#i know these trees and this place down to my very bones

[avastrasposts]

Big Sky Country - ch. 1

Cowboy!Frankie x OFC

Hi!

I'm really excited to post the first chapter of my new fic after posting a little snippet of it almost a month ago! In it we meet a cowboy version of Frankie as he returns to New York to patch things up with his "maybe girlfriend", but he also makes a connection with another woman, who makes this lost cowboy feel welcome in her Brooklyn bar.

No age gap, OFC story, angsty as fuck in parts, some smut, and I'm putting poor Frankie through hell again (I love him, I swear...)

And a big shout out and thank you to @i-own-loki who made the beautiful banner!

Warnings can be found here - contains spoilers but please read if you know certain themes may be upsetting for you. This fic is dark in parts and I don't want to upset anyone.

Series Master List

Main Master list

Prologue

The Greyhound bus rumbled away down the pin straight highway, heading west, towards the darkening mountain range. The sun slowly sank behind the highest peaks, soon their shadows would touch her feet. Looking back, east, towards a past she’d left on a whim, she sighed and let her eyes drift up to the indigo sky. Big sky country indeed. 

So alien to her eyes, so open to someone used to living their life surrounded by tall buildings, busy people, small trees in small parks. 

Here, the open prairie gave speed to the cold wind that hurtled down from the mountain range, whipping dirt from the road, tugging at her loose hair. She briefly closed her eyes against the particles of dust, inhaled deeply, tasting it on her tongue, dry grass in the air, a hint of snow from the mountains. No way back now, the bus too far away to stop. Only her duffel bag and a phone number, hoping he’d pick up and let her in. 

He pressed his thumb to the button with her name, the taxi behind him rolling away down the crowded street. The buzz from the intercom added another layer of noise to the assault on his ears. 

He dropped his hand. 

Waited.

Glanced down the street, letting the tall steel and glass buildings pull his gaze upwards, to the thin sliver of dirty gray sky visible above them. With a sigh he dropped his eyes down, towards the end of the long street, where the buildings seemed to merge into one solid wall. He knew he was looking west, could feel it in his bones, in the way his feet wanted to start walking towards it. Towards the tall mountain range behind his home. 

He pressed his thumb against the button with her name on it again, the buzzer grated his skin. He had a way back, nothing stopping him from hailing a cab, climbing back on the Greyhound and heading west again. 

But she was here. If he wanted to make this work, he needed to be here. 

Chapter One

A wall of warm air hit Frankie as he pulled open the door to the bar, chatter spilling out onto the street. His shoulders pulled up to his ears, the environment uncomfortable to him and he stopped just inside the door, scanning the room for something familiar apart from the smell of stale beer in the air. This bar was the first one he saw that looked like it would maybe serve someone like him, a Texas boy, fresh off the bus from Montana. He’s pretty sure he still has horse dung stuck to the bottom of his cowboy boots, his old army duffel bag slung over his shoulder. 

The door behind him opened again, cold air hitting the nape of his neck under the ball cap. 

“You growing roots, old man?” 

The line is followed by a man snorting and a hand on Frankie’s arm, pushing him to the side. He would snap, bite back with a threatening remark, or at the very least fix the man with his most intimidating soldier scowl. But he just took two steps to the side, his shoulders creeping closer to his ears as he tugged at his cap, the movement unintentional, a nervous habit. He knew he was out of place here, a stranger. 

The young man, a yellow backpack slung over his shoulder and long hair pulled into a bun, shoved his way past Frankie, catching the eye of the woman behind the bar. 

“Hey, dickwad! Behave yourself or I’ll have you barred,” she barked, her eyebrows furrowed as she jabbed her finger at the man and he raised his hands in a weak gesture of apology as he sauntered towards the bar. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he snarked, heading towards a loud crowd further in, walking away and ignoring the frown from the woman. She turned her attention to Frankie instead and looked him up and down, an appraising look, before meeting his eyes. 

“You coming or going, cowboy?” 

“Uuh..coming,” he managed to press out, picking up his feet and walking to the bar. He felt heat creep up his neck at being so easily pegged as a cowboy, an out of towner, swallowing down the urge to turn on his heel and bolt out the door. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and the woman behind it gave him a smile, setting down a coaster with a flick of her wrist. 

“What can I get you? You look like you’ve traveled far.” 

“Just a beer, thanks,” he said and she gave him a softer smile, pity flashing across her face. 

“This is Brooklyn, cowboy, I’ve got twenty beers on tap and forty in bottles,” she said and he felt fatigue set in, can’t even order a normal fucking beer in this city. He sighed deeply, dropping his head between his shoulders. But the woman just chuckled in a low voice, tapping her hand on the bar just in front of him. 

“Don’t despair, I’m a good bartender, I know what you’ll like.” 

He picked up his head as she stepped away, grabbed a glass, and moved to a tap further down the bar. Shooting him a quick grin, she began to pull the pint, amber liquid filling the glass, topping off with a creamy white head. He watched her from under the bill of his cap, shouldn’t really appraise her, but he couldn't help it. The fitted jeans on her curves, and the faded bar uniform shirt tied at the waist instead of tucking it in, made his eyes drop down over her ass in a way a man trying to save his relationship with another woman should avoid. And she clocked him, checking her out when she turned towards him again, making him snap his eyes to his hands on the bar. Heat crept up his neck as he rubbed the small bullseye tattoo next to his thumb. 

“Amber ale from a local brewery three blocks from here,” she said and placed the pint on the mat in front of him. 

“Thanks,” he replied, watching the bubbles rise to the bottom of the head, “looks good.” 

“One of my favorites, I’ve always had a soft spot for amber ale,” she nodded, picking up a cloth and returning to the never ending duty of cleaning glasses. 

Frankie picked up the glass and took a long sip, humming as the ale slipped down his throat. 

“Damn,” he said, “that’s good, that’s really good.” 

“Told you,” the woman smiled at him and he gave her a quick smile in return before he took another sip. 

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she moved around the bar, clean glasses getting wiped and stacked. Clearly a newcomer to the city, she’d called him ‘cowboy’ and he hadn’t protested, the boots and the duffel bag giving him away, even before she saw his uneasy eyes roam around the bar and his nervous shuffle. She’s used to assessing anyone who stepped in through the door, the loud ones, the quiet ones, the ones who are only coming to make trouble. 

This man was one of the quiet ones, she doesn’t think he’s loud even when he’s in his own element, surrounded by friends. 

As he took another long drink from his pint, she turned and picked up glass, catching his eyes on her. She smiled warmly at him, wanting to make him feel welcome, at least in this bar. The city outside is usually brutal to newcomers, and this one seemed to carry more of a burden than most. 

“So you’re new to the city?” she asked him, moving back to his side of the bar, pushing long strands of ginger red hair back behind her ears before wiping another glass. 

“Yeah, came in on the bus a few hours ago,” he replied and she nodded. He doesn’t look like he flew into the city, he’s got the tired face of someone who's spent too many hours leaning against a window, watching the Midwest slip past. But underneath the tired eyes there’s a warmth, a softness in the way he gives her a small crooked smile that makes a dimple appear on his right cheek. 

“Spent two fucking days on it,” he sighed, rubbing a large hand over his face before he lifted his cap and swept his thick curls back. She was temporarily mesmerized by how they bounced back around his ears as he squashed the cap back down. 

“Two days? Where did you come from, Texas?” she asked, her eyes widening at the thought of spending two whole days on a bus, but he shook his head. 

“No, I think Texas is like three days, I came from Montana,” he took another long drag of his beer. 

“I’m guessing this isn’t a weekend trip then”, she quipped, putting down the cloth, all the glasses done, and leaned back on the counter behind her. There’s more work to be done but the stranger chuckled softly at her joke and it pulled her in, making her smile in return. 

“No, I’m here to stay with someone, my..ah-a friend, of sorts,” he said, “Gonna see if I can find some work around here, try a different type of life.” 

“What do you do?” she asked, “Maybe I know someone who knows someone, that’s usually how it works here.” 

“Back in Montana I work with horses, on a ranch,” he replied, rubbing his thumb over the condensation on the beer glass, “Before that, I was a mechanic, cars, helicopters, anything really, I can usually fix it.” 

“That’s a pretty handy skill,” she replied, sounding impressed and he gave a little shrug, as if the ability to fix helicopters was something inconsequential, “I’m sure you’ll find work, especially if you can fix old cars, lots of those around here.” 

She turned and grabbed a notepad from next to the till, “What’s your name and number? I’ll keep it on hand and ask around for you.” 

“Really?” He sounded surprised as he sat up a bit straighter, “Uh yeah, I’m Frankie, Frankie Morales.” 

“Nice to meet you, Frankie,” she smiled back at him and slid the notepad across the bar, “Write it down, and your number. I can’t promise anything, and I’m not recommending you to anyone, I’ll just let them know you’re looking for work.” 

“Yeah, sure, of course, but anything helps,” he replied, grabbing the pen and jotting down his information. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, as he passed the notepad back to her. 

“Aisling,” she replied, slipping it in next to the till again. 

“Do you own this place,” he asked, looking around the bar. When he looked back at her she was shaking her head. 

“No, not at all, I’m just the bartender,” she said, “Give me a minute, I’m just gonna serve these guys.”  She gave him a quick smile and headed down the bar to two men who had just sat down. 

Frankie watched her as she took their orders, smiling and laughing easily as she pulled a beer for one of them. The men, her age, are both hanging on to her every word as she makes a joke,  the blonde one clapping the other one on the shoulder with a loud howl. She winked at him and turned, reaching for a bottle on the top shelf to serve the other man. As she stood on her tiptoes, stretching to reach, her shirt rose up, a soft sliver of creamy skin exposed in the dim light of the bar. Frankie couldn’t help but stare at the glimpse black underwear peeking out above the edge of her jeans, a flash of lace, his mouth suddenly dry as his cock reacted. He dipped his head, but couldn't keep his eyes away, she swayed on her tiptoes, refusing to get the stepladder and her breasts pressed against the shirt as it rode up higher. Frankie had an image of her underneath him, all that soft flesh, warm and smooth under his rough palms, sweet smelling and whimpering.  

She managed to slide the bottle off the shelf and grab a glass. Frankie peeled his eyes away, looking down at the now empty pint in his hands, pressed his thumb into the tattoo, forcing his thoughts in another direction. At the end of the bar, Aisling rang up the customers’ order and wiped down the bar before coming back towards him. 

“Do you want another?” she asked, nodding towards the empty glass. Frankie considered it for a beat and then shook his head. He wanted a clear head when he went back to the apartment, he needed to say the right things to save the relationship with the woman who lived there. He already knew that not even in his head could he bring himself to call her ‘girlfriend’, he’s far from sure that’s what she is anymore, not with the way they left it. 

“No, I can’t,” he said, “It was good though, what do I owe you?” 

“Fourteen fifty,” Aisling replied and he tried not to cough at the price as he pulled his wallet from the back of his jeans. 

She took his bills and he left her a tip on the bar that she deposited in the tip jar with a smile. 

“Uhm…tell me,” Frankie said, absentmindedly tugging at his cap, “Do I really look that much like a cowboy?” 

Aisling’s smile softened as she heard his nervous question, “Well…yeah, the cowboy boots are kinda a give away,” she replied, “It doesn’t exactly look like it’s a fashion choice, and the whole jeans, suede jacket, belt buckle look…” She motioned over his body as Frankie’s eyes dropped down to his jeans and belt, hidden from view by the counter. 

“You’re good,” he said, a small chuckle escaping him, “You got all that just from when I came in?” 

“Tricks of the trade,” she replied, “I need to know who steps into the bar and read them quickly.” 

“So you assessed me as soon as I walked in? What else did you pick up on?” He was curious now and leaned forward on the counter as she laughed. 

“Well, I’m cheating because we’ve been talking for a bit now. But you do look ‘new in town’ and I’d say ex-army maybe?”

“I guess the duffel bag gave it away?” Frankie smiled, glancing down at the old bag at his feet. 

“No, they’re ten dollars at the army surplus stores,” Aisling replied, shaking her head, “But you sat down with your back against a corner, and I bet you can tell me exactly where the exits are and how many people are in here and which ones could give you trouble.” 

Frankie raised his eyebrows in surprise at her and she shrugged. 

“You’ve been scanning the room since you walked in.” 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” he replied, letting his eyes roam across the room again, it’s instinct at this point, inherited from years in the army, “I quit the army years ago but it’s a habit I can’t seem to drop.” 

“What did you do? Mechanic?” Aisling asked and Frankie shook his head. 

“Helicopter pilot, which means I had to be able to fix anything, but mainly I flew things, anything really.” 

Aisling gave him a closer second look and the pieces fell into place, his quiet demeanor, the way he held himself, not exactly folded in on himself, but as if he was  trying to stay unseen and not be noticed unless he wanted to be. A strong, solid body gone slightly soft with age, betrayed by the gray in his beard and hair, small white scars across his knuckles, evidence of old injuries.

“What?” he asked as he noticed her eyes scanning him. 

“Just building the picture,” she said, a small crooked smile, “You know us bartenders, always trying to figure out the story of our patrons.” 

“Not much of a story,” he said, tugging at his cap and hiding his eyes, “just new in town, looking for work.” 

“Everyone has a story, Frankie Morales.” 

He shrugged at that and fumbled for his phone as it began to ring. Aisling gave him a quick smile and stepped away to let him answer in private. 

Frankie’s jaw ticked as he saw the name on the screen, Eva. He’s been expecting her to call since he left her front door. Their front door, maybe. The truth is, he doesn’t know where they stand anymore. They’d met in Florida, after a doomed mission to South America that left so much pain inside him, and a rift between old friends. She’d been a calming presence, someone who seemed to have his back when his mind spiraled out of control. But she hadn’t been enough, being in Florida became oppressive, and it wasn’t just the humid heat. The old haunts from the days he’d spent trying to numb his brain with white powder, bars and venues filled with memories of the friends he’d lost, both those who’d died and those who still lived, it all became claustrophobic. 

When Herb, his sponsor at the NA, first invited him to the ranch in Montana he’d scoffed at the idea. He was a pilot, not a ranch hand. But after a close call, nearly falling back into the habit, he’d taken him up on the offer and gone out there for two weeks. Herb had convinced him by talking about the clear, cool air making it easy to breathe, the open sky making the mind feel less claustrophobic. And he’d been right. The first evening they’d sat on the porch, the mountains at their back, the open prairie in front, and Frankie had looked up at the endless sky and it was almost as if he was back in a cockpit, flying close to the stars. Nothing encroached on his mind, no buzz in his ears, nothing tugged at his memories, just the open sky and an endless horizon. 

The two weeks of hard ranch work, aching muscles, blistered hands, sealed the deal. If he wanted to truly start over, he needed to leave Florida and come here. 

Eva had been enthusiastic at first, pulled in by Frankie’s talk of the horses, a new foal that had just been born, the small cabin they’d live in. He’d shared the pictures he’d taken, all rustic beams, sturdy wood furniture and a hammock on the porch. It looked like a romantic western dream and that’s what they both really thought it would be. And for the first few months they were happy. 

