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halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights.

—

There’s blood on your hands again.

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

Howls.

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

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

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

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

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

It never works.

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

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who had you killed this time?

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

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

“Get the dogs on it!”

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

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

The hounds are afraid of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re going to make it hurt.

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

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

Death would be better than this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something…off.

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

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

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

It could never be easy, could it?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing you do is vomit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight.

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship.

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

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?”

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

The blood and the bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had he talked to you?

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

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

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

—

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

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

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just blink, mouth slightly open.

“Where…am I?”

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

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

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

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

They’d been re-applied recently, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The furs are warm.

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

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

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

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

There are runes written on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly.

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

Why were you still alive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

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

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

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long nothingness ensues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

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

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

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

No livestock.

No bodies.

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

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

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

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

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

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

Comparable things, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money?” You frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The full moon was tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…that was his job, wasn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question makes you double-take.

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

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

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

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

“I kept sheep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hands had been kind to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

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

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

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

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks.

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

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?”

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

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them.

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

Your eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m waiting.

Find me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says.

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

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

There is companionship in broken things.

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

Find me.

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

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

A white beast prowls the forest.

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

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

Find me.

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

I’m waiting.

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

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

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

Gunpowder.

Leather.

Whiskey.

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

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

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

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

You were being summoned.

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

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

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

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

Like pure white spikes.

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

I’ll find you.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain would wash away the tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tracks end here.

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

A low snarl sets his hair on end.

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

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

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost watches, and he waits.

He can’t do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t get a good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eyes that lock on him are not yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down.

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

He can see the conflict; the internal fight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Gunpowder.

“What did I—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

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

“Better, Little Wolf?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t like you could protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dotster001 · 1 year

Text

For Tuna; Snack Break

Summary: A series of vignettes taking place while Grim is making his final choice. The time will soon arrive....

Part One Part Two Choose your ending....

"I have detention everyday for three weeks," Grim pouted as you gave him his tuna pancake breakfast.

"What did you do this time?"

"I-" he cut himself off, his eyes nervously flicking to yours, then back to his plate.

"Crowley's an ass that's why. No other reasons, don't dig into it henchhuman."

"Am I going to get a bill for it?"

"No."

"Then I don't have the energy to care," you said with a sigh, thinking of all the maintenance you had to do on Ramshackle today.

Grim looked at the time, shoved what was left of his pancake into his mouth, then scampered out the door, passing Ruggie on his way out.

"Hey Y/N, I found a tool kit, ready to do some fixing?"

You nodded, ready to renovate Ramshackle with your favorite hyena for a couple hours.

….

Grim stepped into the mirror chamber, and made sure to use his toe beans as much as possible. He silently made his way to the headmage's mirror. He had almost made it when he was scooped up, and squeezed firmly in a pair of strong arms.

"Thought you could hide from me forever, didn't you sealio?" Floyd said in a growl.

He brought Grim up to face level, a nasty scowl on his face.

"Let's see if this jogs your memory. I gave you a month's worth of free lobsters. In exchange, you promised I would make it through to the second wave of interviews. Starting to sound familiar?"

Grim quickly nodded.

"Cool, then why did I have to find out from Jade I wasn't chosen to participate, and Azul was?"

Grim whimpered.

"I warned you, right? People who cross my family have a tendency to disappear. It won't be today, it won't be tomorrow, but watch your back, cause one day I'll have Y/N, and you'll-"

"Mister Leech. Unless you want to join Grim in detention, please let him go," Crowley said, crossing his arms in a pout.

"Sounds boring," Floyd pouted, dropping Grim like a hot iron. Unfortunately for Riddle, he happened to choose that moment to step through the Heartslaybul portal.

"Oh! Goldfishie! Let's play tag!"

And now Floyd was running after Riddle, who was practically begging the headmage to save him.

But the headmage conveniently couldn't hear as he escorted Grim to detention.

….

"Idia-"

"Shit! How did you get in here?" Idia screamed at Silver who was patiently sitting on his bed waiting for him.

"I let him in!" Ortho said excitedly. "It is better for your mental health to have friends!"

Idia fought back a glare, before pulling out his iPad, and hastily typing.

"Why are you here?"

"My father said you could answer a question I had. What is "babygirl"?"

Idia stared at Silver for a moment as the tips of his hair slightly flickered pink.

"Damn. I have to choose between the otaku urge to participate in an irl otome cut scene, and my love of Y/N, the greatest character to ever spawn in my save file."

He chewed his lip, and Silver continued sitting patiently.

"Fuck it, this is too epic to pass up. Babygirl means Y/N thinks you're just a little guy."

"I still don't understand."

Idia groaned.

"Um, okay, so Y/N thinks you're a total cutie and would be happy to have you on their arm as a trophy husband."

