile, "thank you, Rezba. You can go now."

Rezba nods, "as you wish, empress."

I wipe my face as he walked away. I quickly stuff my face with the food. I mean, after all, if I manage what I do, I'll need all the food I can get.

The moment I was done, I exit my chambers and head outside with purpose. I nod at the personnel that greet me and make sure to keep my mask of confidence as I make it to the launch pad.

I practically beam when I see a ship ready for the picking. But then I feel a force surge through me.

"Fuck."

My bride.

I turn over my shoulder in horror. Lo behold, the dark mask of my groom, strutting over to me with troops behind him.

"Come to visit me?" he muffles out behind his helmet.

I clench my jaw and turn to him, doing my best not to roll my eyes.

Somehow, I can see his smirk underneath as he speaks, "you didn't even change out of your nightclothes."

I let out a strangled sound as I turn to the two people behind Kylo. One had red hair and one was as clad in uniform as the Supreme Lord.

"This is General Hux and Captain Phasma," Kylo motions to the two of them.

I hum, "yes... hello," I smile without meeting my eyes, "well, now that I've... seen my husband, I'm... I'm going back to my chambers."

The two behind Kylo nod at me. I try not be so annoyed as I walk away.

Next time you plan to escape, you should probably change into something that would protect you from the harshness of space.

I grit my teeth and snap over my shoulder, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

General Hux recoils at my voice. Kylo Ren chuckles under his breath.

The next day, I have no such luck of escaping at all.

"Don't you have some-" I quip over my shoulder as Kylo tails me like the dark shadow he was, "-I don't know... planet to blow up," my voice gets increasingly smaller as I say this and hear myself.

Kylo Ren, in one of the rare occurrences he did not have his helmet on, stops to look at me. He presses his lips together, "do you have a pla-"

"No!" I raise hands, "forget that I said that... please."

I turn away from him and begin to tread deeper into the halls of the library.

I hear him snort behind me, "I don't want you to continue to delude yourself into thinking escaping is an option. It would just be a waste of both our time if you do so."

I roll my eyes and shake my head, "and I don't want to delude you in thinking that I would ever stop trying to escape you."

I actually stop in my tracks when I hear him laugh out loud. I turn over to him in great offence as he then turns to me with bright eyes.

I seethe with venom, "I'm glad one of us finds this funny."

He straightens himself up and crosses his arms, "it's funny how you fail to see how alike we are."

My face drops in horror. I march over to him and point a finger at him, "we are nothing alike!"

I jolt when he grabs my wrist and pushes my hand down. The amusement in his face falters and shifts into something else, "aren't we, my empress?"

My heart begins to pound. I pull away from him and recoil.

My breathing begins to pick up as I rub my wrist.

Kylo watches me and makes up for the space between us by walking forward, "did that hurt you?"

"Does it matter if it did?" I quip.

His face softens yet his brows tighten, "it does."

I scoff.

"I am not the monster you make me out to be."

I scoff again as I continue to walk back, "oh yeah, then what ar-" I gasp when I hit something. I panic and turn, seeing it was the step ladder. I have no choice but to halt as Kylo presses nearer. I swallow the lump on my throat as I look at his face.

I will myself not to be so affected by his presence.

I clench my jaw.

My willpower is not very effective.

"I am your husband," he mutters.

I freeze when he brings his hands to my side, though he does not touch me. His eyes dart to my hands that I clutch to my chest. He releases a breath, "I want to bring order to the galaxy."

A shiver runs down my spine, "Kylo..."

His eyes lock on mine. I even my breathing.

I shake my head and knit my brows, "do you genuinely think," I speak softly with no hint of malice, "that killing billions is order?"

His jaw tightens. He drops his hands to his side, "it is an necessary stake for the greater good-"

"Greater good?!" I quip under my breath, grabbing onto his cheeks. I look at him with wide eyes as he looks at me with a similar shocked expression, "you believe razing through the stars is the greater good?"

My whole body pricks when he takes my wrists in his hands and whispers, "my love."

I suck in a sharp breath.