But when Frankie found peace and calm in the solitude of the isolated ranch, felt free and unrestricted, she began to feel claustrophobic and suffocated. The nearest town, a forty-five minute drive away, didn’t offer much of anything. She found work online and began to resent the life he’d trapped her in. That was the word she’d used, trapped. When the fights became a daily occurrence, Frankie felt the familiar itch of wanting to escape come back. Starting, as always, in his feet and crawling up his body until he spent more time out on the ranch than in the cabin. And for every hour he stayed away, Eva resented their life more, resented him more. 

Until eventually, one late evening when he came back after five days on the trails with a group of guests from a neighboring ranch, she’d left. Only a note saying she’d accepted a position in New York with the company she worked for. A line about needing a different type of life, no invitation to come with her, to follow her, just signed /E and that was it. 

He’d called her, spent hours on the phone when she eventually picked up, begged her to come back. Offered to move to a ranch closer to a bigger town, find a compromise where he could still have the peace of the ranch life, but let her live her life too. But she loved New York, after the silent cabin, she craved the noise and the tempo of the city. 

Eventually he agreed to come to New York, to see her new life and maybe find a place in it. But the city was an assault on his senses after so long on the ranch. The peace that his spiraling mind had finally found evaporated as he navigated the city, the metro, her friends, the bars. His feet itched, the skin around his nails was picked raw and he felt on edge, even in the apartment, his mind never getting a chance to be quiet. 

Eva called it his need for control, to always have a plan of escape, a way out. He knew it was the years in the army that had shredded his sense of safety, left his nerves ragged and too exposed to the mundane background noise of a city. Maybe he’d be able to deal with it some day, but now, he needed the silence. 

After two months in Brooklyn, he left. A loose promise from both of them to maybe try to patch things up, to try the long distance thing. But when he sent a text, saying he’d returned safely to the ranch, and she didn’t reply for two days, he knew it was over. And he didn’t miss her. He had loved her at some point, he thinks. But their lives didn’t match, their needs too different. And he saw that he should maybe not be with anyone while he laid down the foundations of a new life in a new place. He needed to find a way to live with himself, in silence, before he considered sharing his darkest sides with someone else. 

And then Eva called. Six weeks after he’d left Brooklyn. He could hear the heavy traffic behind her as she walked down a street somewhere, leaving a clinic that had confirmed what she’d suspected. 

“I’m pregnant, Frankie, and it’s yours.” 

The words floored him, sent a sharp jolt of dread through his system, his feet tingling, then his scalp. A baby. In New York. But his baby, their child. And the dread was replaced by nerves, how would they do this? Would she want to raise the baby in New York or come back to Montana? He had space for a child here, a guest bedroom with a view of the mountains. It would be a perfect nursery, he could paint it, build a crib with Herb’s help, the nearby town was a good place to raise a family when the child was old enough to begin school. Without even stopping to think, he built a new life around the unborn child. 

Or hell, even New York, he’d make himself put up with New York if that was what she wanted. The apartment only had one bedroom but maybe they could move further out, get a bigger place. He could renovate pretty much anything, he was sure of it. Maybe they could find a quiet neighborhood with trees, where his mind could find peace even in the city. Without even stopping, he built another new life around his, their, unborn child. 

“I don’t know if I’m keeping it, but I wanted to tell you.” 

Eva’s voice had been hard, letting him know that she was doing him a favor by telling him, letting him be part of it. 

“I’ll come to New York, I’ll get a bus today,” Frankie pleaded, “Let’s talk this through, a few more days won’t make a difference.” 

She’d conceded, and he’d thrown stuff into the old duffel bag, left a message with Herb, and driven to the crossroads where the Greyhound stopped. 

Now he was here, in a Brooklyn bar, looking down at her name on his phone as he pressed the green button to answer. 

Chapter 2

A/N: And we're off! I'm so nervous, I really hope you all will love this and follow along as I explore this new version of Frankie! I hope to post a new chapter every Sunday so fingers crossed life doesn't get in the way too much!

❤

Tagging the ususal suspects: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @casa-boiardi

#frankie morales #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #frankie morales fanfic #triple frontier

[magdelanian]

Every trip back to my childhood home I amble round the garden for a while, making a sort of pilgrimage to all my beloved trees. This is likely the last Christmas I'll ever spend here. I don't quite know how I'll feel when my parents move away - I've never known or loved a spot of land better. It's always been this steady presence, a place I knew I could return to and find unchanged.

Anyway. There's severe thunderstorm warnings for this afternoon; my dad is clearing out the gutters. The air is sticky and warm. No cicadas, but crickets everywhere.

#everything is so lush and overgrown right now! #hello witchy mānuka trees #hello redwood! that i used to climb to the top of with a book to read and terrify my mother! #hello kauri! hello rimu! hello pōhutukawa that is so so red this year! #hello jacaranda! and apple! and cabbage tree! #this is a very self indulgent post but ah well why not! #i know these trees and this place down to my very bones

[emmyrosee]

You’ve been sneaking into Kenma’s room for years.

It started when you were very young, having left your gameboy at Kenma’s house after a few rounds of Mario. You managed to toss a few rocks at his window, and once he silently unlocked the door and let you in, you quickly scurried back out hours later with a grateful smile.

Then, you started to sneak through his window. Seeing the flashes of lights at god knows what hours was something you knew meant he was awake, and you’d climb out from your sheets and crossed the street to his place. Again, you’d throw rocks at his window, and when he’d tried to go open the door, he hadn’t expected you scale up the large tree just a few feet away.

Tonight was no different; he’s tapping away wildly on his console while you scurry up the tree in your slippers, smooshing your face against the glass when he finally sees you and opens the window.

You’d finally tumbled in, and he gave you a tired sigh, “you’re annoying.”

“And you’re still playing. I wanted to watch you play.”

“You could’ve just texted me. You left marks on my glass.”

“I needed the exercise. What time do you need me out of here?”

“Kuroo drags me by the ankle out of here by 06:30. Be out beforehand.”

You smirk and nudge his shoulder with yours, causing him to send you a glare before sitting back down on the floor. “Sleep on the bed, help yourself to pajamas.”

“You like him, kenma,” you tease. You see him tense up before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says simply. “I don’t. Not like that anyways.”

“Just not used to you having other friends besides me,” you hum. He huffs in annoyance.

“Are you gonna watch, or do I have to kick you out of my room?”

“Fine,” you sigh. “I’ll behave. Only because I hate climbing your tree.”

Kenma doesn’t like Kuroo. Honest! He thinks he’s cute, sure, gets why the girls like him and boys follow him around, he’s fine enough on a scale of emotional and physical attraction.

But Kuroo’s not the one Kenma’s eyes stay focused on. It’s you.

You’re funny, he likes the way you eat foods that you don’t like first, before diving into the favorites after to savor them. You’re cute, and you’re bad at the differences between contexts of words, and you have a little eye twitch that bestows you in a moment of quick thoughtfulness.

You don’t ask him why he’s up so late, you ask him the answers to homework and give him gummy worms as a thank you. You never overstay a welcome, always either leaving before the sun comes up, or staying quiet while you sleep on the bed.

He likes the way your eyes shine when you’re excited, the roll of your eyes when he tells you “no” when you want the answer to be “yes”, the little snickers that slip out at Kuroo’s expense at Kenma’s quick thinking.

“Kenma?”

“Im busy.”

“I want to cuddle.”

The way you want physical touch when you’re tired.

Yeah. As your best friend, he really is bias to that one.

With a groan, he pauses and saves his game under slot 3, shuts down the console before crawling up and into his bed next to you, the cold sheets shooting his nerves until they warm under your shared warmth. You bury your nose in his collar and he takes out his phone for you both to watch tiktok.

“Kenma?”

“Go to sleep.”

“When you marry Kuroo, can I be the ring bearer?”

“If i marry Kuroo, I want you far, far from my ceremony.”

He practically hears you pout, “you’re no fun.”

“I sure am not.”

For someone who has no fun, not one fun bone in his body, he’s amazed at how comfortable you are in his grip and he in yours, fingers fisting his nightshirt until his own eyes grow heavy.

And if Kuroo walked in just a few hours later at 06:30, only to see his best friend cuddling with someone he loves most, he didn’t say anything and closed the door softly behind him.

#I wanna watch kenma play video games man 🥺 #kenma kozume #kenma kozume fluff #kenma kozume x reader #kenma kozume x reader fluff #kenma kozume x gn!reader #kenma kozume imagine #kenma kozume haikyuu #kenma #kenma fluff #kenma x reader #kenma x reader fluff #kenma x gn!reader #kenma imagine #kenma haikyuu #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gn!reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x yn

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

PREY

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights. 

—

There’s blood on your hands again. 

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

Howls.

Howls.

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

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

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

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

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

It never works.

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

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who had you killed this time?

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

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

“Get the dogs on it!” 

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

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

The hounds are afraid of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re going to make it hurt.

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

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

Death would be better than this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something…off.

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

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

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

It could never be easy, could it?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing you do is vomit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 

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

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?” 

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

The blood and the bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had he talked to you?

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

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

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

—

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

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

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just blink, mouth slightly open. 

“Where…am I?” 

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

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

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

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

They’d been re-applied recently, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The furs are warm. 

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

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

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

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

There are runes written on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 

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

Why were you still alive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

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

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

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long nothingness ensues. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

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

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

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

No livestock.

No bodies. 

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

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

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

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

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

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

Comparable things, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money?” You frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The full moon was tomorrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question makes you double-take.

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

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

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

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

“I kept sheep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hands had been kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

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

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

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

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 

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

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 

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

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 

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

Your eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m waiting. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was real. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 

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

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

There is companionship in broken things.

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

Find me. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

A white beast prowls the forest. 

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

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

Find me.

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

I’m waiting.

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

Leather.

Whiskey.

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

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

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

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

You were being summoned. 

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

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

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

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

Like pure white spikes. 

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

I’ll find you.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain would wash away the tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tracks end here.

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

A low snarl sets his hair on end. 

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

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

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost watches, and he waits. 

He can’t do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t get a good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 

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

He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

“What did I—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

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

“Better, Little Wolf?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t like you could protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[littlexdeaths]

pushing up daisies - e.m.

kas eddie munson x fem reader

treat me bad like i’m no one's daughter,

body bag, baby, i’m a goner…

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: ANGSTTTTT, mentions of eddie’s death and the upside down, canon divergent (reader is chosen as vecna’s last victim instead of max), established relationship, soft!dom eddie, biting/blood drinking, lil bit of jealous eddie, public sex, unprotected piv sex, cream pie

based on love is a… by pvris

word count: 2.9k

a/n: this is honestly something i am so incredibly proud of, so i hope you all enjoy it. a big thank you to my babes @undead-supernova @strangerstilinski and @lokis-army-77 for helping me with parts of this fic, i love you all so much 💕

The sky was dark, storm clouds rolling in as you trudged through the rusted gates of Hawkin’s memorial cemetery.

Only the booming sounds of thunder and your labored breathing filled the morning air. Rain droplets poured steadily onto your head, dripping down the collar of your rain jacket. The clothing seemingly useless as the heavy rain soaked you to the bone.

The wild daisies clutched in your fist were beginning to wilt as your eyes scanned over the sea of headstones. Your throat tightens once you find his, now wishing that Dustin had been lying to you.

The words BURN IN HELL FREAK were still visible, despite the male’s best effort to clean them off the previous day. It had been less than a week since the funeral, but that was plenty of time for someone to vandalize his headstone. You hated this town.

Reaching the now desecrated grave you sigh, gently running your fingers along the top of the headstone. The rough edges scraped against your fingertips as you knelt down in front of it. Letting your hand fall into your lap, glancing down at the sad excuse of a bouquet in the other.

He deserved more than this… he deserved more than anything this shitty town had to offer.

“Hey Eds,” you whisper, despite the desolation surrounding you.

You carefully set the daisies onto the ground, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill past your waterline. The white of the flowers contrasted sharply against the dirt, which was quickly turning to mud beneath your knees. But you didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral,” guilt laces your shaky voice as you tug your lower lip between your teeth. “I just… I couldn’t see you like that.”

Despite the feeble attempts that Dustin and Robin made to coax you out of bed that day, nothing was going to change your mind. You didn’t want to remember him that way, as you were already grappling with the image of him dying in Dustin’s arms.

A memory that haunts your dreams every night.

“I hope you can forgive me,” you mumble, reaching into your pocket to pull out his lucky set of dice. A sad smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you begin to place them along his headstone, “I brought a peace offering.”

A loud crack has your eyes flicking up, body jolting in surprise as a bolt of lightning strikes a tree in the distance. The impact splits the trunk down the middle, the wind picking up speed and taking your flowers with it.

The torn petals spread across the unkempt ground, the gesture now ruined. Just like everything else you touched.

You blame yourself for his death, knowing he would still be here if Vecna hadn't chosen you. You would live through a thousand years in a prison of your own mind, let that monster drain you of your entire existence— if it meant Eddie would have lived.

“It’s all my fault,” you don’t stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks, staring intently at the stone in front of you.

Edward Lee Munson, now at peace.

Those bold words stare back at you, mirroring the stone that sat just a few feet besides his. One you had become very familiar with over the years.

Elizabeth Ann Munson.

Beloved wife and mother, may she rest in peace.

While hers were more faded, they still brought you a small sense of comfort. Knowing that Eddie was with her now, he was safe. But that comfort wouldn’t heal the hole that had been punched through your chest.

“I miss you,” you hiccup, your tears steadily flowing now, the moisture beginning to blur your vision. “It w-wasn’t supposed to b-be you.”

Your soft cries soon morphed into pained sobbing, your shoulders hunched over as you dug your fists into the earth. You were grateful that Steve had let you come alone, not wanting anyone to see you like this.

In the short time that Eddie had been gone, you felt suffocated. With Vecna still alive and plotting, you were constantly being watched. Your friends not knowing if the demon, creature, whatever he was— would come back to claim you for good.

Part of you hoped for it, mentally pleaded to be taken away too. Because a life without Eddie, wasn’t a life you wanted to live.

A loud scream pierces the air, and it takes you a moment to realize the sound has come from you. Your chest heaves from the force of it, allowing your head to tilt back as your eyes slip shut. Enjoying how the rain soaks into your pores, washing away any trace of your tears.

You sit like that for a while, as the storm continues to wage on around you. Silently wishing that the rain would wash you away too. Dirt is caked under your fingernails, mud coated your shins and the hem of your skirt. You knew you couldn’t sit out here much longer, as your teeth started to chatter from the cold.

Your head falls forward, allowing yourself one last look at his headstone. The red paint has stained it horribly, tainting the last thing he had left in this world.

“I’ll come back tomorrow and clean this shit up, I promise.” You say, lifting up your pinky towards the block of stone. You hold it there for a moment before your hand falls back to your side.

“I love you, Eddie,” you sniffle, wiping your nose on your sleeve as you start to stand. Turning around as you begin to wipe the dirt from your knees.

As you take a step forward your shoe begins to sink into the wet soil, almost swallowing your foot whole. An annoyed huff leaves your lips as you try to pull it back out. But any attempt is stopped short as a cold hand wraps around your other ankle. A deep groan echoes in your ears as your eyes widen in fear.