Silver's cheeks turned a light pink.

"Oh…"

"Like, they prob. think you're submissive and-"

"Babygirl is like a princess! You're Y/N's princess!" Ortho cut in excitedly.

"I'm Y/N's princess…" Silver whispered, a slight smile on his face.

"Not exactly! It means Y/N wouldn't mind if you were their princess. Nothing is set in stone. I have a lot of bbg's, but I wouldn't necessarily settle down with any of them."

"I like the idea of being Y/N's princess…"

"Damn it, why am I rooting for this? It's too cute!" Idia groaned.

"Hee hee, big brother also wants to be Y/N's princess…"

Idia's hair turned a bright red and he went catatonic.

….

"So that's why you booked out the kitchen this morning."

Ace stiffened, and turned from the Ramshackle door to "greet" Trey. He was startled to see Trey holding a tart.

"I had the kitchen all morning! When did you make that?" Ace asked in horror and despair.

Trey shrugged. "I always have a spare tart lying around, in case we have company. What's under the tin?" He nodded towards the dessert tin Ace was holding.

"My masterpiece," Ace grinned. The grin quickly fell. "Wait! Why are you here? You stole my idea!"

"The idea to bring food to a hungry prefect at lunchtime? While it's such an original idea for you to have, I didn't steal it from you," Trey sighed in irritation, attempting to step around Ace to the door. Ace blocked him.

"No. I was here first. I get to give Y/N treats."

"Ace, I beg you to reconsider."

"No!" Ace got in a defensive position that he used when playing basketball, then swatted the tart out of Trey's hands.

"What the hell!"

"There. I'm the only one with treats. As the Seven intended." Ace turned the door knob, but Trey started shoving him, and reaching for the door knob himself.

"I tried to be nice, but you've completely blown it."

"It's not nice to steal someone's idea!"

"It is literally 12:30. Everyone is eating right now. It's not an original idea!"

In the midst of the shoving back and forth, the door opened, revealing a very amused Ruggie.

"Shihihi, you both just saved me a trip."

He snatched the dessert tray and shut the door behind him. Both men froze in shock, and heard Ruggie yell,

"Y/N! I got us a treat!"

Ace elbowed Trey.

"Nice going, dumbass."

Trey raised an eyebrow and stared at Ace, who only at that moment remembered who he was talking to.

"I mean, that sucked, didn't it, Mister Vice Housewarden, sir?" He laughed nervously.

"Don't worry too much about it. I doodle suited it when he took it from you. Whatever it was will taste like sardines."

Trey walked away calmly as Ace stared in mixed awe and horror.

….

You and Kalim were walking to class together, when you noticed some scribbles on his hand.

"What's that?" You asked.

"Oh! It's a new thing I'm trying. You know how I'm trying to be more independent from Jamil, but I have a terrible memory? I'm just writing everything on my hand and arm!"

"Can you even read that? It looks all smudged!"

"Sure I can!" Kalim pulled up his sleeve, pointing to each word as he read aloud.

"Party, present, Grim, books, botany, secret, and snack."

"How is that helpful? What does any of that even mean?"

"Well party is, I'm throwing a party soon. Or I want to. Present and Grim, is because I want to give Grim a present at the party, because I heard he really likes presents. Books is so that I don't forget my textbooks, botany is because I have botany in an hour, and snack is because I'm hungry and might forget to eat!"

"Wow, okay, I guess that does help. But what is "secret" supposed to mean?"

"Oh! Right! Thanks for reminding me!" Kalim smiled happily. "There's something Jamil and I know that I'm not supposed to tell you."

"Oh?" Your curiosity definitely peaked. "And what aren't you supposed to tell me?"

"Let me double check," Kalim looked at his arm smudges, before gasping and laughing. "Nice try, it's a secret!" He said, pointing to secret on his arm.

You gave your best attempt at a flirty pout. "Couldn't you just tell me? I won't tell Jamil you told me. It can be our secret."

Kalim tilted his head thoughtfully, before nodding.

"Okay! So Grim has been-"

In moments, Jamil had body slammed Kalim to the ground.

"Kalim! I'm so sorry, I thought I saw an attacker."

"It's okay! It was an honest mistake,"Kalim smiled despite groaning in pain.

"We should go back to your room, just in case," Jamil said firmly, yanking Kalim to his feet, and away from you.

Jamil then turned to Kalim. "How many times do I have to explain this? You're lucky Grim is still even considering you, since you failed to show up to the interview. But you'll completely blow it if you tell Y/N! You'll never get another chance at Grim choosing you!"

"Right, I'm so sorry, I forgot," Kalim facepalmed. "Thanks for stopping me back there, Jamil."

"Anytime," Jamil smiled sweetly, "After all, I just want what's best for you."

….