"You do not understand it now," he explains, shaking his head, "but everything that I am, everything that I do," his voice becomes really quiet, "is for us."

My expression drops where his softens.

"For our future," he whispers, "for our next generation and after."

"Kylo-"

"I do it because I believe in our cause," he cuts me off, "I do it because without us, the galaxy will never know anything but chaos."

My breath begins to strain.

He releases one wrist and reaches out for my face, "I will do all it takes, and give you all the time to understand this."

Mu face burns at the feel of his gloved hand. I shake my head, "why?"

"Because you are my star, my burning destiny," he mutters, "the Force brought you to me. I felt you that day on your home planet, you were so strong, you were so strong and so misguided. I tried to kill you that day, but you got away."

My eyes begin to water. I begin to relive that day in my head.

"Then I dreamt about you, I dreamt about how you escaped me and how I hated that you did. Snoke saw it. He saw you in my head. He saw your drive. He saw your weakness. He saw what you could become. And then, he said I burned because you were meant to be mine. He said our Forces were calling for each other, which was why I could not stop dreaming about you."

I begin to tremble against him.

He clutches my face with both hands, "don't be afraid. It took me a while to understand it as well, but-"

"Kylo-" I shudder, "you don't dream of me because I'm your bride, you dream of me because of him!"

He stills.

"Don't you see?" I pant, "he's manipulating you. The dark side is mani-"

"If anyone has been manipulated, it is you, baby bird," he grunts, "you were indoctrinated with beliefs that are short sighted and weak. I would not-"

He doesn't finish and turns his head to the side when a voice of a stormtrooper buzzes through the hall, "apologies for the interruption, my lord. I was tasked to escort you to the throne room, the Supreme Leader is summoning you."

Kylo Ren turns to face him. I suck in a breath as suddenly, he grabs my hand and pulls me with him as we walk past the stormtrooper, "an escort won't be necessary."

If I wasn't shaking a while ago, I surely was now, and Kylo Ren could feel it. Kylo stole looks over his shoulder. I did nothing but try to even my breath as we tread the hall.

I could feel him holding onto me with his Force, trying to contain me almost... trying to comfort me.

I tense when he releases my hand in lieu of draping his arm over my shoulder, "he will not touch you. He will not harm you," he mutters as I look up at him. He stares straight as we continue walking, "I will make it a point to keep this brief. You have nothing to worry about."

I wanted his words to comfort me, I wanted him to be able to comfort me so badly. And yet when I was face to face with his master, I couldn't even muster the courage to put my faux brave face on. He pulled away from me and pushed me behind him as he greeted the being.

"Why do you continue to disappoint me so, Kylo Ren?" Snoke inquires with a voice of disdain.

This had something to do about me, I am sure of it.

"I am doing everything you asked me," Kylo retorts rather simply.

"And I gave you a bride, yet still you have no efforts for an heir!" he accuses, "must I teach you even in the ways of the flesh, boy?!"

Kylo clenches his fist, he mumbles, "no."

"THEN DO YOUR DUTY!"

"I am making sure everything is perfect for her. She cannot bear me and heir if she is damaged or scared," Kylo retorts.

Snoke tilts his head, "and are you trying to say that has something to do with me?"

"I am SAYING-" Kylo Ren starts, raising his voice as he did. In my shock, I pull back at his cloak, not wanting to feel the wrath of his master. Not now, not ever, especially not in my dreams, not again.

Kylo holds himself back. He huffs, "I will do my duties as her husband. This isn't something for you to meddle with."

"Meddle?" Snoke scoffs but then laughs. He, in fact, laughs so hard, it echoes in the room. He catches his breath then sighs, "Fine." Snoke raises a finger and suddenly, Kylo's boots skid on the floor as he is moved away to reveal me from behind him.

I turn to Snoke, feeling my heart quicken in my ribcage.

Kylo steps back in front of me. I take his arm and hold onto it for dear life.

Snoke stares at his protégé. He tilts his head, "I expect this to change, soon. Her belly should never not be carrying an heir."

Her belly should never not be carrying an heir.