This was it… Vecna’s come back for you.

While everything inside you begs you to run, your body remains frozen. Hyperventilating as the ground beneath you begins to shift, your feet sinking in deeper as another body fights its way out from the earth. A strained grunt of your name snaps you out of your petrified state, recognizing the voice immediately.

This was a cruel joke, knowing he was taking on Eddie’s form just to hurt you more. So you decided you wouldn’t stick around to witness it.

If you were going to die, it would be by his own hands.

“No!” You shout, yanking your ankle out of that icy grip as you make a break for it.

You don’t make it very far though, only reaching the edge of his grave before you lose your footing. The tip of your shoe catches on a tree root, sending your body tumbling forward onto the wet ground. The impact knocks the wind out of you as you struggle to take a breath in. Your nails dig into the grass for purchase as you try to crawl away.

The feeling of two hands wrapping around each ankle has you screaming, thrashing about as you're dragged back towards the grave. The male flips you around, unable to hear his broken pleas over the sound of your own shrieks. You keep your eyes focused on the storm clouds above your heads, desperate for some kind of distraction. You wouldn’t look at him, you couldn’t.

This wasn’t your Eddie.

A dirty hand grips onto your chin, tilting your head down as he wedges his body between your thighs. Forcing you to face him, his dark eyes ablaze with fury— a sharp contrast to the way he gently cradles your jaw.

“I’m not in the mood for games… just get on with it,” you snap, letting your eyes slip shut as you wait for that familiar pain to shoot up your spine and through your skull.

But nothing happens.

You crack an eye open only to find the brunette staring back down at you, confusion coating his features.

“… get on with what, sweetheart?” His voice cracks, the look on his face mirroring his tone.

��Killing me,” you state, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

There’s a moment of silence between you before he starts laughing, the booming sound instantly melts your insides. It was something you thought you would never hear again.

“I guess my entrance was very Night of the Living Dead, huh?” He teases with a wide grin as his head dips lower— his drenched curls sticking to your cheek.

When you feel Eddie’s lips connect with the base of your throat, your breath hitches. Heat pools in your middle as he inhales, groaning deeply. The sound vibrates against your skin, sending shockwaves through your system.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he hums, his hands running down the length of your sides. The male grips onto the soaked fabric of your dress, slowly inching it up until his palms are splayed across the tops of your thighs.

“You’re so warm,” he continues, his nose grazing along your collarbone as you grip onto the shoulders of his oversized suit jacket.

“H-How are you here?” You question with a small whine as he lightly nips at your throat, chuckling deeply.

“You brought me here, sweetheart.” His words are spoken reassuringly, but they don’t offer you any comfort.

“So, this is a dream,” there’s no question in your voice, only a trace of melancholy.

But Eddie notices it immediately, his head lifting from the crook of your neck. His dark eyes met yours for a moment, a look of determination flashing through his irises.

“Does this feel like a dream to you, baby?”

Before you can reply, his lips brush against yours. Any worries that this wasn’t real melt away with each press of his mouth on yours. Silencing the fear that this will all disappear the moment you pull apart. The storm rages on as he kisses you with an electricity that rivals the lightning above you.

“Definitely not a dream,” you mumble, earning a soft chuckle from him.

You swallow the sound as you kiss him deeper, his ringed fingers gliding further up your thighs and under your dress. Your own slip underneath the collar of his jacket, sliding it off of his shoulders. Letting the rain soak into his white dress shirt, the fabric clinging to the muscles in his back.

Your hands quickly rake through his hair, tugging on the drenched curls as his mouth trails along your jaw. Continuing lower as he sucks harshly on your skin, enjoying the way your body responds to each press of his lips. A breathy whine spills past your own as his fingers reach the elastic band of your panties.

The tension between you continues to mount as you eagerly drag his mouth back to yours. Eddie’s fingers curl under the waistband, snapping the lace against your skin. You barely register the tearing of that same fabric, too preoccupied with his lips on yours. The clinking of his belt soon follows, aiding him in pushing his slacks down his thighs.

“Please,” you plead, lifting your hips against his. Not wanting to waste another second to have him buried inside you.

The brunette gently shushes you, pulling back for a moment as he rubs the tip of cock through your drenched folds. His pupils dilate as he takes in the way your lips part under his thumb. A shaky breath escapes them as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he coos, caressing your cheek as he guides his hips forward. Slowly slipping into your awaiting heat with a strangled groan, “I’ll take care of you.”

His actions are gentle, as your bodies become reacquainted with each other. Eddie guides your hands above your head, fingers lacing together in the dirt. Your thighs are snug around his hips, desperate to keep him as close as humanly possible.

He rocks his hips into yours at a deep but leisurely pace, letting him savor every moment he spends inside you. As neither of you know what will happen after this is all over, it’s not something you want to think about.

Being here, in this moment, with him is the only thing that mattered to you.

The ferocity of the storm drowns out the cries that leave your lips, much different from the agonized ones you had let out earlier. Everything feels heightened, pleasure coursing through your veins with each stroke of his cock.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor as his eyes glaze over with an almost dangerous glint. Similar to that of a predator who had locked eyes on his prey. Your heart rate increases as a deep growl permeates the air. His fingers slip out of yours, instead digging into the soil beside you as his body goes rigid.

The brown of his irises disappear from view as he squeezes them shut, worry beginning to fill your chest. Your hands reach up to cradle his face, feeling how tightly his jaw was clenched underneath your fingertips.

“Eds,” you call softly, but the male remains frozen above you— a statue of Adonis.

He was losing control, ready to slip through your fingers. But you had already lost him once, and you weren't about to let it happen again.

“Stay with me,” you implore, softly pressing your lips against the furrow between his eyes. Brushing the dirt from his cheeks as you continue to trail tender kisses across his face.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally speaks as your lips hover over his, your breath mingling together.

“You won’t,” you promise as your nose nudges against his.

Eddie seems reluctant as he opens his eyes, crimson beginning to bleed into his irises. “But there’s something different…” he trails off, searching for any trace of fear reflecting in your eyes. “I’m different.”

“I don’t care,” you don’t miss a beat, capturing his lips with yours once more.

He moans into your mouth, hands encircling your waist as you lift your hips, encouraging him to thrust deeper inside you. Your tongue slips past his lips, gliding along his front teeth. Coming to a sudden realization as you feel the pointed edge of his canines.

Logically you should feel frightened, but it seems to have the opposite effect on you. Your kisses become frantic as your walls flutter around his shaft, the sensation causing him to moan out your name. The pace of his hips quickens as your nails dig into the drenched dress shirt covering his back.

Your lips separate as you gasp, his cock hitting that spot that has you seeing stars. The both of you falling closer to that precipice with each thrust of his hips. But it’s not quite enough, needing to connect with him on a new level.

Eddie peers down at you in awe as your head falls back, baring your throat to him. “Do it,” you insist, guiding his mouth towards your neck.

You can sense his hesitation, his lips ghosting over your skin instead.

“Please, Eddie,” you beg, his groan vibrating against your throat. “I want you to.”

The sincerity in your tone squashes any doubts still lingering in his head. Allowing his teeth to graze against your tender flesh, testing his resolve.

“I trust you,” is what he needs to hear before he sinks his teeth into your neck.

Your body arches into his chest, trembling as that familiar wave of euphoria crashes over you— pulling you under completely. Eddie drinks from you greedily, continuing to work you through your high as his own steadily approaches.

“Taste so fucking good, sweetheart,” he moans as his teeth detach themselves from your throat.

His tongue darts out, lapping up the blood that begins to trickle down the curve of your neck. The sight of his mark on you is almost enough to send him over the edge. But your pretty whines are the final nail in his coffin, hips stuttering as he fills you with his warmth.

“I love you.”

Those three little words are whispered against your collarbone as the male collapses onto you. A content smile spreads across your face as your fingers card themselves through his curls. The both of you soaking up this moment of bliss for as long as you can.

The rain above your heads has finally slowed to a drizzle, the pitter patter of the droplets matching your heartbeat. You don’t know how long you laid there like this, bodies intertwined on his grave.

But it didn’t matter, as long as it was him you were entangled with.

“I love you too,” you reply a while later, the male humming as he lifts his face from the crook of your neck, crimson smeared across his lips.

A fond look falls over his features as he leans down to kiss you again, the metallic taste of you lingering on his mouth. A thought suddenly occurs to you, causing you to giggle against his lips.

“What’s so funny, sweetness?” He muses, pulling away from you with a raised brow. You tuck a loose curl behind his ear, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“Just trying to think of how to explain this to Steve.” You watch in amusement as a scowl appears on his face.

“Poor thing is gonna think I was mauled by a wild animal,” you tease, gesturing to the bite mark on your neck.

You see a flash of jealousy in his eyes, a low growl rumbles through his chest as his lips reattach themselves to your throat— causing you to squeal.

“Harrington’s just gonna have to deal with it,” he answered smugly, hugging your body closer to his.

The both of you completely unaware of the looming figure watching you from the tree line.

tagging some lovelies: @xxbimbobunnyxx @munsonhoneybaby @rowanswriting @voyeurmunson @nailbatanddungeon @vecslut @likedovesinthewnd @lofaewrites

#the freak writes 🫧 #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female character #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #kas!eddie munson x reader #kas!eddie munson

[mallowmaenad]

6'3" Underweight Trans Girl With Eyebags whose wearing an Oversized Black Sweater: I recently remembered all of my past lives. Most of it was spent as various plant life and fungi in the same twenty foot radius in a forest by a rural interstate route until a robin ate the seed containing my soul and flew to another forest where I reincarnated as her child. I would then die a tragic death at a young age to a local fox where I'd live a long life as her kit and eventually die of old age, I then spent several generations as various plant life and fungi in that forest which was eventually destroyed by industry.

I was a tree during that time and my plant fibers were processed to manufacture paper used to make a sticker placed on an orange whose peel was placed in a compost bin, eventually leading me to the dark yet decadent life of a worm until I then eventually expired and awoke as a tomato plant in the care of a kindly older woman, it is that life whose memories I treasure the most.

She was a very skilled and warm woman, and many of my cycles afterwards were spent as my own kin in generations of tomato plants in a blink of an eye. One day she took me into her car in a pot, I remember how she spoke to me. At the time she had named me Reynolds, she had set into a trend of naming me after Hollywood actors she found attractive. It was the day before her daughter's birthday and I was to be her gift, I could not feel bittersweet about this a the time, because I was a tomato plant.

She buckled me into the back seat of a car as if I was a child of her own and drove down a rural interstate route, illuminating the black sea of the night sky with her headlights as the shadows seemed to drown out anything but us. A deer with bone wasting disease stood in the road like a grim reaper, white eyes shining as her aching foot tried to react in time on the break peddle.

The two embraced in a bloody collision, I remember the deer in its last moments weakly nibbling at her flesh as they both bled out in an agony they were ignorant to, I wilted and died in that car along with her and that deer, I do not know what the journey of my soul was like, but my next life was as a patch of semi-feral grass on the side of a similar road caught in the mouth of a possum eating a partially full discarded box of Wendy's fries who was then promptly turned into road kill, when the day was new a burly Appalachian man whose stern demeanor hid a soft heart would legally and cleanly collect the cadaver and break it down, using the remains for a meal some yuppies would find ghastly. This man was my father- or rather my father in this cycle of life.

I know in my heart of hearts that you were that old woman who nurtured me so many times as her beloved tomato plants, you had the rare privilege to live your life as an incinerator at a crematorium, but the march of technology and nut after bolt you grew broken, a death by a thousand cuts, a death by a thousand bodies. Your massive metal cadaver was melted down over time, the raw materials eventually finding itself to a factory that manufactured bullets, a life of darkness in a cardboard prison only to be shunted into a pistol's magazine... your entire existence is interesting, stretching the meaning of what it means to be eaten and to live. The meek 24 year old boy thought nobody would mourn him when he was gone, you lived as an amorphous patch of greenery ahead of his grave stone.

A curious thing would happen during a visit to this boy's grave, his childhood dog either in embarrassing coincidence or a moment of sentience began to dig at where the body was, being wrenched back as it began to desperately sink his teeth into the soil, ripping you asunder. Almost as divine penance, you lived your next life as a member of this dog's litter, you'd be named after the boy, despite being a girl. Maybe the dog was given some precognition and wanted to eat the boy and take his soul into its mouth to get her the life she always wanted. You were unfortunately born with a chronic condition that led you to a young death, the girl's mother crying just as hard after the vet put you down. You were buried lovingly in her back yard where you became a tomato plant, your same mother not being as much of a green thumb as mine but she devoured your fruits all the same, eventually giving birth to another meek boy after growing pregnant during the time when your last tomato was picked off your wilted stem. I have pursued you since that day with my whole body and spirit, one part unintentional one part in this moment of enlightenment. I love you, and I will love you for the rest of forever.

Trans girl who dropped out of high school to make Hello Kitty breakcore who has her girlfriend's dick in her mouth and is high as fuck right now: Waash dat?

Their shared girlfriend sitting across from them playing Wario Land Shake It on her modded Wii U: Was I the deer with bone wasting disease?

6'3" Underweight Trans Girl: ... Yeah...