Deep in the recesses of the Octavinelle Dorm, two random Octavinelle students are expressing their distaste…

"It's not fair! I'm Prince Rielle's first cousin! And Y/N's lab partner in Alchemy! We've actually gone on a date! Where does that cat monster get off not even considering me?"

"You think you got it bad?" The other student was tying his bow tie in the mirror, his anger evident on his face. "Y/N and I are in the newspaper club together. And I was about to ask them to be my significant other, when Grim showed up out of nowhere and told Y/N he "desperately needed their help with something." It's pathetic! The whole reason he chose us to sit in for those two other bachelors is because he knew how upset we were!"

"Absolutely disgusting. You know what?" The first student stood up. "The rat is in detention more often than not. He can't stop me from asking Y/N out!"

"Me too!" The other student stood up as well, before giving a flirty smirk to his roommate. "This is going to be our best anniversary yet."

"Agreed," they grabbed each other's hands and opened the door, both startled to see Jade standing there with an eerie smile.

"Excellent timing. You both need to work an emergency shift in the lounge."

"Damn it"

"Fuck."

….

"Monsieur Fuzzball! I have arrived with a new batch of conditioner specially formulated for your luxurious fur!"

"Much obliged," Grim smirked as he took the goodie bag from Rook.

"And I have Roi du posion and my financial statements, as requested," he handed Grim a manila envelope.

"Thanks, I'll let you know once I've looked over everybody's."

Grim moved to leave, but Rook picked him up by the scruff of his neck.

"I would like to make something clear though. I am le chasseur d'amour. I will hunt after the love of my life, whether I have your blessing or not," his eyes glittered with unbridled glee. "And should anyone stand in my way, I care not who they are. I shall act in a way that I see as fitting."

Grim's fur prickled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Rook laughed lightly. "Who's to say?"

He pressed a kiss to the top of Grim's head, then set him down.

"Sleep well, Monsieur Fuzzball!"

And with a flourish he left Grim alone.

….

Jack, Epel, and Deuce were on a run together. As they rounded a bend, they came up on Leona taking a nap.

"Housewarden," Jack greeted.

Leona opened a single eye, and groaned.

"You three look remarkably calm for people whose best friend is set to be betrothed soon."

All three of them stiffened.

Jack rubbed his hand on the back of his neck and looked off into the distance.

"Y/N doesn't care about money. Whoever Grim picks, I have no doubt that Y/N will turn down the relationship, unless they truly see a future with them, in which case, what will be will be."

Deuce bit his lip. "I'm not in the place for a relationship anyway…I want to get my degree and start my career before I try to support someone else."

"It's just dumb as hell, and Y/N's not gonna put up with it. And when it all comes to light, they'll turn to the only people who don't see them as an object to be purchased. An' I'll be there to scoop them into my arms and pick up the pieces," Epel said with a smirk.

Deuce and Jack stared at him.

"Oh please. You both were thinkin' it. I'm just the only one brave enough to say it!"

Leona smirked. "Well I hope that works out for you boys. Just know you won't even get the chance if I'm the one chosen. I know how to treat Y/N right."

He lounged back with a triumphant smile, and quickly fell back asleep, leaving the boys with torn expressions.

….

"Your majesty! It is always an honor for the queen of Pomefiore to pay us a visit. How many I be of service?" Azul asked Vil, who was gracefully seated in the chair across from his desk in the VIP room.

"I have already drawn up the contract, it just requires your signature," Vil hummed, pulling out a scroll that already had his signature on it.

"Simply put, I am asking you to step down from the running for Y/N's future husband, and to clear the way for my victory. You will notice," Vil pointed to a blank space in the contract, "the payment spot is blank. Upon completion of the contract you are able to fill in whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?"

"Money, product, fame, anything you can think of is yours."

Azul thoughtfully tapped his chin.

"I could have Vil Schoenheit as an unpaid spokesperson for my future restaurant chain for an undisclosed amount of time. The capital that would bring in would be unmatched."

Azul picked up the contract, and Vil smirked. Until Azul tore it into pieces.

"The name of the game is confidence, and insecurity is not a good look on you, my queen."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Vil snapped.

"You think I haven't noticed the fact that your hair is half a shade darker since that monster told you you might grow old?"

"You've misseen it, I assure you. My hair has always been this shade of blond," Vil hissed.

"It's very possible I have misseen," Azul pushed his glasses up his nose triumphantly, "but it would be impossible to "missee" the fact that we have had to up production on your facial moisturizer, because you are using it in higher quantities."

"I am not, I'm just stocking up!" Vil slammed the table as he stood.

"Let's face it, Schoenheit, I know what it looks like when someone has lost. One of us here has crumbled under the pressure, and I'll give you a hint. It's not me."