"Enough!" Kylo snaps me out of my trance. I turn to him, eyes wide, body trembling. We weren't in the throne room any more, we were in our chambers, soaked in dark retreat of it all. I had no idea when we got here. All I know was I was here with Kylo, who was clutching my face so tightly. He looks at me with something of annoyance, something of concern, "don't think about him anymore, think about me. Just think about me."

I shake my head in sheer disbelief. I push his hands away, "is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Kylo straightens.

"You," I start, "want me here for the same reason he does!"

His expression hardens.

"You and him had plagued me with nightmares for as long as I can remember," I shake my head, "the only reason, I think, I don't have them anymore is because I actually get to live my nightmares out in real life."

"So?" he quips, "what do you mean to say?"

I bite my lip, "just-" I feel my eyes water, "take what you want and... and-"

I hold my breath when Kylo grabs my chin and tilts my head up to look at him. He brings his face close to mine. His nose is barely brushing my own. I feel his hot breath on my face as he enunciates one word, "want."

I blink rapidly at the sound of his voice.

"Shhh," he hushes, "if it's Snoke you worry about, don't. I have been planning something for him, long before you even came to me. He is the least of your worries," he explains. "But do you know what I want, bride?" he asks, as though to taunt me.

I shudder. I think of replying, but I don't.

"I know what you want," he mutters. He begins to move forward, and so I have no choice but to move back as he pushes me in the direction he wants, "you want to run away from me, baby bird. You think you can break free."

His hand only leaves my chin when my calves hit the foot of the bed and I fall back, heart hammering, breath clawing at my throat. He drones, "but what I want?"

Kylo Ren undoes his gloves and undoes his belt as he towers over me.

I want to strangle your light. I want to break you so badly. I want to fucking burn you from the inside until you can only hear yourself screaming from how good it feels to finally have your wet, little c-

I slap my hands to my mouth I hear the thoughts running through his head.

Kylo stills. He tilts his head then chuckles, "so... you heard that?"

I sigh deeply, attempting to even my breath as I back away from him. I squeak when he lunges and traps me beneath him. He crushes me against his chest and pins my wrists by my head. I turn away from him as he whispers hotly against my ear, "it would be so easy to have you like this, right?"

My screw my eyes shut. Tears lace my lashes.

"You won't even fight me off, you couldn't."

I shudder when he releases one of my wrists and brings his free hand down to my thighs. I feel my body burn and tingle at his slow caress.

He kisses my jaw and my skin there is set ablaze, "you don't want to fight me off," he chuckles, "you could at least do something with your hand to save face."

When I finally remember where my free hand is, Kylo takes it back in his and lifts his head, "too late." He pushes himself up, "look at me."

I clench my jaw.

"You'll know never to make me ask for the same thing twice."

I give a shallow huff and open my eyes, looking up at him.

"I want you to beg me," he whispers, "I want you to be so desperate to finally," he begins to further pull away, "finally, take you," he knits his brows, "to make you my wife that you get on your knees and weep for it."

A shiver runs down my spine as I watch him get up from the bed and grab his gloves, "until then," he reaches his hand out and uses his Force to cover me with the sheets, "you belong to yourself."

He haunts me in my dreams that night. Not as a figure of darkness, not as a ghost, but as a man, as starving entity, ready to consume me, eager to take me.

He haunts me every night after. And every night his intentions are made clearer and clearer until I wake up and think he and I wake up and I'm shocked he's not actually there.

It became hard to look at him, especially when my stomach began to flip and my thighs involuntarily pressed together. I was turning sick.

And then one day, the news spreads like wildfire. Snoke is dead, Kylo Ren is the Supreme Leader, and I, his Supreme Empress.

It was weird. I was called Empress before and he was called Emperor before, but now, now it was real. Now I was parading with Kylo Ren in the capital, looking at citizens waving at us and throwing flowers our way. And then I was shaking strangers' hands and Kylo snarled at whomever dared embrace me a second too long.