#long post #microfiction #cw car accident #cw death #cw dead animal #cw suicide

[sirenscriptures]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ angel dust — s. ryomen ⋆｡˚

synopsis: he couldn’t believe the day you’d fallen down into his home. it was such a dark place, filled with such voids that most would consider horrifying. but you…you seemed to brighten up those areas just with your presence alone … 3k

before you read: fem-bodied reader, fallen angel ! reader, kind of counts as monsterfucking??, corruption, breeding, size difference, true form sukuna, soft to rough-ish sex, mainly soft sukuna, some asphyxiation, oral sex, cock worship.

author comments: if you’ve seen this before, don’t fret. this is a reupload from last year that came from my previous blog <3 also, i would greatly appreciate any feedback on this idea. it was very well received on ao3 and i’d love to know what you think of this idea!!

there was a biting cold air spilling throughout the dark, enormous malevolent shrine that evening. it was odd, since the deep marrows and walls of the domain usually seethed with a heat that seemed closest to what hell would feel like.

quiet as usual, his looming figure sat high within the mouth of the gaping shadows that swallowed the entire space. mountains of bones sat him as his throne; rotting and decaying ones piled at the root, whilst the more robust collection of ivory spines and jaws crowned the top.

even if his gaze read otherwise, he knew something strange was circulating. the domain no longer felt as though it could hold him, yet he didn’t know why. where it usually felt so hollow and barren, it now felt heavy, as if there were something weighing directly on its surface.

sukuna could feel the tension slithering up his arms. his usually harrowing eyes were now darting around, frantically checking each and every wall, crevice and shadow like a madman.

however, standing up was worse. immediately as his feet met the surface, a painful spasm rippled through his head, his hand smacking against his forehead in response. following the sudden pain, a high pitched ring bulleted through his ears.

he let out a yowl in reaction, his entire core tensing in near unbearable pain.his body heat felt like it was burning him alive, and the entirety of his muscles felt as though they would cave in on him at any given moment. it was as if his whole body were crumbling away, alike to the bones at the very bottom of his throne.

what in the hell is wrong with me…?

with no time for another thought or exclamation, a sudden, nearly blinding light glistered over his entire vision. it was like a lightning strike when it cracked down upon a tree. but upon the impact, the light expanded outward, casting a permanent coat of shining white over what used to be orifices of shadows.

the light only lasted a few moments before slipping away, the shadows eating at the remaining whiteness casted in the malevolent shrine. but for sukuna, it felt like ages before the piercing brightness faded away.

hiding away his face in the fabric of his robe sleeves, the pain in his body from before had completely vanished. he felt now that he was in one piece, and that everything was mostly back to normal again.

that was, until he looked in front of himself.

in front of him was what looked to be a pile of white sheets strewn about messily into a wrinkled pile.

with him still trying to adjust his eyes from before, it was still a bit of a blur. the flash from before had strongly impacted his vision for a good few moments before he could truly see properly again.

but when his vision did clear, he was certain he’d been hallucinating. his eyes widened as he realized.

in front of him lay an angel…one with battered, gently stained wings. they looked to be twisted, as if they’d been purposely bent and misshapen by cruel hands.

the little clothes that they wore were torn, stained with some sort of black, ash-like debris, as if they’d been caught in some sort of smoke or fire.

now fully adjusted to the sight, he saw the faint, aura-shaped glow that was cast around their body. the dim light shifted in and out of different hues; appearing like the breathing leaves of a tree at one moment, and like ocean waves the next, transcending on and on into different textures and colors in only a matter of minutes.

even for him, the very king of curses, this was a truly mesmerizing sight. in all his time, he couldn’t ever recall encountering a fallen one.

but that didn’t stop him from wondering just how in the world a creature like you had slipped into his domain.

sukuna’s barrier was stronger than any other domains in existence. only he had the power to call upon it when he wished to trap his victims inside of it. no one could get in or out without his calling to it, and that was always how it worked.

truly, it made no sense how you’d landed here. it shouldn’t have been anywhere near possible, but he’d have to face the facts that it was now.

breathing out deeply, whatever soft expression he previously had, he quickly wiped off. whilst admittedly fascinated, sukuna wanted no more unexpected visitors lurking here. it wasn’t worth any risk, even if he could deal with any type of intruder.

walking towards your body, he stared down at you for a moment, pondering. the idea of seeing a real angel so up close, enough to where he could touch it and see all of its features, felt somewhat dangerous to him.

standing so close created ripples of tension in the air, and he could feel it. it was nearly overbearing, to a point where he almost stepped back. but he stood his ground, not wanting to lose this moment.

gently, one of his hands grasped around your shoulder, rolling you onto your back. seeing your face now, it was hard for his eyes not to narrow.

sukuna had never seen something so beautiful. being asleep and trapped in bottomless darkness for years upon years with nothing but gruesome history and deeds, made him realize just how much he failed to see from the world around him.

he knew very well that there was a world outside of his domain where time was constantly working. where lives ended and began within every passing hour. where every single person, organism, ecosystem and cell worked to keep the cycle of living and evolving forever flowing onward, until there would be nothing left but dust floating about an empty space.

did he care for it much? of course not

out there, he was feared. the very syllables of his name invoked terror into any normal human that lived today. and that didn’t bother him in the slightest. it was a title that contributed to who he truly was: the king of curses.

but this moment that lay in front of him felt much different than just the outside world. just by looking at you, it was clear you falling down here carried much more volume than if a regular human were to fall into his domain.

it was when he began to pull you into his arms that your eyes flicked open. being cradled within four arms was a feeling he only half expected you to react to, but it was still surprising for both of you.

at first, sukuna expected you to flinch away from him. maybe even throw yourself away from his grasp. after all, it only seemed appropriate to him that an angel would fear the initial sight of a curse of his stature.

it was the stare you gave him that threw him off the most. your eyes were brilliant; the color in resemblance to the hazy aura that surrounded your body after the fall. but looking deeper, it seemed like you were...admiring him?

the softness in your gaze couldn’t be described in any other way. it was painted with innocence and light, something that was so foreign to sukuna.

despite the unfamiliar soft feeling blooming within his chest, his expression remained strong, revealing little emotion to you at first. with his eyes fully fixated on you, he smirked.

“i take it you’ve lost your way?” he asked in his low, sonorous voice. red eyes blinked down at you, the contact unbreaking.

when he was met with silence, it wasn’t a shock. angels weren’t so common with the earth language as many others thought they were.

instead, you blinked back at him, that same look in your eye as he remained holding you in his arms. even though he understood that you weren’t vocal, he could begin to feel that same tension lingering in the air once more.

“you really did a number on me when you fell down here.” he chuckled, assuming the pain from before was caused by the impact.

something within your gaze flickered as your hand reached up towards his face. his first instinct was to flinch away or tense up, yet…he didn’t.

your caress on his face was gentle, so loving, it was enough to make him feel like warmth was rushing through the tips of your fingers. sukuna hadn’t felt such a sensation in an eternity. in all of his long life, he couldn’t remember ever feeling a touch as gentle and as ethereal as this one.

it truly amazed him. he’d been so used to fighting, that he forgot what a real, physical loving touch had felt like against his skin. especially in his true form, he’d never felt so many sensations coursing through him at once.

the tension only stretched once he noticed you hadn’t broken eye contact. usually, others would shy their gaze away in fear. but, with the way you looked at him, it was almost as if you were trying to persuade him to look at you.

the way you smiled at him, and the way your body was so relaxed in his grasp…something was drawing him in so deep, that he completely ignored the fact that your faces were now drawn so close together, his breath warm on your skin.

you could feel sukuna start to tense up against your body. he wasn’t saying it directly, but he hated appearing as though his walls were tumbling down. the mere idea of being vulnerable was nauseating to him. but sure enough, it was gradually spreading through him like a slow-killing virus.

for a brief moment, something switched within him. it was a sudden feeling of his normal self coming back to him.

suddenly, he placed you back on the ground. he initially wanted to turn his body away from you, but you stopped him. your hand clasped gently around one of his wrists, a slight pleading look in your eyes. you stood close to his body, battered wings flecking about torn and tangled feathers.

sukuna turned to look at you, slightly amused. if anyone else had done that to him in his domain, he could have their arm sliced off in a matter of one glance.

“what now?” he asked gently.

he almost made a smart remark following his inquiry, until your hands gently started to roam over his body.

slowly, your gentle touch sent that same euphoric sensation through him, causing his breath to hitch. the tenseness in his muscles seemed to be washed away by the feeling as your touch traveled to his waist.

he could feel your breath growing heavier by each minute that passed. your head leaned into the deep crook of his neck, hands admiringly slipping over the bulges of muscles and scars on his skin.

looking back at you, he huffed, that devilish smirk spreading slightly over his lips once more. his large hands crept over your waist, scraping the loose clothing off of your body, leaving you more vulnerable than him.

before you could react, he’d pulled you into his grasp once more, his lips connecting with yours. his tongue aggressively slithers its way into your mouth, causing you to whine.

when pulling away, a string of saliva trailed between both of your mouths, eventually dripping down your breast.

seeing your bare figure so beautifully displayed in front of him, sukuna can’t help but feel like he needs more. that feeling from before was now a craving that he felt wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d had every part of you.

leaning back to sit, he placed you conveniently onto his lap, undoing his robes. you could feel the warm excitement pulsing through you, and you were certain he could feel the same.

those dark eyes fixated on you so strongly, you felt as though he could see through you. he pulled you close to him again, his hand trailing down in between your legs.

you latched onto him in surprise when the mouth on his palm began to lap and lick at you from below. you let out a trembling whimper, wrapping your arms tight around his neck.

sukuna chuckled darkly. “now i’ve found what you like, haven't i?”

it wasn’t long before you were wet enough for his fingers to slip in between your snug walls. you could feel your legs beginning to shake uncontrollably as the mouth continued to suck and slither its tongue inside you, whilst his two fingers pumped into your wetness.

he was fascinated by the feeling. even just a mere two fingers had some struggles fitting inside you. but the way you swallowed him in so well down there made him throb.

fuck…who would’ve thought i’d get to ruin a sweet angel like this? he thought to himself. just the feeling of the dripping warmth around his fingers could drive him mad.

promptly, sukuna removed the rest of his robes, his full body exposed to you now. looking at you, he watched your eyes widen at the sight of just how big he was.

he smiled amusingly, taking your face into one of his hands gently.

“there’s nothing to be afraid of, dear.” he murmured, pulling you into a deep, long kiss.

your little whimpers sent waves of arousal through him. you were so fascinating in all ways…he just couldn’t get enough of you.

before he could do anything else, you positioned yourself beneath him, kneeling right where his thighs were.

he looked at you, confused. he could see that you appeared nervous. compared to sukuna, you felt so small. he was a giant, and you both knew that. but there was an instinct for you to serve him, even if it was just for a little while.

suddenly, you’d begun to take in one of his members into your mouth slowly, your tongue snaking around the tip.

sukuna let out a rumbling groan, muscles back to tensing and pulsing with excitement. even the feeling of your mouth was amazing…so soft and welcoming to his cock.

his head tilted back, the feeling of you sucking at him sending his mind into a blur. it was unfathomable how good you could make him feel, all with simple gestures.

after a few moments, you’d stopped. sukuna looked down at you, panting slightly.

it was the sight of you kissing his cock that made him realize what you were doing. trails of kisses led all the way to his pre-cum coated tip. your hands gently massaged and caressed his skin, humming with pleasure as you did so.

pulling you up to his lap again, he pulled you extra close, breath now hot against your neck. sukuna couldn’t keep his mouth from yours. his large hands groped at your breasts, the mouths engulfing your skin.

he loved the sound of your moans flowing into his mouth as he prepared his cock at your entrance. you sounded so meek, and at the same time desperate. as if you’d wanted more of him, which is exactly what he wanted from you.

sliding in wasn’t easy for him. not even half had slipped into you, and you were already holding onto dear life, clawing at his shoulders and wincing, tears starting to stream down your cheeks.

he cupped your face in his hands, holding you gently. “shhhh, it’s alright.” he assured.

he placed one of his hands on your chest, the thump of your heartbeat racing wildly. staring into your eyes, he never broke his soft stare, his member still partially stuffed inside you.

“breathe for me.” he murmured, hand remaining on your chest as he breathed deeply with you.

slowly, it eased its way past your walls, the warmth now engulfing him. sukuna leaned his head back, groaning.

“fuuuck…” he hissed, feeling the fluttering of your walls around him.

he looked up at you, seeing how tense you’d become. his hands gently rubbed up and down your back, soothing you to where you would relax once more.

accidentally, his hands traveled to your wings. at the initial touch, you let out a cry, but not out of pain, out of pleasure.

once again, fascination overcame him. while he started to pump himself in and out of you, his fingers gently massaged the silky feathers of your back, watching as your head and eyes rolled back.

his pace grew faster eventually, balls slapping against your flesh, your moans sobbing out of you louder. meanwhile, sukuna’s hands roamed all over you, caressing every part of you that he could.

as he fucked you, the tongue on his stomach swirled in delicate circles over your protruding clit. he could feel every part of you begin to tremble. it felt like you were about to break at the seams.

he growled out huskily as his hand wrapped around your throat. slaps rang out as he fucked you, echoing throughout his domain.

he looked at you with hooded eyes, admiring the glassy-eyed look of exhaustion and arousal that you had.

“cum for me,” he stammered out. “let me hear those pretty moans of yours…”

you could feel the pleasure washing over you, head throwing back as you let out a final cry.

with a few thrusts, he could feel his seed sputtering deep inside you. his last thrusts made sure everything stayed inside of you, filling you up as much as he could. the feeling of your warmth and fluids mixing together nearly sent the both of you into a trance.

but for sukuna, he was more entranced by you and you alone. he had yet to understand how an angel like you had fallen down here, but he figured he didn’t have to understand everything right away.

all he truly cared about now was possibly keeping you down here with him. it didn’t fully make sense at first why he felt such a drawn protection over you, but now he saw just how special you were.

holding you in his arms, he couldn’t help but smile watching you doze off, head resting against his chest as you listened to the soothing sound of his heartbeat.

written by sirenscriptures. do not repost on any other website. do not translate, copy, or use.

#jujutsu kaisen smut #sukuna smut #sukuna ryoumen smut #⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚 — sea’s scriptures #true form sukuna smut #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #true form sukuna x reader #☾ — nightly yearning

[rosepascal]

crave || Joel Miller Smut

summary: After the mysterious man you now know as Joel Miller leaves you his address and a message to find him, you do just that. How will the man who ruined you be in person?

warnings: MINORS DNI, NSFW, 18+ ONLY, afab!reader, dirty talk, swearing, blowjobs, minor face fucking, choking on dick, spanking, prone bone positon/weighted blanket Joel, unprotected sex, creampie, crying during sex.

a/n: The highly anticipated part 2 to desire is here! Honestly im so nervous that this doesn't live up to peoples expectations so if it doesn't then im sorry. I really do hope you like this even a fraction as much as you loved desire. Speaking of which the reaction to desire has been so so amazing and I want to thank you all for it. Its really motivated me and it makes me so happy. Also the wifi here sucks and i cant add a gif sooo mb

part one: desire || Can be read standalone

Why were you so Nervous, It’s just sex. Just sex with a man who absolutely rocked your fucking world. You had no idea who he is or what he looks like, and he doesn’t even know your name. But if the s. is that good, then who cares.

It's just before dusk that you finally head over to his place. Easily sneaking past FEDRA guards as their schedules have become predictable at this point. As you walk up the steps you start to get nervous. You triple check the address and the apartment number scribbled on the piece of paper he left you.

Taking a deep breath, you knock on the door. There’s shuffling behind the door and before you’re ready it swings open. Your eyes widen as you take in the man in front of you.

Is this Joel? You sure hope it is because fuck. Is he hot. His hair is slicked back and peppered with streaks of grey. His beard is patchy but full enough to fill his face. His eyes, oh god his eyes. Despite what appears to be a permanent glare etched onto his face, it doesn’t scare you. Your eyes drift down to his body and you’re practically ready to climb him like a tree.

His shoulders are broad and his button up shirt stretches around his arms and chest. He’s got a bit of a tummy, but you like it that way. It doesn’t take away from how strong he is. You already know how big it is, if lingering soreness is any indication. He puts his arm on the door frame and leans against it.

“Joel?” He looks confused for a moment before realization flashes in his eyes. He smirks and he looks you up and down.

“Well, hey there baby. Glad to see you got my message.” His voice is low and sexy as he already feels himself getting hard in his pants. Joel didn’t indulge in places like that very often, but your pussy was quite memorable. Putting on your best flirty look you press your hands to his chest.

“You glad to see me? Because I’m glad to see you.” You purr as you drag your hands down to his belt. Tugging on it lightly.  His eyes darken as he grabs your wrists and pulls them back up.

“Careful baby, if you look at me like that for much longer, I’ll have you on your knees right here.” He growls in your ear. Smirking you lean over and gently bite the lobe of his ear.