Vil glared at Azul heatedly, before turning on his heels and leaving the VIP room, slamming the door on his way out.

….

You had been reading a book on the couch, while Grim sorted through some papers. You were hoping, in your heart of hearts, that he was studying or doing his homework. Deep down, you knew that wasn't the case.

After some final rustling of papers, Grim said, "Alright, I've made my choice."

"For what?"

"Nothing, mwahahahahaha!"

"Then why are you-"

"No reason!" He shouted. Then below his breath you heard, "mwahahaha…"

You sighed heavily.

"Am I going to get a bill for it?"

"No."

"Then I don't care."

Below his breath, he released another, "mwahahaha…"

....

Tag list-@shytastemakerthing @stygianoir @leonia0 @lleoll @eccedentesiast-sapphic @supertmntgirl @cxsmicdustdreams @aethermostbeloved @krystalkiller25 @asmallbean3 @theneurodivergentdummy @candlewitch-cryptic @smilingfox22-blog @phantomgaming1920 @the-dumber-scaramouche @a-small-tyrant @noidonothavetimeforthis @bontensbabygirl

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #ruggie bucchi #twst grim #floyd leech #twst silver #idia shroud #ace trapolla #trey clover #kalim al asim #jamil viper #jade leech #rook hunt #jack howl #leona kingscholar #epel felmier #deuce spade #vil schoenheit #azul ashengrotto

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gingerylangylang1979 · 11 months

Photo

Gifs courtesy of @gentlesleaze

Carmy wants Sydney... carnally.

I’ve debated about what his epic face journey here meant for a year now and I’m without a doubt convinced he was seriously attracted to Sydney from the day they met. There is no other explanation. I mean, if somebody wants to try another explanation go for it, but um. Who looks at a new employee like this? Would he have looked at Marcus like this? Let’s be for real.

Why is he like this? It’s just too weird. He looks like he just saw a sexy angel (he did). Carmy is a bit odd but this is the weirdest he has ever acted. I mean it’s really stunning and I think just shows there was always something there with him for her. I don’t see how you can deny he is acting so extra. He can’t speak at first, he forgot he was expecting her because he is so surprised by her, he’s just staring, he can barely talk professionally, he forgets what UPS is, then he does this crazy shy double take. His voice is hella soft with her. He needed to look at her again, but it’s almost like he feels guilty. I could analyze these acting choices forever. It’s a really fascinating scene.

Carmy thinks Sydney is gorgeous. He thought so from the first time he saw her. Now, he kind of tucked away that info super quick. He’s a gentleman and he’s professional. She’s qualified, actually overqualified, of course he’s gonna hire her. But Carmy’s not a pervert so he’s not gonna hire her and sexually harass her. He’s gonna keep it chill. He’s surely worked with attractive women before. No biggie... right? He can keep it together. When Richie calls her sweetheart he checked him. See, it’s all good. No worries.

But he can’t stop staring. Carmy stares at Sydney often. He loves her face. There are times when what he is communicating could easily be communicated without being up in her face. But no, he is like as close to her face as he can be without being on it, examining from multiple angles as much as possible. He likes to turn to her. He likes to look up at her. He likes to look down at her. He likes to side-eye her. He appreciates art, beauty. Her face is that. She’s so precious to him. Notice how when we see her from his perspective she’s always extra glowy.

Anyways, I’m sorry when this man gets her the lovemaking is going to be so raw and passionate. I’m telling you. He wants this woman, in his bed, like Moonstruck style. He just isn’t fully aware, but he does think she’s absolutely beautiful. He probably also thinks there is no way she wants him.

This has to be fun for Jeremy to act. None of his Shameless romances had this kind of depth. This is an epic, super nuanced slow burn on a quality drama. He gets to be spicy, but sneaky, and unsure. And Ayo is so funny. They must be having a blast with this.

#carmy x sydney #chefs kiss

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weird-an · 3 months

Text

When Robin first met Steve, she thought he was all arrogance and confidence, thought he was bullshit.

She got to know him, looked behind the picture of King Steve, the fallen jock of Hawkins High. She likes Steve. Loves him like a brother sometimes.

She's surprised though that he's so oblivious sometimes. That guy dated half of the school, okay, all of them girls, even though she knows that Steve Harrington's virginity will forever be Tommy Hagan's greatest steal, but how can Steve be so blind?

Steve's face is flushed when he finds her after the last period, when they are supposed to spend the rainy afternoon on the couch, watching Disney movies or whatever.

"I think Billy is theatening me!" Steve says, eyes huge. Like always when he's talking about Billy. Which he does a lot. Most of the day.

Because they are rivals, he says.

Because he's got a big fat crush, Robin has inferred after the last "Billy Hargrove is disgusting" ramble Steve annoyed her with for two hours.