But what really cemented our reign and the realness of it all, was when someone tried to attack me. Kylo felt the assailant before he got too close though and choked him dead in the middle of the crowd. I watched as the man's weapon fell to the ground, as he withered in pain, as he eventually stopped moving. He suffered. I knew Kylo wanted him to. The festivities were long over after that, and I was then I was reminded of who he truly was.

He was a brute. A beast. The shadow in my mind. He was-

I turn over my left as a blanket is draped over my shoulder. Kylo Ren sits beside me on the bed and offers me glass of water, "I'm sorry you had to see that."

I huff at the sound of his apology. I wrap my blanket tighter on me.

He sighs and brings the glass to the table using his Force, "I would do it again, though. You should know. I would not hesitate even a second."

I curl my legs up into my chest, "am I supposed to be grateful?"

"I would prefer if you were," he mutters.

"Kylo..."

I suck in a breath when he says his name.

"I'm- I'm too tired to argue. I want to go to sleep," I mutter, moving on the bed until I was laid down. Kylo watches me as I do this, then stands.

"Wait," I call out, surprising even myself.

Kylo stills.

No turning back now. "I... I don't want to be alone... not after that... even though you did it."

Kylo waits.

He debates my words.

I hide behind my blanket, "nevermi-"

The next thing I know, I feel him move next to me. And there, he lies.

I feel him next to me. We're under the same blanket. I feel myself begin to grow warm.

"I can get a separate blanket if you're so uncomfortable."

"Get out of my fucking thoughts."

"... ... I don't want to."

I grunt and wrap myself tightly under the blanket, surely yanking however much was on Kylo off.

"Your mind is an oasis to me."

I say nothing.

"My mind is a dessert, you are my oasis."

I huff through the sheets, "don't talk to me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like that!"

"I'm telling you what-"

"I'm done with this conversation."

I close my eyes and tighten my embrace on myself. I release a breath and try to clear my mind.

"Are you that cold?" Kylo murmers

"I'm not cold."

"I know."

"Then why did you ask?" I quip turning to him.

I freeze when I do so, instantly regretting my decision. He was lying on his side, looking at me, his face was right in front of mine and his arms were wrapped around himself. He blinks slowly as he looks at me, "I know you want to be held."

I huff through my slightly agape mouth, then I clench my jaw tightly. I move back from him cautiously, retreating into my covers, into myself.

"I can hold you," he mutters softly.

I turn away from him, feeling my body ignite.

"I want to hold you," he whispers even softer. Let me hold you.

Shut up, get out of my head.

He takes a moment before speaking again. He releases a breath, "am I that terrifying to you, baby bird?"

Yes.

"Then why do you mutter my name while you sleep?"

I tighten my arms around myself. Stop trying to get into my head.

"I'm already in your head," he retorts, voice closer now, "and in your heart."

"Shut up," I whimper.

I hear high-pitched laugh in my head. His voice surrounds me through the Force. It makes my skin raise. I'm only telling you the truth.

"Face me," he mutters, "coward."

I scoff. I heave, feeling my insides curdle. I clench my jaw then hiss, "at least I'm not a killer with no remorse."

He laughs, "you're making it seem like I should have let him attack you."

"You didn't have to kill him!" I snap, turning back to him, pushing myself up on my palms, "you could have given him a prison sentence."

"For what?!" he barks back, unravelling his crossed arms, lifting face up slightly, "so he could plan to attack you again, but next time when I'm not around to defend you?!"

"He only wanted to attack me because I'm married to you!" I hiss, sitting up from my spot.

Kylo sits up too and shakes his head, "he wanted to attack you because he thinks you're my weakness."

"Because I am your weakness!" I quip, "I'm your docile bride!"

He scoffs, grabbing my jaw, "you made yourself into this, little girl," he leans towards me. My pulse quickens as he pushes my head back, hand coming to the side of my face, fingers digging into my hair, "you where the rebel that fought against my troops and managed to escape me. The Force is strong with you," he places his other hand on the other side of my face, "that is why you are my bride."