“Promise?” The door slams behind you as his arms wrap around your waist.

His lips crash into your own, his tongue shoving itself into your mouth as he groans loudly. You messily unbutton his shirt as he practically rips your undone.

“Fuck.” You look at your now ruined shirt and scowl, but Joel can’t seem to care.

“Sorry baby, couldn’t help myself.” He has a mattress in the corner of the room, and it looks clean enough.

“Lay down old man.” You tease and he chuckles.

“Old man? You weren’t calling me old when I was pounding my cock into this pussy.” He cups your cunt and runs his fingers along until he rubs against your clit making you whimper.

He smirks but he does lay down on the mattress. He props his back against the wall and waits. Discarding your ruined clothes, he watches hungrily as you strip each piece away, revealing your naked body.

“So beautiful baby.” He mumbles as you throw your last piece of clothing off.

“Not too bad yourself handsome.”

You straddle his waist and kiss him. Your hands cupping his face as you slowly grind your hips. His cock is already hard underneath you. The rough material of his jeans creating a delicious friction against your clit.

“Fuckin’ dirty.” He slaps your ass and grabs your hips.

It was pure torture for Joel. An incredibly pleasurable torture. Joel raises his hips and helps you take off his jeans. With a wicked smirk you lean down and lick the tip of his cock.

Ever since that night with Joel you’ve dreamed of getting down on your knees and sucking his cock. Taking as much as you can in your mouth you use your hand to pump the rest of it. Joel's hands fly to your head, guiding your mouth up and down.

The sounds of your choking only making him harder, making him hornier. He can’t help but thrust his hips up and shove his dick down your throat.

“S’okay baby, you can take it.” His thumb runs along your cheek and despite the tears falling down your face you nod.

You’re incredibly turned on from the force Joel uses and his sweet but filthy words. His groans fill the room as you happily choke on his cock. You can feel him twitching in your mouth but before he can blow his load, he pulls you off. Taking deep breaths, you look at him confused.

“Don’t wanna finish in your mouth, rather fill you up again.” He grabs your waist and together you move until you’re pinned on your stomach.

“Been thinkin’ about you baby, hoped you would show up soon.” He gropes your ass unashamedly.

Admiring it and squeezing it with his hands. He lightly slaps it making you jump. Slowly he reaches down and admires your cunt. It’s already wet and ready for him. Just how he likes it. He sticks two fingers into his mouth before sliding them into your cunt. Fucking you slowly on them to open you up.

“Joelll” You whine, wanting more than just his fingers. He tuts and slaps your ass again.

“So fuckin’ needy.” Despite his words he grants your wish and pulls his fingers out and lines his cock up with your cunt. With a loud grunt he slams his hips forward, burying himself deep inside of you in one thrust.

“Oh Joel!” You moan loudly, clenching around him tightly.

“I can’t…Fuck.” Your face falls into the mattress. Every single one of your senses are overwhelmed. All you can feel is Joel, all you can hear are the small sounds he’s making.

“You didn’t have a problem taking me last time baby…Let this old man fuck you real nice.” He practically falls on top of you.

Trapping you under his weight and forcing you to take him even deeper. His hands cover yours and pin them next to your head. His nose nudging against your cheek as he pulls back his hips and fucks into you roughly.

His thrusts are slow but hard. Sending shocks through your body with each one. His grunts sound like thunder in your ear as he starts to lose his composure.

Your skin is so warm, so soft. Your moans aren’t muffled this time, he can hear them loud and clear. Every little whimper, every little gasp for air. All his doing.

He growls like a fucking animal as he pounds his hips faster. His cock is driving deep into you. So much deeper than you thought possible. Over and over again.

Hitting a spot inside you that sends tears running down your face. Good tears. Fucking great tears. You dreamed of being fucked like this. You feel safe under him. Even if he’s rearranging your guts right now.

“Joel..Need you..Please.” You tilt your head up, your face wet with tears as you beg him to send you over the edge. Your orgasm has been building and you need a little more to make you come. Though truthfully you could come just from his cock at this point.

“I got you, don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of you.” He truly means it.

Now that he’s seen your face, held your body, made you scream his name. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you walk out that door. You let out a shocked cry as he pulls his dick out. He gets onto his knees and flips you on your stomach.

“I wanna look at your pretty face while you come on my cock baby.” Pushing your legs apart he fucks into you again.

At this angle he can see everything. Just as he wants it. Your eyes had been screwed shut due to the pleasure, but you force them open, wanting to see Joel.

Any ounce of resolve you once had is gone when you meet his eyes. His mouth hangs open, sweat glistens on his face and chest. He’s perfect. He’s everything you want. They way he looks at you, the intensity burning in his eyes, paired with his cock buried deep in your pussy. It’s enough to send shockwaves through your body. Your orgasm crashes through your body and leaves you shaking and moaning under Joel.

He watches in awe as you thrash and squeeze his cock. It doesn’t take long for him to come hard, how could he hold back while your cunt milks him for all he’s got. He comes hard and for a long time. Squirting into you until his cum is dripping out of you.

“Stay here. I’ll take care of you I promise.” Joel spills out. His head is in the clouds, but he means every word. This isn’t just a meaningless fuck. He feels something. Something deep inside that he won’t let go.

“Doesn’t that sound nice hm? I know how to get things. I’ll teach ya and in return you can let me fuck you senseless every night.” He buries his face in your neck.

Biting and sucking roughly as he comes down from his high. Moaning softly, you wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t have to think about it. Not for a second. You want this, you want him. You need him in your life, in your bed, and especially in between your legs.

“Yes,” You cup his face and bring him to meet your eyes.

Admiring every little thing about him that you can. Capturing his lips in a passionate kiss he groans, hands wandering your body, bringing you as close to him as he can.

“I’ll stay."

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction

[undercoverpena]

comfort came against my will

gif credit to @perotovar

joel miller x f!reader summary: it’ll begin with a little beg, a whispered plea—fingers wrapping around his chin, mouth ghosting over his: Let me ride you, Miller.

word count: 1.8k warnings: smut, p in v, jo's spelling and poetic nature. dedication: happy birthday to my friend, @swiftispunk - i know you love Joel, and i hope you love this. special thanks to @perotovar for letting me use their beautiful GIF that inspired half of my imagery, if not all of it.

There’s something about heavy rainfall.

The way it’s cleansing, renewing—almost reinvigorating, depending on when the last time it fell.

Joel found that the only downside is the scent it leaves behind.

Once, a long time ago, it used to leave behind a smell that others wished to bottle—a wish to burn it in candles or hang cheap versions from their car’s centre mirror in haphazardly cut-out trees.

Now, it has an aroma that reminds him of death. A stench which has dug itself into the hairs in his nose, unwilling to let go—clinging, desperate not to be forgotten.

But, you like the rain.

He'll always find you near the window when it pours, eyes tracing the droplets. Your chair purposefully, and with all intentions, pointing to the muck-covered window. Nothing more perfect, you’d murmur—fingers wrapped around one of the crystal glasses the two of you discovered on a run, pressing it to your cheek, off-coloured liquid sloshing as you sigh.

He’s pretty sure he could name a few other things more perfect than rain, but he does find it hard to argue that it isn't the most perfect soundtrack when your thighs are on either side of him.

Especially when the weather is like this. Where a flash of lightning can illuminate you, casting you in a brief spotlight that kisses over your curves and the evidence of your survival.

Tonight, it begins with you draining your glass, turning your head, eyes shimmering as you move from your place, coming to join him on the bed.

Your fingers, both a little rough and soft, wrap around his chin, before a little beg, a whispered plea fills the air—mouth ghosting over his: Let me ride you, Miller.

He couldn’t argue, would never protest. But, your mouth stealing any words he wishes to say. Because he likes having you under him—pinned, close, unable to look anywhere but directly at him. For when you stare, you make everything else pale in comparison. Made the world around mute, it all fading to nought.

You do so with ease, with a single look. One he imagines has always been there, all very much you, even if the state of things has tried to steal it away. He can easily imagine a younger you modelling it, one without the stress lines of living, it all softer, gentler.

Joel doesn’t mind that isn't the case now. He doesn't care for gentle or soft. He likes how sharp you are, that you can cut, wound and make him bleed. He enjoys that, even if he doesn’t deserve anything from you, you stand side-by-side with him, choosing him—wanting and needing, all raised brow with a smirk to match.

If you listen, the rain is telling us something.

You're close to his ear as you mumble it, lips ghosting down his cheek before a clap of thunder steals the phantoms of your whispered echo.

His hands fan over your hips, pushing up one of his tees that you're wearing, sliding it up with his thumbs—feeling how your skin moves, shifts, lengthening over your muscles and bones. His mind busy, occupied, only thinking about how beautiful you are, even when drenched in darkness.

How you’re all untouched except the few scars, the nips and scratches left by those who wished to end you, but found that you weren’t so easy to dispose of.

Joel knows that you’re vicious, all sharp teeth and a menace with a knife many shouldn’t ever want to meet in a dark alley, not that the world has cottoned on. Each try, each fail. He often watches, in awe, pleased, because you're like him. So smooth in the way you're prepared to split someone open, coat your boots in their ichor as the rest of them spill out. Leaving him, often, battling his feelings at the sight.

But while he knows that side of you, Joel also knows the other you.

The one who still believes the rain is romantic. A soul who wishes for a pretty print on a dress, even if you'll only wear it in the four walls of the place you two share. Modelling it for him, dipping your toe into a fantasy with him. You also like the little things, such as a pair of matching glasses, enjoying that they belong together, a metaphor for something you clearly desperately crave.

If he were an honest man, one not ripped to shreds and put together all wrong, he’d tell you you’re a more perfect sight than rain. Not just when you’re sitting on top of him or when you’re under him; not just when you’re panting, venom in your eyes and splattered with cherry-red. But, when you’re just beside him.

Breathing, existing, sleeping.

He’d tell you that you’re an image perfectly cut out of an old version of his happy ever after, slapped down and glued beside him now, even when he’s all tragedy and tragic. That your darkness dances with his faultlessly—making him less alone.

That for you, he’d want to be better, which included letting you go—even if you’re pulling him close—because a man such as him, with hands stained and scarred with horrors, shouldn’t get to touch smeared perfection. That you’re not really poisoned or rotten, just living, fighting—claws digging into the soil, all desperate for another moment.

It’s why he lets you have your fun, and then he flips you under him, palm to your cheek, stare burning into yours.

What’s it tryin’ to tell us? The rain.

You fit him inside of you perfectly—just like you’ve fitted yourself in his space. You’re all knotted around him, heat warm—inviting. Your thighs pressing close, legs crossing behind him, aiding, helping.

Not because you don’t think he’d get you there, but because you’re conscientious, caring—it appears in smaller gestures others wouldn’t notice, but he sees them. Bottles them. Keep them close when you’re not beside him.

Not that he shows it.

Unsure once again, for the billionth time since you stood beside him (and never left), what you see in him—what you think he can give you. Because he’s old, worn, somewhat broken beyond repair—not that it stops you from trying.

“More, Joel. Please.”

You don’t call him pet names, but he hears them in the silence.

They quiver and talk in hushed voices in the kitchen that is covered in grime and not fit for a beauty such as yourself. Some even sprout on his tongue, a fresh seedling, all untouched and unruined—not yet weeded from his throat.

He finds it harder to not let them fall when you sound as pretty as you do. When your nails press half-moons into his skin, leaving a tale of your own in his forearms and biceps, meeting him with everything you have as your walls tighten, delightfully, a match made in hell—because heaven would never allow him. Or you now, he supposes.

It’s why his thumb slides between the two of you, licked with his spit, mixing with the slick against your swollen clit. You gasp, spraying sweetness around the air that's heavy-layered with sex.

He’s forever starving, never quenched—a need for you that runs deeper than mere living and existing. Not ever able to purge you from his system, never wanting to either. Because you’re entangled with him, rooted, anchored inside of him so you can bob along and never go under.

Not that he’d let you.

Joel would never.

His hips punctuate that sentiment. Wanting you to know it, driving them in, so the words don’t go in one ear and out the other. He aims to stamp them in you, fuck them so deep into you you’ll never forget. The sound of skin on skin, groan and grunt, all filling the space, evidence of his determination, swirling around your returning breath, still moaning, murmuring—all scratchy and rough.

“—Let go, Joel. Fill me.”

It rips from him, your name.

Each letter is important, each sound giving the attention it deserves as it coats the air—mouth finding the space between your ear and neck, kissing, teeth nipping.

“Stuff me full.”

The rain hammers heavier, beating its fists against the glass as though it’ll only calm when he does as you’ve asked. As though you and nature are tied together, bonded—the real pairing made in paradise.

It’s then your lips find his, sloppy, messy, all uncoordinated. He can taste the bitterness of your drink on your tongue and the pleasure he’d given you. His mouth lapping it up, licking into yours, tongue far past your teeth as he grips you a little tighter, ruts into you a little deeper—as if hoping there’s more of you to explore, more vastness he can leave a mark on.

It's muffled, but you cut the air with his name as if your tongue is a blade. Your body tightens, mouth ripped from his as you bare your throat, chin lifted, eyes closed as it washes over you and your walls become a vice, hugging his cock in a way no one else ever has.

He's close.

So close.

Another flash, it all bright, exposing the sweat collected on your skin, the path it has made between your breastbone, the way your body looks under him.

Then it’s electric, ripping through him as he stains, writing you’re his all in thick ropes of white—his hips stuttering, slowing, riding it out what it is you do to him. It’s a feeling akin to being folded inside out and then put back again—making his muscles tense and relax, his bones forget they ache, as his throat burns with the force of his exclamation.

It’s minutes, little seconds clumping up until an expanse of time collects, and he’s ready to leave the space between your thighs.

Your eyes on him, all unwavering, mapping his features as though you’re an artist, ready to make him into a sculpture.

He doesn’t tell you to stop, he's learnt his lesson from doing as such—eyes ablaze, full of molten, words sharp as ice, all a twisted juxtaposition as you lay into him all the ways you were, are and am enamoured by him.

He’s sure his list is longer, but he swallowed that, too.

Joel had just nodded, left you angry for half an evening until his arms wrapped around you, and he felt you melt, less lava and more a candle-lit flame licking at him until he took you to bed.

Even if a scrap of time has passed since then, Joel is still no closer to finding himself comfortable with the look—the one he suspects comes with words. Ones you don’t thankfully spill, but ones he would mean just as much if he really asked himself.

It isn’t until you tap him, that he moves. You’re more nimble, quicker on your feet to fetch a rag to clean yourself and then him. Each touch delicate, your stare concentrated before the cloth is cast to some corner—a thing you’ll move and clean tomorrow.

And then, you’re beside him, finding the place you usually choose—all intentional, willingly given—as his arm finds itself around you. A flash of lightning displaying the two of your shadows pressed together, merged in ways the two of your souls are.

Swallowing, he finds your stare is back on the window, the world outside painting its own version of a masterpiece.

“Y’never said what the rain’s telling us.”

You smile, before you lift up your chin, looking at him through your brows. “Just stories. The rain likes to tell stories.”

an: ily, han.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #tlou fanfic #hbo the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfic #joel miller smut #pedrostories

[fizzy-blood]

["Are you lost?"]