She suppresses a grin that wants to mix with a sigh which leads to a weird hiccup.

"What's going on?"

"He sent me notes today. This one says 'I'm watching you, pretty boy.'" Steve waves a piece of paper in front of her. Billy's handwriting is surprisingly neat.

That's not really a surprise. Billy stares at Steve as if he's an oasis in the desert. Steve stares at Billy like he's a cake and there's only one piece left.

There's her hiccup again.

" … and the other?" she asks. It's amusing, she has to admit. At the same time she wants to smush them together like the Barbie dolls she had played with as a child. She created epic love stories - lacking Ken the whole time, because a Barbie deserved another Barbie, not some boring ass dude.

Steve ruffles his hair. "It’s even worse. It says 'I'm waiting for you in the parking lot!'"

Robin snorts. That's it. She's glad Billy apparently had gotten around to the realization that it's not a rivalry but the exact opposite. Of course Billy Hargrove can't just say "I like you". That would be too easy.

"I think you're both idiots," she hiccups. Damn, that's getting out of hand.

Steve puts his hands in his hips. "What?" he asks.

"Go to the parking lot!" Robin points at the door.

"I don't wanna fight," Steve begins.

Robin can't stand this hiccup any longer.

"He doesn't want to fight - he wants to fuck," she almost yells.

Steve gapes at her.

"Maybe it's a joke," he manages.

"What if it isn't?" she asks.

Steve's moles drown in the pinkness of his cheeks.

"I… should go," he says. "Thanks, Robin."

"Welcome, dingus."

She shouldn’t follow him, but she still does, because he’s a bit of an idiot and she loves him. She wants to make sure, she isn’t wrong. She peeks around the corner. It's still raining a bit, more a drizzle than anything.

Billy is wearing his tightest pair of jeans. He's leaning against the Camaro, sucking on a cigarette. Pretending he isn't soaking wet. It's almost adorable.

"Harrington, I bet your lame ass still hasn't seen Terminator, " he says, stroking a wet curl out of his dace.

"You don't know that," Steve grumbles.

Billy tilts his head. His face flushes a bit, too. They are matching tones of pink.

"'M drivin'," Billy mumbles.

Steve grins. "I'm buying, then."

Billy nearly drops his cigarette.

"Cool," he says, face still red.

She watches them drive off, high-fiving a very confused Jonathan Byers who just happens to walk to his car.

Her hiccup is gone. Finally.

#steve he's threatening you with some hot and heavy action ruuuuuuun #robin is so done #harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #steve x billy #robin buckley & steve harrington

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chirpsythismorning · 1 year

Text

I just realized that in s5, instead of a parallel to Mike breaking down with Hopper and just doing that again, I want one with Mike and Jonathan.

Something interesting about Jonathan is that he tends to be pretty quiet in situations where literally everyone is being critical of Mike, notably in the scene at Hopper’s canon when he blurts out that he loves El. That whole scene everyone is ganging up on him, most notably Nancy, but the whole time Jonathan is just staring at Mike, deep in thought…

We also know he witnessed A LOT in s4 in regards to Will and just the whole truth of the situation might be closer to him then we realize. Like for example, even though we didn’t see Mike’s expression in the van scene after the painting reveal, with it being blurred from our view, Jonathan on the other hand did see it. He also was there for that and the monologue at SB where he basically just used Will’s words to try to save El. And so what does Jonathan think about that?…

While I know the expectation for a lot of fans is that Jonathan like hates Mike bc of him hurting Will as of the last year or so on a couple notable occasions (now El too presumably), I think there is still something complex about their relationship that would make for a pretty epic television.

Not saying the scene couldn’t start out with some clashing and stuff, bc I mean after all the literal same thing happens with Hopper and Mike in s2. The scene starts confrontational and emotional only for Mike to start sobbing and literally fall into Hopper’s arms for comfort. Even in the following scene he chooses to stay close to Hopper’s side, like it’s clear his outburst had less to do with Hopper ‘lying’ and more to do with all of his bottled emotions coming to head in that moment. And in the company of a man that he looks up to, who is basically seeing him at his lowest.

And I think Jonathan and him having a moment like this, in their own way, maybe related to El again like the talk with Hopper, but I think it ending with it being about Will and Mike breaking down again, maybe thinking Jonathan hates him and then turning it on himself like no one hates me more than I hate myself for how I feel. Or just him basically getting emotional over a similar situation to s2, but us basically getting the Will side of it this time, which would essentially re-contextualize the s2 scene as well.

Another reason I think this scene would be incredible honestly, is because Finn very clearly looks up to Charlie, with him literally following him around on set and you can just tell they have a very close bond that would make for incredible chemistry on screen as Jonathan just like Hopper (arguably even more so), is in this male position of someone that Mike looks up to, who also knows sides of him that quite frankly no one does, it has the ability to be a really emotional and gratifying moment.