When Kylo Ren pulls away and lies down, my insides begin to burn, to fume, and rage at his words. I watch him and I slowly begin to see red. And yet, he closes his eyes and acts like this whole conversation didn't happen. He prepares to sleep like there's nothing wrong.

This is my final straw.

I lunge at him. I dart my claws out and growl. I jump on him and press down on his throat. I straddle him and lean all my weight all my strength onto his airways. His eyes shoot open. His hands dart to my wrists. He begins to choke. I put all my anger into my grip. I force against him, knowing full well if I lost the upper hand, I'd be dead.

Except he doesn't make an move beyond clutching my wrists. I wait for him to attempt to overpower me, I wait for him to throw me off him the way I knew he could, and end all of this, and, in turn, kill me instead, but he doesn't.

He doesn't fight back.

Instead he looks up at me as his air leaves him as his face begin to turn maroon, as his veins begin to stress, as his final breaths escape his lips. And then I realize what I was doing and I pull back.

I pull back and heave in horror, wrists breaking free of his hold, hovering by my chest as I looked down at him while he caught his breath. He closes his eyes as his palms land on my thighs. My eyes water, the same way tears laced his lashes.

Why didn't he fight back?

Why isn't he fighting back?

He wanted me to kill him?

I watch as his chest rises and falls beneath me. I am then suddenly aware of our position. I feel a tinge burn in my cheeks and my core. It's inexplicable, whether I am embarrassed over the fact I tried to kill him or the fact I was straddling him beneath me.

Before I can get off him though, he finally overpowers me and traps me beneath him. Easily. Swiftly. I was nothing against him. And this fact was amplified as he pins my wrists down on the pillows overhead with just one hand. He presses himself against me, heaving heavily, as if he was doing something with great restraint. It makes my stomach drop.

"That's the difference between you and I," he pants, as his one hand comes up to my neck, "if I wanted you dead, my love..." he begins to press down on my throat.

I begin to panic and thrash beneath him.

Shhhhhh.

He steadies me still in his place. I am overcome by him, unsure if it was just his physical prowess or if he was using his Force as he pushes down on me. I get a semblance of an answer when the pressure on my throat remains and I unable to move my wrists though both his hands go to the sides of my thighs.

I gulp as he leaves hot kisses all over my skin. I huff sharply when I am released of my Force bounds. My hands dart to his torso, gripping at his clothes as I try to push him away.

I would never damage you.

I let out a sound when he releases his chokehold.

Not unless you want me to.

Kylo then begins to bring his face close to mine, pressing our cheeks together for a moment. My stomach rolls and my breath hitches when his hot lips meet my mine. My heart is racing. He undoubtedly could feel it against him.

My panic rises. I quickly manage in between kisses, "Kylo-"

"Beg me," he pulls away and breathes against my ear, "beg me..." he kisses the pulse on my neck, "to get off you-- to leave you alone, to shoot myself into the sun-"

Kylo begins to rub himself between my open legs. Slowly. Roughly. I whimper. He freezes. I feel blood rise up my face. I begin to push him back harder.

He tightens his hold on me, repelling my actions by pressing his weight further onto me, "beg me to finally make you live out your fantasies," his voice loudens, "to make you mine."

I grit my teeth tightly.

"Beg me," he groans, "beg."

I whine, nails digging into his sides as I push against him.

He kisses my jaw, hands leaving my thighs, grabbing my wrists, pushing them down on my sides, "use your words. Hark to me, my baby bird."

My breath hitches, "Kylo, please."

Kylo pulls his face back, nose just above mine, looking down at me with hooded eyes. He waits for me to continue, breath straining as he did. My lips part and my feel my pulse echo in every inch of my body.

I gulp and ready to speak... but I can't. I don't. My mouth goes dry and all I could think about was how his dark locks were framing his face, and how his lips were moving as he heaved arduously, and how I wanted to find where the scar on his face ended.

Then I am ripped out of my incredulous thoughts.

"Please what?" his breath his hot against my face as he coaxes.

I close my lips and catch my breath that was leaving me, "please... stop."