Ticci Toby🪓 x GN!Reader (Smut)

Not a request but I'm bored and wanna write something... Idk man. This is definitely going to be way longer than my headcanons because this is an actual story so yk.

18+ Warning

This content includes: Choking ig, Slight degrading, Hatchet fucking (if ykyk), It's one of those "I'll let you fuck me if you let me go after" type things, Dom Toby, Blood kink, kinda public? (Like, you're in the middle of the woods but...), Reader is way to horny lmao, Reader also has a pussy because it's easier to write for me (no gender mentioned tho).

It was a cold, late night. You had been walking through the woods for hours, completely lost. Maybe if you didn't decide that it would be a good idea to go off the path to find cool trinkets and animal bones you wouldn't be walking through the woods feeling like something was watching you. It wasn't all bad though, you did eventually find a lake in a clearing, you could finally see the moon again. The lake was peaceful and still, a small breeze passed by as you stepped out into the moonlight. You sat down on a rock next to the water, still unable to shake the feeling of someone's eyes on you. Little did you know that you weren't being watched by an animal, in fact the person was hiding in a tree nearby. He watched you as you sat down on the rock, staying as still and silent as he could.

He had picked you as his next target, you looked so small from up there in the trees, he couldn't just let you walk out of the woods unharmed. He slowly climbed down from the tree he was in to get a closer look at you. He began to walk towards you as you closed your eyes and sighed loudly, it was clear that you were stressed about being lost. You didn't hear him approach as you were to in your head thinking to hear him.

Finally he was right behind you, he tapped you on the shoulder to let you know he was there. You quickly whipped your head around and scrambled away from him, almost falling in the water as you did so. You looked up to see a scrawny looking man holding what looked to be a hatchet standing over you, he had a mask and goggles covering his face and a hood over his head. His head twitched and your eyes widened as he took a step closer to you, kneeling down and wrapping a hand around your throat. He tightened his hands around you only to immediately let go after the word "H-harder-" slipped out your mouth.

"W-what the ff-fuck?" He said, staring at you with a concerned look on his face, you couldn't see it though since his mask was in the way. "W-what the fuck is wrong with y-you?", you paused for a moment, he took a step back when you didn't respond. "I guess it doesn't matter n-now does it? You-you are going to d-die anyways.." he said with a sadistic look on his face. You looked up at him with a strange look, you were clearly embarrassed from what just happened and didn't really know what to do about the situation you were in. "Wait wait wait! Can't we figure something out?" You stammered. "Like-like what?" He said softly, his voice sent a chill down your spine causing you to blush slightly. This put a very... Interesting image in your head. "Uhhh- you could uhmm..." You sighed, knowing that you were probably going to regret suggesting this "I'll... I'll let you.. fuck me?" You said nervously, your face clearly a bright red. His eyes widened as you said that, clearly intrigued by the idea. "Hmm, You sure you want that? You don't even know my name and you wanna fuck me?" He slowly pulled his hood down and his goggles off, he had hazel eyes and dark brown hair. "If I do will you let me go?" You asked, clearly terrified of him rejecting the offer and killing you.

"Fine, on one condition-"he said, placing his free hand under your chin and tilting your head up,"-you can't tell anyone about this..", you agreed, face still red from asking. He smirked at you and removed his mask, you immediately took note of the large gash on his cheek. "My n-name is Toby, by the way.. feel free to ss-ay it as much as you'd like while we do this~". You basicly died when he said that, reality was going to hit you like a ton of bricks after this but you didn't care.

He got back down to your level as you were still sitting down on the rock, he crawled towards you and lent you a hand, gesturing for you to take it. Once he had ahold of your hand he pulled you in closer to him, he put his hatchet down beside him and held you in his arms. He let out a small laugh as you looked at him, you seemed tense, unsure about how to feel about the whole situation. Toby knew this, so in an attempt to make this a bit easier on you a bit less tense he kissed you. No hesitation whatsoever, he just kissed you. You closed your eyes and leaned in, you wanted this. The idea of the man you were kissing being a literal murderer was reaching out to the most depraved parts of your mind.

He started to become more needy as the kiss continued, he pulled you in tighter, feeling you up through your clothes. He pulled away and started to pull your shirt off. You didn't struggle, Infact, you helped him. Toby seemed confused by your sudden change in mood but he didn't complain. He pushed you onto your back and kissed your neck, causing you to moan at the feeling. "S-so nice, such pretty s-ounds~" he whispered into your ear, "w-whats your name.. I f-for-got to ask y-you...". You looked up at him and said your name, "Such a nice name~" he muttered as he nuzzled into your neck. He began to kiss your neck, nipping at the skin trying to find your more sensitive spots. Finally you let out a small whimper letting him know that he had found it. He began to bite and suck at the skin, listening to every little sound you made.

[Small Time Skip]

You two had been like this for a couple minutes now when you felt something tug at your belt, Toby had started to undo it. He finally let go of your neck so he could take off your pants. You looked down as he finally got them off, you gasped loudly as he began to rub your clit through your panties. "H-holy shit, how are you th-this wet already? Y-you fucking slut, you wanted th-is to-to happen didn't you.." he smirked at you as you squirmed under him. He moved his hand away making you whine at the lack of friction "Answer me o-or I'll st-stop!" He shouted. You quickly nodded, "Yes, I'm a slut, I wanted this to happen~ please- just keep going~". This answer obviously pleased him one way or another because he began to pull down your panties and suck at your clit. "Fuck- T-toby~" you moaned loudly as pulled your thighs up onto his shoulders and started to eat you out. You continued to moan and whimper as he did, placing your hand on the back of his head to pull him in closer.

Your body was so warm compared to his despite your lack of clothes. He could feel your thighs squeeze his head as you inches closer and closer to your orgasms, you were so close that you had started to shake. Just as you were about to cum he took his mouth off of your pussy, leaving you uncomfortable as the cold air touched it. "Why'd you stop..." You whined at him, "I wanted to see your pretty face~" he seemed to like the anger and pain in your eyes. "Don't worry, you'll feel full again soon.." He sighed, picking up his hatchet from the ground. "Calm down sweetheart, I'm not gonna kill you.. I have a better idea~" the sadistic look in his eyes set you off a bit. You watched him move over to the water behind you and dip the handle of the hatchet in the lake, slowly taking it out and wiping the water off with his sweater. "Hold this." He demanded, holding his hatchet out to you, you held it in your hands as you watched him pull his now damp sweater off of his body.

He took the hatchet back, "You ok there? You seem nervous again..". A stupid question really, of course you were nervous, he looked like he was about to kill you. You nodded your head, "Yeah... I'm fine..". Toby crawled on top of you again and lined up his hatchet with your hole, that's when you realized what he was doing, "I really don't need you getting pregnant on me.. after all, I did say not to talk about this with anyone.." he smiled at you.

You arched your back as he began to slide it in, trying your hardest not to moan. You could feel every little detail of the wooden handle as it entered your body, he slowly began to pull the handle out of you and back in again. "That hurts-" he ignored your crys and continued, taking off his belt and pulling his own pants down. You watched him touch himself as you continued to cry and whine from the pain, he seemed to be getting off to it. Soon enough the pain turned into pleasure as your body got used to the hard wooden handle inside of you. He began to rub himself against your clit, you could tell he was hard, it was starting to affect him too much. He continued to rub his dick against you as you whimpered from the feeling, the handle was too hard, too big, and he really wasn't helping with the overstimulation by rubbing against you. Toby placed his free hand on the back of your head again, watching small tears run down the sides of your face from the overwhelming feeling of the hatchet. He began to kiss you again, it was much slower, much softer than the first time. You gave into the feeling and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him in closer.

You both continued for as long as you both could handle it. You had placed a hand on his hardened dick and had been jerking him off for a couple of minutes. Finally he came on top of you, he moved his body up a bit out of your reach to watch it slowly drip off of you. Toby had finished, but you were still chasing your orgasm, he could see the pain in your eyes so he decided to do something to ease the pain. You groaned as he pulled the hatchet out, it had a small amount of blood on it now from how hard it was and how much it was stretching you out. You watched as Toby licked the blood off of the handle, his face had a noticeable blush on it, clearly he had been enjoying himself... He was also enjoying the blood a bit to much, maybe he had some kind of a blood kink? You didn't bother to ask him as he placed the hatchet back on the ground.

"Toby? What are you doin-nghh~" You moaned softly as his tongue touched your clit again, it was a nice change from the hatchet, much more soft and warm. You could feel his tongue work through your folds as he licked and sucked at your pussy. It felt like heaven as he licked up the blood that had been slowly dripping out of you. Did it hurt? A little... Did you care? Not really.

He eventually managed to find a sweet spot that was closer to your entrance and began to attack it with his tongue, soothing the pain as best he could. He let go for a moment and placed a finger inside of you and began to move it in and out only to return to your clit so he could still taste you, so wet, so sweet. You squeezed his head in-between your thighs and finally came undone. A wave of euphoria washed over you as he continued. A couple seconds later he finally stopped, he was pleased with how the whole thing had went.

He dressed you and put his sweater back on, picking both you and his hatchet up off of the rocks, carrying you out of the woods. He placed you down next to a tree near the path and sat down next to you slowly falling asleep.

The next morning you woke up peacefully, it was a Saturday so you did have any work. You felt a small pain in your abdomen as you stretched your body, looking over to see Toby's sleeping form next to you. The memories of last night came flooding back to you as your face went red... Did you regret it? Not at all.

HOLY SHIT!! (⁠┛⁠◉⁠Д⁠◉⁠)⁠┛⁠彡⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

I almost lost this whole post over a notification about penises and I really don't know how to feel about that....

Idk, hope you enjoyed it!! -Fizz

#creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta smut #ticci toby smut #i have a problem

[moonstruckme]

poly!marauders meets apocalypse? maybe some kind of trope where they got separated from the reader at the beginning of it all and while they knew all the spots they were likely to meet up at they just kept missing each other, times being off and such! + like after some time them finally find their way back together

Thanks for requesting my love! Idk how the first war went (fake fan!) but I imagine this “apocalypse” as during that time, something like the wizarding world in the Deathly Hallows after the death eaters take the ministry? I hope this is alright <3

apocalypse poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

It’s getting dark, and you know that you can’t sleep here but you probably will anyway. 

The cave isn’t a very comfortable place to spend the night, nor does it allow much room for hiding. If some troop of death eaters manages to track you here, you’ll be cornered, but you’ve long since gotten over the fear of being found. That panic lives in your bones now. It’s like your heartbeat, so inseparable from you that you don’t even notice it most the time. 

And honestly, if they want to find you here, let them. You’ve got nowhere else to go. 

This is the last place you could think of that the boys might come looking for you, the last place that hasn’t been found and desecrated and reduced to searing rubble. James told you once that they used to slip away during trips to Hogsmeade and explore these caves when they were younger. There are dozens of them, but he talked about one, the biggest, at the top of the hill, that they’d made their favorite hideout. You hope he remembers telling you as clearly as you remember hearing it. If they don’t find you here, you’ll have to face the question of whether you know your boyfriends as well as you think you do. Or whether you still have boyfriends to know. 

The view from their cave would normally be spectacular, Hogsmeade all lit up and surrounded by woodlands, but knowing that only makes what you’re actually looking down at seem worse. The usually quaint and lively town is abandoned. You can’t detect any movements in the streets and not a single lamppost is lit. What had been such a beacon of joy and fun during your time at Hogwarts, a place tied to some of your best memories—saving money when you were little for sweets at Honeydukes, getting butterbeer with your friends at the Three Broomsticks, watching performers in the square—has been reduced to this ghost town, dark and lonely and vacant but for the poor souls too frightened to leave their homes. 

Even as bleak as the town appears, your stomach grumbles looking down at it. Luckily, you’ve been able to utilize your skill with the obliviate charm to steal from muggle corner stores without anyone noticing, but though you leave the memories of the clerks largely intact, you still feel awful about it. No matter what food you smuggle away, guilt turns it bland and unappetizing in your mouth, and you haven’t tried to find a meal in a couple of days. Remus is good with illusions, if he were with you he could make money out of leaves and walk out of restaurants without having to tamper with the muggles themselves. Or if James still has the invisibility cloak, you could be using it to get all kinds of things without raising any suspicion. 

An owl hoots in the trees below you, and your head snaps up out of some hopeful instinct. But no, no one is sending you letters here. You’re not even sure if owls are allowed anymore, or if there’s anyone left who would write to you. You wish desperately that Remus was here to tell you you’re being silly, that Voldemort’s followers couldn’t possibly have squashed every ounce of rebellion in just a couple weeks, or Sirius to make fun of the robes the death eaters wear like third years in their rebellious goth phase, or James to hug you and promise, however emptily, that it’ll all be alright in the end. 

But as much as you miss the boys, you’re glad they have each other. At least, last you saw them they did. 

There’s a shuffling of rocks outside, and you flinch away from the mouth of the cave. It could be an animal, or the wind, but you can’t chance it. You move as quietly as you can to the darkness in the back, pressing yourself against a wall and doing your best to sink into the shadows as you slip your wand free of your shirtsleeve. You’ve got an expelliarmus on your tongue, hoping desperately that will be enough and too cautious to hope for anything more, when the first dark figure climbs into the entrance of the cave. 

“Merlin,” a male voice says, shrugging a pack off onto the floor, “it used to feel a bit bigger, don’t you think?”

A choked sob gives away your location, but it hardly matters, because in the next instant you’re racing towards the figure, shoes slipping clumsily on the damp ground. He curses, scrambling for his wand, but then you’re on him, and it’s all he can do to stay upright as your arms go around his neck. 

He recognizes you then, gasping your name just as the other two boys make their way up to the landing. They’re mere silhouettes against the twilight outside, but even through your tear-blurred vision you’d know them anywhere. You make a high-pitched keening sound, and Sirius and Remus both rush to you, smushing you and James between them. 

You can’t stop crying, splintered, gasping sobs like a child that doesn’t know how to live in the world on its own. You know James is weeping too from the wetness seeping into the collar of your shirt, and you think it’s Sirius’ hand that’s fisted in the back of your coat, but it really doesn’t matter. They’re here. They’re all here. 

“I didn’t think you’d come here,” Remus says, voice ragged. 

You laugh, and it’s a rough, awful sound, rusty from weeks of disuse. “I wasn’t sure you would either.” 

“Fuck, baby.” Sirius adjusts his grip on you, trying to pull you closer though you’re already pressed against him. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you step back where you can see them. They all look a little worse for wear, but that’s expected. James is rubbing underneath his glasses, teartracks cutting through what looks like soot on his face. Sirius too is dirtier than he ever would’ve allowed just a couple weeks ago, but he doesn’t seem like he’s lost any weight. And the scars you can see Remus, you conclude after some inspection, are the same ones you’ve been getting to know for years. They all seem okay. However they did it, they’ve managed to stay safe. 

“I’ve been everywhere,” you say finally. “I went to the shack first, but there were death eaters there.” 