Maybe Jonathan is being a little bit curt with Mike and it leads to an argument of some sort. Though it ends with something along the lines of Mike just breaking down and Jonathan comforting him like I never hated you Mike and him just holding him and them talking about their true feelings about the situation.

Mike’s never gonna get that sort of deep and emotional bond with his father, so it feels almost poetic that he’d have these moments with the two men in Will’s life who’ve also had a huge impact on Mike’s life as well and who he will be tethered to forever as family bc of his relationship with Will.

I need it and I need it yesterday.

#byler #stranger things

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derangedanomaly · 5 months

Note

So, I saw your writing and short stories. I love the way you write each character perspective of the reader so I wanted to ask. Can you do Dust, Nightmare, Error, Epic, Bill, Killer x Demon Slayer Reader (Like, in there au, they slay demons with a katana)

I'm glad you like my writing style pookie! ^^ (I'm sorry, I have no experience in writing Bill sans, so I didn't do him. Again, terribly sorry 😭😭 still hope you'll enjoy this nonetheless!)

NOT A DEMON...

(Dust, Nightmare, Error, Epic, Killer)

Nightmare:

After he found out that there's another Au, he just needed to see it..see how much havoc he can cause! Of course he immediately went there.

Though, he didn't expected this.

He was immediately jumped by a girl, holding a katana up to his throat, which... undeniably...made his knees turn into jelly... (Bro is actually into this freaky shit 😨)

He only awkwardly looked at you, a smirk evident on his face. "Hey...so... are you gonna point your pretty katana up to my throat like this forever...or you'll actually let go...?" Bitch was LYING. He didn't want you to let go. (SIR. Y'ALL JUST MET 😱)

Your glare hardened on him as you tighten your hold on your katana, not planning to move from him. (Damn..ya trynna start some shit? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

He chuckled at your unwillingness, and actually WRAPPED HIS TENTACLE around your katana. Your eyes widened, not really sure what his next move is going to be.

"What....what kind of demon are you?" You asked him, looking over his goopy body and slick tentacles. He became a little flustered from your stares, but didn't waver. "Demon? Heh... I've been called many things, awful things...but I wouldn't go as far as to call me a demon." He is a demon. 😐

You decided to interrogate him further, so you still sat, seated on his chest, a katana ready to end him anytime he would get out of line. (Which... let's be honest, really turned him on...)

You then began your special interrogation.

"What's your name?" "Nightmare. You?" ".....Y/n L/n...what about your... appearance? What's up with your tentacles?" He shoots you a flirtatious smirks. "Why? Interested..~?" You glared and pressed the katana to his neck more.. "Answer." He let out a shuddered sigh, almost as if trying to hold himself back... "I'm a skeleton. Not a demon, hun." It was finally then that he decided to free himself, using his tentacles to lift you up with ease. You questioned yourself why he didn't free himself earlier if he could very much do so without problems.

"Don't worry, Y/n. You'll see me much sooner then you can expect..."

Oh you knew. And next time he comes. You'll be prepared.

Killer:

Oh he was SO going to kill the others for this! He made a bet with the others recently, and he lost. Again. As a punishment, he had to capture someone from this brand new Au. Which Killer, didn't enjoy. He rather much liked killing them on the spot! But not kidnapping! He HATED this mission....

Killer walked through the dark hollow forest with a bored expression, looking around. As long as he kidnapped ONE person, the job's done. And that's all he wanted to get out of here.

As he passed a certain corner, he was immediately startled by a loud voice. A rather...sweet voice. He slowly turned around to be met with a... girl's eyes, looking frantically at him. In his eyes...she seemed.. nervous, holding a katana in a shakey hold.

Thinking you were quite attractive, he didn't see the harm in a little flirting. Besides...he can't come back without completing the mission...so who knows how long he'll be stuck here. (Also, it wouldn't be Killer if he didn't flirt with any being he saw as attractive. 💀)

"Well hello gorgeous~" You let out a little squeal at that and the katana in your hand almost slipping out. Which he found rather cute.

Truth be told, it was your first day as the demon slayer, you never actually encountered a demon head-on like this before. Which made you quite nervous...

Despite being very nervous, you eventually found your voice and spoke to him, trying to assert authority. "L-Listen here demon!" Which failed as you stuttered. Ugh.. "-We either fight to death! Or you leave! Right now..." Killer couldn't help but chuckle as he leaned against a tree right next to him, with you still holding your katana and standing in a battle pose.

"Fight to death? Sounds a bit gruesome to me.." he chuckled again, sending shivers down your spine. "How about we change it up to something more...poetic? I've always been the romantic type~ how about...we fight till death do us part! Yeah... that sounds better.."