"Stop what, darling?" he utters. I close my eyes when he leans his forehead against mine. He releases my wrists, hands coming to my sides, nails scratching down me until his large hands ended up on my thighs again. I squeak when his hips buck into mine with more intent.

My hands come to Kylo's neck, fingers digging into the roots of his hair.

He shifts atop me, pulling his head back up, weight all on my core, making me moan at the pressure. His nose brushes against mine. He breathes out my name. My eyes shoot open because of it.

I find his eyes are screwed shut, a line between his brows. His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare as he steadies his breathing.

"Kylo-"

"Yes," he speaks before I even finish saying his name.

His eyelids slowly part when I tug his face towards me, legs tightening around his waist, crossing over his back. He lets out a huff that bounces from my face to his. His hands rub down to my butt and there his grip tightens.

Right when our lips brush against each other, he lifts his head ever so slightly and whispers, "beg me to make you mine."

My throat tightens.

"I need to hear it," his voice is soft.

I suck in a breath and call out his name.

He releases a sharp one as he says mine.

I call out his name.

He responds with mine.

I hesitate.

He rubs his nose against mine then says quietly, "make me yours please."

I suck in a breath. My stomach explodes with butterflies. "Make... me yours," I mumble, relaxing against him, hands rubbing down his neck to his shoulders. I close my eyes and sigh, "please."

He nods, "louder."

"Kylo-"

"Louder," he mutters with a tight breath, "one last time."

"Make me yours, please."

Kylo hisses then connects his lips to mine. He moans, amplifying the hungriness of the kiss. His hands are quick and desperate as they grip at my clothing. He pushes off me and begins to strip me of all the hindrances on my being

I whimper as he eagerly does his work. One by one, he rips my clothes off. He does so with such impatience, I hear the tears and the strains of my clothes.

He sits me down as he removes each piece off me until I'm left in my panties. I wrap my arms around my bare chest. Kylo leans in, hands rubbing my bare thighs. My skin pricks because of the contact. He mutters, "your turn, my dear."

He kisses me as he grabs my hands. He pries them off my chest and ends our kiss, placing my palms at the hem of his top. He lifts his hands, eyes not leaving mine, wordlessly urging me to strip him.

I shift on my knees and pull his top off, discarding it along with the rest of my clothing that he threw on the floor. My hands instinctively come to his pants, fiddling the belt on his waist band.

He gets on his knees and grabs my face. He pulls me in for a kiss, moving closer until I'm pressed against the headboard. He guides my hands as they push his pants down.

We keep kissing until he breaks away to strip all together. I don't have time to react cause when he does, he pushes me down using his Force, and brings my legs together as to rid me of the last thing keeping me modest. I screw my eyes shut as he snatches my underwear.

Before I could feel too conscious about being naked in front of the man that was my husband, about to consummate our marriage, I let out a shaky sound as my legs are grabbed and pushed apart.

I suck in a breath as my arms fly again to my chest. They only stay there for a moment. Even that, Kylo pulls apart as he presses against me. He presses my arms down on the pillows by the sides of my head.

I am unable to conceal my cries at the feel of his hot body pressing against mine. I feel his taut stomach press against my core. It drew out another sound I could not keep in. I feel my pulse against him. I feel my wetness smear on his skin. His hands leave my arms to grab onto my thighs.

When I finally dared to open my eyes, I caught the moment Kylo sank his head onto my chest and began to suckle at the skin on my sternum.

I whimper then I bite my lip tightly. Kylo looks up at me as he takes my left breast and nips at it. He begins to rub against me.

I fist his hair into my hands. I press my head back against the pillows. Kylo's hands travel to my hipbones and digs in his fingers into me. He releases my breast and checks on his work, appreciating the mark he left of my skin before continuing to attend to my breast with his mouth.

I tighten my legs around his waist as he continues to grind down on me. I feel my heart racket behind my ribs as Kylo moves to my other breast.

"Kylo," I whimper, as my nails dig into his scalp.

He moans and releases my flesh, whispering hotly against my skin, "yes, my empress?"

I exhale through my open mouth and look at him with a dazed expression. I clutch his cheeks, "I want you-- need you-" I sigh.