James brow furrows, and he sniffles. “There weren’t any around when we went. When did you check there?”

“The day after it happened.” 

“We were there just that morning.” 

You sit down on the cold earth, careless of the dampness seeping into your pants. “I wanted to go sooner, but I couldn’t get away from my neighborhood. They were everywhere.” 

Sirius takes a blanket out of the pack James had discarded, laying it out on the floor of the cave and motioning for you to come sit beside him on it. 

“Did you try Godric’s Hallow?” Remus asks, spreading another blanket for himself and James across from you. “We hung around there for days.”

“Yeah,” you say. Remus sets a hand on your knee as he sits in front of you, James seating himself across from Sirius. “I went there straight after the shack, didn’t leave until the next night.” 

“You’re joking.” Sirius looks at you, devastation written across his features. “We got there three days after we got separated from you. We had to have been there at the same time.” 

You let out a short, stilted laugh, laying your head on Sirius’ shoulder as a fresh wave of tears obscures your vision. “We must’ve just missed each other.” Sirius wraps an arm around your shoulder, resting his head atop yours. “Wonder how many times that happened,” you say bitterly. 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Remus' tone is firm, but his knee bumps into yours consolingly. “We’re together, and…and we’re not going to get separated again. I won’t let it happen.” 

“But I think we should pick a more definitive meeting spot,” Sirius says with forced lightness. “Just to be sure, you know?”

James actually laughs, and the familiar sound lifts the mood in the cave slightly. 

“Probably,” you agree. “Hey, you guys don't have any food on hand, do you?”

“Merlin, is that rumbling your stomach?” Sirius asks. “I was thinking the roof of this place was about to come down.” He nudges you playfully, and you lean more of your weight onto him in response. He’s laying it on a bit thick in an attempt to try and brighten the atmosphere in your little cave, but you love him for it. 

“We’ve got food,” James says, already digging through the pack. “Sandwich okay?”

As ridiculous as it would’ve sounded to you a month ago, the idea of a full sandwich, with bread and everything, makes your mouth water. “More than okay.” You take it from him, all but moaning as you chew your first bite. “Fuck, this is so luxurious.” 

“If you think that’s luxurious,” James says enticingly, “wait until you see the grade-a sleeping pads we picked up. It’s a good thing we found you before you had to sleep in here, angel, because this is about to be a major improvement.” 

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. This is already a major improvement.

#poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x y/n #poly!marauders x fem!reader #poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders fanfiction #poly!marauders fic #poly!marauders fanfic #poly!marauders imagine #poly!marauders oneshot #poly!marauders drabble #poly!marauders scenario #james potter #james potter x reader #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #sirius black #remus lupin x reader #marauders era #marauders #the marauders #marauders x reader #marauders fanfic #marauders fandom #the marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #poly!marauders angst #poly!marauders hurt/comfort #apocalypse poly!marauders

[comfortless]

HIYA SYL! I LOVE UR WORK WITH THE DEPTHS OF MY SOUL AND ALSO I HOPE YOURE HAVING A GOOD DAY (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

AHEM! I constantly have this idea of Hybrid!Konig discovering the scent of Hybrid!Reader on his territory, but due to it being so vast he can never catch her in person. All he has to go off of is scraps of food, her scent rubbed against stones and stumps, and prints that are MUCH smaller than his! Until on one faithful day, he catches the lil thing creeping around his personal space!

I just wanna add that I’d love to see you tweak this idea ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ (If you want!) like making it human!reader instead orrrr in a more human manner such as it being a cabin in woods and reader is stranded, maybe. ANYTHING, KEKEKE ID JUST EAT UP ANY OF YOUR AMAZING WORK

raaah thinking about a bear hybrid König because of the cute lil kaomoji.. he would be so big and soft… ;; reader gets to be a fox..! also thank you for your sweet words and the prompt, angel!! ^^ 💘 too many ideas… i should write more hybrid!Kö…

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. reader & König are mostly human like last time! just with ears and tails. König is incredibly awkward in this (has 0 idea how to talk to a lady someone help him), possessive behaviors, very much… love? obsession? at first sight, fluff, implied sex.

The pretty thing in the grove does not know that she sits on the cusp between admired and threatened. She skitters through summer foliage like a dance, twists and winds and stretches to reach each fattened, ripe fruit hanging from vine or limb. The scent that lingers in this place fills most up with dread, their eyes wide as they look for places to hide or run, any place but here. She hardly seems bothered when she takes a plum into her mouth, it’s juice dripping down her chin as her tail curls over her bare stomach.

She laughs when the birds in their trees warn her of danger, bares her teeth at them and tells them all she’s far faster than some old bear, speaks off-key when she’s drunken on stolen fermented fruit and dazed on the rays of sunbeams shifting through the leaves.

He could rush out, take her by surprise and hook a claw into her throat before she would even have the mind to spare him a glance. It’s just that no part of him wants to, not now, not when he’s been made aware of the beautiful passerby that steals his food and leaves a pattern of uneven, dancing footprints in her wake. He had only had the thought once when he saw this earthly garden uprooted with only the foreign smell of rosemary and lilac left behind.

Watching her now, it’s all too different.

She leaves the pit of her plum at her side when she lies in the grass to rest, tail plumed up and over her middle like a blanket as her ears flick and rustle her hair. It’s not a tentative sleep: she’s soft, warm and utterly exhausted from her day of pilfering if the long, quiet breaths were much to go by.

Any other bearman would eat her whole and pick the bones from his teeth to leave as offerings for the birds, the buzzards with their wild eyes and ruffs of feathers about their necks. But… it’s only summer, what good would eating her do? He reasons it would hurt him more than it could ever hurt her, because then all would fall back to tedium and silence. There would be no more hushed laughter and dizzying prances, no more of a sight prettier than any view he’s seen prior.

He wants more of her than this— more than what he should ever have at all or more of her than even she could offer with honeyed words or soft touches.

So, he only watches her rest. In the gentle calm of daylight, she rolls against the grass in sleep, bares herself unknowingly when the sun warms her and her thighs are too warm to press against one another. And finally, he wills himself to turn away, to wander back to that dreary cabin that serves as a proper home, because as much as he wants, he does not deserve.

The days go on like this.

The haze of summer does not let up, and she’s made a home of a strawberry patch in a glade closer to the cabin than she’s ever been before. He watches her bask amongst the bushes, lying on her belly while the sun beats down against her hide, kisses over her shoulders with a yellowish glow that only makes her look as sweet as warmed honey, a bonfire, lovely as the fruit she steals.

Nothing changes in her even when he does bring himself to detach from the shade of the pine, force himself into the light for the birds and tiny humming bees to see. She tilts her head back, flicks her tail and smiles like she’s known he’s been there all along. Known the loneliness and tastes it on her teeth to spit it back out in refusal, but she hasn’t— not like he has, because she’s the one who speaks first.

“Are you going to eat me?,” she asks when she’s risen to her feet. His little fox does not hide herself from him; her tail sways lazily behind her, each dip and curve displayed so openly that he wonders if she sees him as a threat at all, or then, maybe the danger coaxes up an unseen heat within her.

He shakes his head stiffly, ears pressed back to his skull.

The world itself must have played some horrible joke upon him now, because all thoughts of what he wanted to say filter out into a plume of smoke. It’s maddening, how he wants to tell her he would like nothing more than to drag her back into his cabin and lick honey from her mouth, yet all that comes out is a brittle, “The strawberries are not ripe yet.”

She laughs at him, not cruel, but it still feels like teeth tearing into his throat. All hope isn’t lost, though, because even through her laughter her gaze is fond and sweet. Perhaps she’s seen him time and time again, too. It isn’t easy to hide when you’re as large and difficult to settle as König.

The fox beckons him closer with a curl of her fingers and a strawberry between her teeth. She drapes an arm over his neck to tug him down to her level and kisses him there, with the berry crushed between their mouths. Bitter as expected, but not a single complaint billows up in his mind.

This sweet fairy does not know what she’s done with that shared bite, how his mind goes doughy and sap sticky when the fruit dissipates between them and his mouth finds her own.

He wonders if she does this often, seduces larger beasts to toy with and steal from to continue her reckless romping through the forest, drift off further to the mountains and the sea, endlessly searching for the very thing he’s already found with her. It does not escape him how tightly he keeps her in his hold then, nails leaving indentations in her waist as he brings her as closely as he can, licks into her mouth until she shivers.

He would bring her flowers and honeycomb, carve little idols of her from every tree she loves if she would just—

“Will you be my mate?,” he asks, abrupt, face heating up to his very ears as he finally lets her go. A croak, a shameful one that leaves him wanting to scurry off like a rabbit, but she’s already heard it all and stares up at him with a look part doleful, part adoring. The poor thing doesn’t even know him, doesn’t know that he’s already contemplated clearing out the fox dens in the forest and chasing out the wolves to make sure that she was his alone.

If she tossed him into the river now he wouldn’t dare blame her, he would only take it out on the stupid salmon with their glistening tails, and maybe if he brought her back a treasure made of fish bone and scale he could change her mind.

But she only kisses him again, lingers right on his cheek like something a proper lover would do, before telling him that she’s grateful he’s never come to harm her, that he didn’t mind sharing his fruit on those too-hot days when she didn’t feel roused enough to hunt down the mice and the bunnies, and she even appreciated his kiss: something she tells him that had made her feel like nothing else in her life. All of the very things he’s only imagined her saying in that sweet voice she uses to whisper to the pretty flowers and the bright red cardinals tweeting back to her.

He’s never been sweet, but he believes it when she tells him that he is when they’re lying side by side in the cabin later. There’s a bruise on his shoulder the shape of her teeth and one to match of his own making on her thigh. He can’t keep himself from curling his hand around her there, thumb brushing over that purple mark he’s left as he buries his face into her shoulder and catches magnolia in her scent.

“I really like you,” she admits quietly as the night air begins to chill the sweat on their bodies, as she guides his hand up to press a kiss to his fingertips. As if she had no idea just how badly he longed to ruin anything else she’s ever said that to, set the forest ablaze and lie and laugh with her in the ash.

“I love you,” he says in turn, damning himself further as he always did to a somber oblivion. Only, this one doesn’t leave. Not even when his hand pries from her mouth to take hold of her breast and his teeth graze her skin. Her face is warm, eyes misty, like she’s just been given the most hearty helping of something delicious amidst pure famine.

She doesn’t laugh at his confession, doesn’t bat his face away from her nipple, only suggests that they bathe beneath the moon. He can not fault her for not reciting the words; this bout has only made him further intent on pulling her in to keep. He convinces himself that all it would take is time, or a rougher fuck, something. He’s never been too patient, either.

The fox curls into his lap as the water reaches them, head thrown back where she sits, impaled and ecstatic while his fingers drift to her hips, head pressed to her chest where he tells her that she has more than paid him back for what she’s stolen.

She didn’t need to lie or let him sully her out of pity anymore. Testing and prying in his own way, even as he whispers that confession to her again and again, against her clavicle and up to her neck with every languid roll of her hips.

The truth spills from her mouth like rain when she comes undone, a soft sentiment that pulls him below a warm tide, drowned out and washed away only by the words she speaks then and the way her body wraps so snug around him.

She tells him that she wishes to stay like this… for as long as she possibly can.

He carries her home like a princess from some storybook, lies her in his bed and pulls her close with a grip so tight that she whines about it being too hot— that his warmth is almost smothering, but still melts beneath him when his lips find her own again. Breaking away from her feels worse than those hangdog days he had only spent watching her from afar, longing for the things that she had only now allowed for him to feel.

But König swears to her then when her eyes lock to his and her tail begins that gentle swaying again, that no matter what she will be here forever. He’ll make sure of it.

#könig x reader #tw: hybrid

[captainpondlilly]

Okay! The Gilear plush has arrived. This is my best attempt at all of his lines. Two have been unintelligible to me, and several are pretty long and fast which made it hard to follow.

My search history is.. hospitals near me, foot stuck in object, head stuck in object

You're low, he's low, It's Gilear's day baby!*

A guy on the street kicked me in the nuts as hard he could

I don't like "lunchlad"

Help me to understand what I have done to deserve this

My horoscope says "today is a good day to die motherfucker"

I ate a quick cup of yogurt on the way over here to bolster my spirits after I changed, I'm ever so sorry

What do you mean "When" life gives you lemons

I went to apply for the guidance counselor position but I was usurped by a drug dealing werewolf named Jawbone

In my haste to put the armor on I buckled the leg plate and think I clipped the tip of my penis against one of the leg plates and Everytime I move it feels like it might fall off so I ASSURE you demon I have no pride to speak of!

In highschool I was voted "Most Likely To Get Pushed Out Of A Tree"

My car was repossessed by the ride share app that I was working for

It's actually a good thing that no one came to my birthday party because the bounce house flooded and was swept out to sea

I just discovered that *all* of my emails have been going to everyone's spam

Unfortunately I have been banned from that hot air balloon service not because of anything that happened to me in particular but the guys who run it just sort of know my whole deal

Mmm this yogurt tastes like *potatoes*

I asked the woman at Home Depot why my plants kept dying and she said it seemed like they were reaching away from the sun

I've found out recently that one of my shoes is so filled with mildew because a pipe in my bedroom is leaking and I've developed a fungal infection in my foot which I didn't know was possible for elves to get

I don't think that I've ever "Peaked" in that we started neutral and have been going downhill ever since

I am currently trapped in a storm drain. The bottom half of me is above the ground, the other is below

Another Own Goal for Gilear Faeth, yes

Everyone knows you eat 7 spiders in your sleep every year, but I have a bunch coming into me the backway

My sandcastle I'm afraid was destroyed, as I was about to finish it, the tide came in and with it a man holding a bazooka who shot me and killed me

I know you're not going to believe this but Ive just been kicked by a snake

I found out the hard way that people can legally reject status as an emergency contact

The title of my autobiography is going to be Gilear Faeth: Please Stop

On my way here I was carrying a large bowl of Italian wedding soup which shattered on the ground in front of me and several of the small pasta balls rolled through the cracks and alerted vermin to my presence. I've since learned after a trip to the hospital I am deathly allergic to the sting of millipedes which is a way of me saying I need someone to come down to the hospital and pay for this. There is a doctor holding a gun to my head and now that I think about it this clinic is in the back of a storage unit and I think have gone to the wrong place

he said and I quote "he'd stomp my goon ass" if I ever got on his bus again

Gorthalax it was very nice to meet you, you've made a cuckold of me

We're the throw up boys!*

I've been informed that the brownies I consumed were laced with cannabis and rat poison

I am completely unprepared for the perils ahead and am deeply frightened, I'll go get the coffee

A gorilla monster punched me so hard in the back of the head I died

Today I have been hit by 3 scooters

Everytime you squeeze my hand it breaks several small bones

My imaginary friend as a child ghosted me because he said I was too depressing

Do you want me to go back? I warn you, it will break me

Can I interest you in an herbal soda? You must understand I am an intern at a ponzi scheme*

When I go to sleep at night I dream of a world where I might be able to walk through a field without stepping on a rake or gopher hole

If anyone needs me... I will be surprised.