Because Killer is a dumbo, he completely overlooked the part where you called him a demon. So he was surprised when you called him like that, again. "W-What are you?! Some perverted demon?!" Your cheeks flared up in red as you squealed. Killer only looked at you in confusion. "A demon?? Nah...I ain't a demon sweetheart, I'm a skeleton! But I can act like a demon if that'll get you going..." You couldn't help out the grin that was spreading on your cheeks as you turned your head a little to the side, to avoid looking at him.

Killer smirked and suddenly threw you over his shoulder, you yelped and wanted to take out your katana, only to see it in the snow not being able to reach it. Killer smirked and not so subtly peaked at your...form. ;)

"So.. where's your house eye candy? I'm gonna crash at yours tonight." You thought he'll immediately kidnap you? Nah...call it selfishness...but he just really wanted to enjoy this a little longer.

Error:

To say that Error was furious was an understatement. He was fuming.

Ink went ahead, and created another fucking Au. Great...more work for him to destroy the anomalies.

As Error went on a search about the Au, his eyes suddenly catched your folder...it was almost like it was calling out to him, shining even.. he leaned in closer, taking your folder out. Y/n. Heh...that seems like an interesting 'anomaly'...

Error went into your Au, beginning his work of destroying everything. That was until you tried to step in, he thought you'd be furious and try to put up a fight, but all you did was....gush about his strength...or his demeanor, his appearance..he was..........flustered.

He turned to you with big blush. Out.of.words. what was he even supposed to say?!

"Oh man...you have such a strong arms..." You complimented, making it harder for him to destroy your world. He was having a stupid smile on his face. It was actually really adorable! "O-Oh gEeez...." He let out a huff as he looked you up and down. (Ayo sir, you checking out? 🤨😘)

He grumbled, trying to compose himself, showing clear signs of embarrassment. "I'm the destroyer of Au's. I'm supposed to eliminate anomalies. And you're one of em." You couldn't help the mischievous grin spreading across your face. You have no idea why, but something about this guy just screamed, 'I'm not dangerous!'. You trusted your brain. So you decided to not attack him. Now that you got a good look at him, he seemed to have trouble sleeping...

"What's your name, Mr. Au destroyer?" You didn't miss the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, but chose to not comment on it. "....Error.." you smiled warmly at Error, pointing to your house. "You look like you're not doing so well... wanna come over my place and...rest up?" His face retorted to a frown suddenly, he stood up and made you come super close face-to-face with him, glaring at you.

"I'm not dumb..... you're not doing this out of kindness...no one is..WHY are you doing this???" you felt like bursting to laughter right then and there. Is this man serious? "I'm just offering you my hospitality, Error...is there a problem with my intentions?" His face blew up almost instantly, before landing you safely onto the ground.

"Great! My offer still stays...feel free to come...~" of course he'll come. How could he resist with you taunting him so much?

Dust:

This is the hundredth time that Dust asked for Nightmare to go visit this brand new Au. Nightmare knew. He knew from the start when he heard about the Au that Dust would be interested. After all......monster species and their Exp is his forte...

After Nightmare almost blew a fuse, he finally agreed to Dust's request. "Are you....sure you want...to go alone...?" Horror asked Dust, eating a raw meat while doing so. "Yeah. Don't worry H. Killer will keep you entertained." Dust laughed when he heard Horror's next words. "Ugh... I'd rather hang...out with...a caterpillar..." Dust couldn't help but agree with his words, leaving Horror in their shared room. (I LIVE FOR HORROR AND DUST BEING BEST FRIENDS 😍)

After going through the portal, he looked at his surroundings, making mental notes. He liked to visit each and every new Au like this before him and his team destroys it...it made him feel a little alive...like he wasn't completely lost. Yes, he mostly did this so the others could have an idea of the layout in the Au, and how many people there were and what kind of species they were...but...it sorta became a hobby of his now. He felt good when he explored something new! It reminded him of Papyrus....

He shook his head and took out his book. For every Au, he had its own special book. Every book was different for each Au. He sometimes even decorated the cover... (Would NOT let anyone know...He would actually die).

This specific book for this Au is brown like cork, and has a golden lining around it. He began making small notes, looking at the scenery. It was like something BRAND NEW. He never saw an Au that was SO different from the others! And from the looks of it...it didn't occured in the underground.

As Dust sat under a tree, writing notes, he didn't noticed a figure approaching, until it was right besides him.

"What are you doing..?" He flinched. "What the FUCK!?" You both then proceeded to stare at the other, both of your faces showing concern for the other... "Uhm... I feel as though we haven't started off on the right foot.... I'm Y/n L/n! And you...? Stranger...?" He blinked a few times before responding. "Oh, I'm Dust..." You let out a giggle at the silly name, as you look at his book.. "And can I ask what you're doing? Dust?"