Kylo lifts his body slightly, one hand releasing my hip. "To what?" he murmurs, "-need to hear you say it."

His fingers roughly draw a line from my side to my core. I gasp when he touches my aching nub. I lift my head, looking out at his hand as he looks down on me. His two digits dote on the wet heat between my legs. He slowly rubs circles on my flesh, teasing my entrance.

He holds my hips in place as a squirm beneath him. Then his hands hook by the curve of my thigh and pushes one leg up to my chest. He leans in and says, "need to what, my bride?"

I whine as my hands brush down to his shoulders. I claw at him, pulling him closer to me, "need to..." whimper, "to be made yours."

He exhales loudly. He heaves heavily as he sinks two fingers into my sopping core, slowly and firmly rubbing into me, stretching my flesh deliciously. I whine like a wraith.

"You have no idea how long I've imagined touching you like this," he admits as he toys my entrance with his fingers.

"Kylo."

He pulls his hand away and grabs my other thigh, pushing it up by my ribs.

I look at him as he brings his face close and lifts his hips. He digs his fingers into the bend of my knees and my toes curl when I feel him press against me, hard and pulsing.

I lick my lips and break into a whine when he slowly sheathes himself into me, releasing a hot breath by the crown of my head as he did so.

I whimper at the feel of him sinking in all the way. I tighten my legs around him and reach out to the sheets by my sides and rip at them.

Kylo slowly begins to rock into me, groaning as he does so, "so warm, wet and soft," he grabs my hands and places it on his back, "so soft and-" he licks my skin and bites down.

I choke on my breath as he does this. His pace thrusts hasten. He hands grab my knees and push them into my chest, "mine. All mine."

He lifts himself up and ruts into me with vigor.

Soon enough I feel my mind blur while my voice lets out incoherences at the snapping of Kylo's hips.

I claw at his back with little regard for how much it may hurt him.

Kylo howls in response, quickening his pace even more, adjusting his hold on me until his position was perfect and my head was knocking slightly into the board.

"Fill you up with me," he grunts, "fill you until you're a mess, mark you until you're tender, repeat until you're sore."

I don't respond. I don't know what to. I don't have much of a brain to speak anything anyway.

Kylo thrusts into me at such a strong and steady pace, it's not long until I feel a flurry in my stomach and a tingle in my chest.

I whine out his name. I pull him into me. He leans in and huffs against my cheek, "feels good, right? I can make you feel good."

I catch his lips into my teeth. He rip away only to kiss me as he breaks me.

We pull away to breathe yet Kylo does lose his tempo. I feel my eyes water and my mouth dry over my continuous jaw dropped cries.

"Just want to make you feel good," he whispers heavily, "want to make you mine."

"Feel so good," I mindlessly mutter, "so - Kylo."

In that next moment, I feel my insides shatter around him. I let out a loud cry of relief. My fingers curl into his back as I tighten and convulse around him. My toes curl as I lock my legs around him. Instantaneously, I feel a sharp heat splatter into me and it magnifies my delirium.

I hear him curse and whine against my ear. I feel him tighten his hold on me as he continues the work with his hips, still as quick as before.

And as I ride out my high and tighten around him, only then does Kylo's actions find some irregularity. My head no longer hits the board, though my body very much still moves up and down with Kylo's movements.

As the final ripples of my pleasure calm down, so does the knocking of our hips.

When he is satisfied, he releases my hips and grabs my face. He kisses me and catches his breath in between.

"Do you want me to get off you?" he asks.

I quickly shake my head in disagreement and wrap my arms around him.

"Good," he rests his head beside mine and slowly relaxes on top of me. He sighs and brushes his nose against my head, "I want to stay in you forever."

I bite my lip and lean my face into his.

"I will write your name in the stars," he whispers, "I will give you everything in the galaxy. All you have to do is be mine."

I gulp and sigh heavily, yet I internally find myself agreeing.

His hand rubs my side, "I hope you don't get pregnant too quickly," he kisses my head, "there's so much I have to do with you first."

3K notes · View notes