If it wasn't for bad luck, Id have no luck is both true and what was written upon the billboard I crashed through

I wonder if any of these will feature in Junior year 👀

*Thanks to @cappa-cappa for telling me the lines I wasn't able to make out!!

#d20 #dimension 20 #naddpod #bahumia #brian murphy #emily axford #brennan lee mulligan #gilear faeth #siobhan thompson #lou wilson #ally beardsley #dropout #spire #fantasy high #fantasy high freshman year #fantasy high sophomore year #fantasy high junior year

[sashi-ya]

𝑨 𝑫𝑨𝑻𝑬 𝑶𝑭 𝑷𝑰𝑵𝑲 𝑩𝑶𝑾 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑺 DADDY! AIZEN X F! READER ☆ PUBLIC, SIZE KINK, CREAM PIE.

🦢 tagging: @stygianoir @cyberdazetragedy 🎀 tw: reader is an adult, ffs. public sex. size kink. daddy! kink. cream pie. 💟 wc: 1.1k

“(Name)-san… wear the skirt I bought you the other day, please” “Yes, Aizen-sama”

Sosuke happened to have a free day once in a while, and even if you didn’t ask for it, he offered you a walk in the park that afternoon. You acceded immediately, having outside time with your dom had been one of your most awaited things this month.

Of course, as always, dates had rules. And rules should be followed, specially if those are given by Aizen-sama himself. Wearing “appropriate” clothing during winter time was a must, but the little skirt he bought you could only lend you to freeze your thighs and legs. But who were you to say no to his “special” request?

The pleated skirt, that could barely reach a few centimetres of your thighs, looked precious on you. Sosuke has, to you, wonderful styling skills…

“Tie your hair with this, do you like it?” he said, looking at you up to down and then giving you a little box in your hands.

You quickly answered yes, even if the contents of such box were still unknown to you. Soon, you discovered a beautiful soft pink bow inside that complimented the whole outfit amazingly well.

“Thank you, Aizen-sama! This is beautiful! Can you please put it on my hair for me?” you asked, trying to muffle the excitement.

He smirked, and with a soft “hm” he indicated to turn around. Aizen’s skilful hands, that had been inside and all of you so many times, took no time to fix the bow into your hair.

And soon, both left the house where you live under all of his rules. The park wasn’t very far and a beautiful scenery ahead waited for you. The sky had no clouds, and all around seemed blessed by a beautiful sunny winter day… you know, those days that are cold, but you can still feel the sun kissing your skin with that warm relief.

Fortunately, there wasn’t many people around, as kids were at school and most people in their jobs…

“Aren’t the swans pretty?” Sosuke said, watching you eat a candied apple he bought you just a few minutes ago.

“They are, Aizen-sama. The sun reflects in their white feathers so beautifully” you answered getting your lips stained in sugary crunchy coating.

He scoffed sweetly, cleaning the commissure of your lips. He took that same finger to his own lips, tasting the rests of caramel on them.

The image makes your legs a little weak, and your panties probably wet.

Speechless, you offered him a bite of your apple, watching with absolute devotion the way he accepted it.

“Why don’t we sit on that bench to eat and watch the swans?” he commands, pointing at a secluded seat surrounded by trees and right next to the pond.

You nodded, looking at the bite he just took of your fruit and followed him. And, as you sat next to him, the cold breeze coming from the pond cripped under your skirt and into your bones. It caused you to shiver a little, enough for Sosuke to notice…

“Are you cold?” he asked, placing his warm big hand on your right thigh. “A little…” you confessed, embarrassed and guilty. After all he asked you to wear that skirt.

“Come here”

He pulled you, with absolutely no effort, to sit on his lap facing the lake. His arms, big enough to surround you, did by your waist. Your legs fall hanging in between his and your back softly landed on his chest.

Aizen placed his chin on the crook of your neck after moving your hair to the side. His strong presence, the hot breath reaching your skin and his lips so painfully closer to your neck… it’s a park, Aizen-sama… what do you want from me?

“Can you give me a little bit more of your apple, (Name)-san?” he asked, with that tone that’s both sublime and secretly mischievous.

“S-sure, Aizen-sama” you quickly answered back, with trembling voice and the sensation of something growing harder underneath you.

You swallowed looking at him give yet another bite so close to you. You swallowed again when he got even more comfortable with you over his lap, with his erection pressing against your femineity so hard and imposing…

“Ai-Aizen-sama?” you murmured, by now the bouncing motion of his legs were making his hardness get more and more swallowed by your labia, even on top of clothing layers.

“Why don’t you call me daddy from now on, my sweet one? I am sorry you are cold, but you look just like a precious doll to me this way… I promise to buy you some hot cocoa after” he whispered, criminally sexy and with a power that left you breathless and lightheaded.

Sosuke’s hands pressed your lower belly in and down, very strongly against his crotch. A pressure that caused a soft whimper to come out of your lips, and your legs wanting to close.

“Da-daddy? I… you-?” you didn’t know how to ask… he wanted for you to hump? Or he wanted something else? There, in public?

He could only scoff, putting you back on the ground and quickly freeing his sex in a very discrete way. As soon as he was ready, Aizen snatched you back to sit on top of his sex.

“Shh… doll, you be quiet. Daddy wants to fuck you and get you warm from the inside out” he whispered, already moving your panties to the side with great expertise for your core to feel the hot pulsating shaft of his against it.

You widen your eyes… he definitely wanted this And you are absolutely nobody to say no to daddy’s orders, aren’t you?

Fast enough you humped a few times until his sex slid inside of your spasming walls. You engulfed him, as always so tightly, so excitedly.

The cold had abandoned your body, and the heat coming from your lower belly reached your cheekbones turning them on fire.

“You need to be discreet when jumping on daddy’s dick, ok? We don’t want the rest to notice… right? Or do you want them to see you be a little slut, mh?”

“I am your little slut, daddy Aizen… it’s ok if the see” you purred, with your hands placed on his thighs to balance yourself.

Your hips went back and forth, and sometimes you even bounced on top of him as he made you jump with his legs. The cold filtering from underneath your skirt could only play with the warmth of his and your juices, giving you both an extra pleasing kick. However, nothing compared to both the shame of being fucked so publicly,  and still how lucky you were of being fucked by no other than him… Aizen Sosuke.

Your hasty breathing became even more agitated as you were about to reach climax that Sosuke had to cover your mouth knowing very well the end of your trembling body on top of his.

“Come for daddy, (Name)-san…” he whispered, with his hand on your lips and his fingernails buried on your cheeks.

You nodded with the little will you were left with and let him finish the work with thrusts as he stood up just a little with you trapped by his arm around your waist.

One, two, three more. Tears on the corner of your eyes, trembling lips and shivering limbs, feeling soon very, very stuffed… with hot release, fully inside your womb, flooding every corner, deep, deeper.

“Keep it all inside, my sweet doll… this will keep you very, very warm until we get home”

“Yes, Daddy Aizen. Thank you ~”

#aizen sōsuke #aizen x reader #aizen sousuke #aizen sosuke x reader #sosuke aizen #aizen bleach #bleach x reader #bleach #bleach anime #bleach x reader fanfic #bleach fanfic #muken aizen #sashi ya #aizen smut #mdni

[headspace-hotel]

Minecraft Tips

or, a list of things about Minecraft that took me forever to figure out, that might not be obvious to new players, or that I just found helpful

Equal parts gravel and dirt can be crafted into coarse dirt, and using a hoe on coarse dirt changes it to normal dirt, so you can effectively change gravel into dirt if you have at least 2 dirt blocks with you

I know the game technically teaches you this BUT: you can cure zombie villagers by hitting them with a splash weakness potion and then feeding them a golden apple. This is an easy way to populate a village you built yourself, I've done it in all my survival worlds. The easiest way to protect newly potioned and appled villagers is to dig a long trench, get the zombie villager to chase you, circle the pit until the villager falls in, and cover the pit so no mobs attack the zombie villager when it changes into a villager.

Killing fish is a pretty good way to get bones. I don't need a skeleton farm because automatic fish farms are probably among the easiest automatic farms to build

drinking milk stops status effects

Tiny slimes can't damage you. You can keep them as pets.

The fastest transportation method is, for some reason, a boat on blue ice. Many horses are faster than powered rails.

Suspicious stew can be crafted, even though it's not part of the creative inventory or recipe book, using the normal recipe for mushroom stew+one flower. Allium gives a couple seconds of fire resistance, poppy gives night vision, cornflower gives jump boost, blue orchids or dandelions give saturation, and oxeye daisy gives regeneration.

A lot of wooden items—fences, doors, bows, fishing poles, and so on—can be used as fuel in furnaces. It's not efficient but it's a good way to get rid of excess items

Sneak to add blocks to the side of a furnace or chest directly. Do y'all have any idea how long this took me to figure it out. (This is also how you add a hopper to a chest.)

gold or iron armor can be melted down into gold and iron nuggets

The fortune enchantment affects sapling drops from trees and crop harvests.

Early in game, smelting copper into ingots is one of the best ways to get XP fast.

Fishing odds are slightly better when it's raining.

When you first get a full set of diamond armor your first instinct may be to wear it on a quest into the Nether. Don't. Take a couple stacks each of gravel/sand and any stone and run repeated suicide missions until you've made a stone shelter around your portal and paths across surrounding lava lakes.

More nether navigation tricks: drop columns of gravel down precipices in the Nether and then add cobblestone to the side of the gravel columns to build stairs from the top down

If your nether portal goes out while you're in the Nether, a Ghast fireball hitting the inside of the frame will relight it. But please don't get caught in the Nether without flint and steel

Lava breaks your fall much like water does, and you can't drown in it, though it's very hard to move in. Fire resistance potions will let you exploit both of these things.

Fill a basalt delta with three- or four-block-high towers of whatever block you like, two blocks apart, in staggered rows. Occasionally place a block on the side of the towers' top blocks. This won't stop magma cubes from spawning, but it will stop the large ones from moving effectively.

Using silk touch to grab the red and blue "turf" layers in Nether forests lets you farm both kinds of giant nether fungi by bone-mealing mushrooms, though the turf colors and mushroom colors have to match up. The growth is unaffected by obstructions above and the fungus "foliage" blocks never decay like leaves do. I have no idea who thought that was a good idea. BUT doing this repeatedly will eventually completely obstruct the "sky", protecting you from Ghasts

Nether fortresses and bastions are found along a "grid" pattern, so when you find one nether fortress you can travel in a straight line to find another fortress or bastion. Villages do the same thing, except when they don't. (Really, how villages spawn is a total mystery to me.)

Bonemealing moss will straight up convert surrounding stone into moss. I have no idea why. Since bone meal can be automated using a dropper iirc, this seems like it could lead to some weird redstone contraptions.

Horses can survive falls that would seriously damage a player.

Animals can and will climb ladders. I don't know why. But if you push a sheep or cow toward a ladder, they will often automatically ascend it. I've used this fact for automatic farms before.

You can name literally anything using an anvil, even if you can't repair or enchant it

Soul sand placed underwater creates bubble columns that shoot you upward. Magma blocks create bubble columns that pull you down. You can breathe in the bubble columns.

Night vision potions, if you've never used one, will also let you see the ocean floor.

A water source block in an "ocean" biome will spawn ocean animals, whether there is room for them there or not. If you change a section of ocean into a one-block-deep pond, you'll still get fish in there

you probably won't like this one but. keep a notebook with the coordinates of important spots it is SO HELPFUL

I'll add more when I think of them. please note that I play bedrock and some of these might not work in java

#minecraft #mineblr

[unicyclehippo]

touch

‘you know i’m like this all the way down, don’t you? it isn’t - it isn’t an act, i do laugh it off sometimes dear, it can be terribly funny but. i am like this. forever. and it’s—could you—do you think you might be able to withstand that for a long time? i should like to be with you for a long time but it would depend on - on when you get exhausted, you see, because i must live with this or - ha - not live with, i suppose, but survive, contend, with this for however long i shall live but you, well.’ laudna’s twists her face into graceful acceptance. soft, understanding, hardly sad at all. it’s very easy to do, once you have the trick of it. ‘you needn’t. deal with this. the bark and the hair and the nails. the popping joints. the ichor, the aches, the smell, the stares, the rot.’ the word drops between them, gross, embarrassing, like she’d spat by accident. her teeth are hatesharp in her mouth. ‘the teeth,’ she adds.

imogen looks up from the book she studies with such careful, wonderful intent. so smart. she quirks a brow, amused. ‘i know what you are, laud. you forget we’ve been travellin’ together awhile now?’

‘no, no.’ her stomach twists, her hands twist, knot, roots. so is she, rooted in place. ‘i know, dear, i only mean to remind you—should you need a moment to yourself, or, or should something in particular sicken you—‘

‘laudna.’

she sinks low. imogen isn’t listening. of course not. she is kind. she lo-hmm. yes, well, laudna can surmise imogen likely loves her. which is, well, lovely! but they haven’t been in love for very long and laudna has never done it before, romance, love, but she knows herself. how she clings to things. she knows herself. love to her is like…tar. sticky and black, bubbling and pouring up and up around their ankles their calves their knees her beautiful knees. if imogen doesn’t know that now then gods help her, what if she drowns her—them—in it? and she would, imogen would stay with her she would be pleased by it, even, because she loves her, but there is something wrong with it. impossible to know if it has always been this or if it’s all the death and the accessories she’s obtained through it—lady d, trauma, blah blah blah—but she thinks she has a capacity for love like a pyre, grease-fire and rising choking smoke; like a hungry dog, snapbite shut around the hand outstretched. and she knows what she wants for imogen, the kind of love she deserves, and how far it is from what she has to offer.

‘what are you afraid of, honey?’

laudna nibbles at her bottom lip. she takes up the bone she has been carving and turns it between her fingers, not wanting to see the moment imogen sees her, maskless, exposed.

‘i want to hold you until we both die,’ laudna says, sad and sweet. ‘i want to lay down in a grave with you side by side and i shall never move again and every worm that comes to eat us up will be little versions of us, because they’ve fed on us, and they will be in love and they’ll feed all the farms and chickens and we’ll be a thousand souls in love. i want to open up your scars and see what is under your skin, what your magic does under there. i want,’ she says, and folds her elbows close to her rotten chest, folds herself small, words small, so not a page stirs, not another soul could be stirred by what she admits. ‘i want to taste it. i want to grow into a tree and grow around you like armour like a second skin so you are always safe and maybe grow taproots, grow into you. through you. i want you as part of me forever. i want to touch you, i want to always be touching you, i want you to never be able to move without feeling me beside you, i want you to crack me open and see how vile it is inside of me and plunge in neck deep and when you struggle to get out, i want to hold on.’ she pauses. ‘i want to dislocate my jaw.’

imogen sits very still. her eyes very dark. she lets out a slow breath, pink tongue flicking out to wet her lips. ‘what-‘ she clears her throat. ‘what does that last one have to do with me?’

‘it doesn’t really. but. i’ll always be quite horrible to be around and i want you to be with me anyway.’

#prompt fill #tagging my stories #imodna my beloveds #um gay people & the things they say to seduce one another i guess #lowkey like body horror elements I guess idk just typical laudna stuff