After awhile of pestering Dust to let you in on what he was doing, he explained what he was doing. You were pretty impressed when you heard his work. "That's so cool! Hey, maybe I can help you?" Dust only looked at you with unfazed expression. "Help me how?" You giggle, earning yourself an embarrassed Dust, avoiding your pretty eyes that he seemed to get lost in. "I'll show you how everything in here works! After all, wouldn't you want to hear the thoughts of the citizen?" Dust thought about it for some time, until he eventually gave up. "Alright.." you cheered slightly, making him chuckle quietly. Why wouldn't he take you up on the offer? After all...he wanted to talk to you for as long as possible.

Epic:

Oh how did he get into this situation? This night, he snuck into Nightmare's mansion, to hang out with Cross, only to be found and chugged into a black room locked until the morning arrives...

"Oh come on, Nightmare dude!" He whined trying to force the door open. Nightmare only grimaced. "DON'T call me dude, Epic. Ever." Epic sighed after he heard Nightmare's steps walking further away. All he could do was wait. You'd think he can teleport, but nope! This room forbids you to use any form of magic...Nightmare really thought about everything when creating a punishment..

He only sighed more, and slumped down sitting on the ground, his back facing the door. He was getting pretty bored... Nightmare even took his printed out memes and his rubber chicken! What a crime! Truly a vile man...

After almost falling asleep, Epic heard weird noises...it was like some portal? He opened his eyes to be met with, truly an opened portal. It must've opened on its own...he observed it for awhile until deciding to come in.

When he opened his eyes. Again. He was met with a literal angel. Well, at least in his eyes. There you were, fighting against a big demon ruthlessly. As if it was nothing! Epic could only stare in adoration, still sitting on the ground. "Oh I wish I could describe this with that one meme...." But I don't have my meme privileges... He thought to himself, before fully focusing on you again.

He decided that, to make a good first impression on you, he'll get up and help you with your demon problem.

And he actually did! You had no idea who this man was, but you were grateful for him! He really kicked some butt!

After beating the demon, you looked to your side and faced the man that helped you... "Hey...thanks, man." Epic got a little smug and smirked. "You're welcome. What's your name brah?" You chuckle at his vocabulary as you both exchanged names.

"Well...see you around, Epic." You smiled teasingly, putting your hand on his shoulder before leaving him a flustered mess. He's definitely gonna see you around....you think that after this experience he'll just leave? Hell no! He'll visit for sure.. ;)

#sans undertale #sans x reader #undertale #undertale fandom #nightmare sans x reader #dust sans x reader #error sans x reader #killer sans x reader #epic sans x reader

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ayeforscotland · 11 days

Note

I'm not a super dedicated gamer these days, but I loved Kerbal Space Program (a game that was more a labour of love than a commercial project) and was super hyped for the much delayed KSP2. When I saw it was releasing as early access (years late) I worried for its hopes of ever seeing completion and held off buying, now after all the other shananigans the entire team have been let go in yet another mass lay-off in the gaming industry. I feel like, a few notable exceptions aside, the big-budget gaming sector has been failing to deliver real quality games for a long time now, with lower-budget indie games more often coming up with gold from much simpler foundations. It seems almost as though developers are being pushed to shoot for unachievably epic games and releasing buggy messes, or vast but hollow worlds when the publishers get impatient or the money runs out. Is there any grain of truth in my feeling that bankrollers' expectations for games is leading to more games failing to live up to the hype as projects spiral out of control and over budget? Would big studios benefit from learning from indie devs and aiming to really nail down a simpler scope but on a scale beyond what the indies can achieve?

Industry-wise there’s a couple of things at play. And apologies for the length of this.

During the pandemic, there was a shitload of investment into the gaming industry as everyone was at home and many started playing games for the first time, so venture capital firms piled money in.

They were looking for a return on their investment, not really aiming to cultivate long-term studio success.

This puts pressure on the studio to get the game out the door quickly. That month or two of QA before launch just becomes overhead while you have a product that could be selling right now.

Chance to earn even more money for shareholders and execs? Welcome to microtransaction hell.

So that’s one side of it, investors/shareholders/execs forcing decisions that make games worse.

Next bit is partly influenced by the shareholder side of things but also a huge cultural side too. Lots of studios complete a project and then layoff staff because the next game isn’t ready to start being developed yet OR layoff staff because they don’t want to pay them OR staff leave to go and do something else (often due to lack of pay, lack of promotion etc)

And what this leads to is a *massive* corporate knowledge gap. People take their skills and knowledge and create voids. Voids that need to be filled by senior staff, which is why big AAA studios are always hiring seniors, and rarely hiring juniors. So all the seniors job-hop from studio to studio and there’s no new skill set being cultivated by new industry talent.

In my experience, these huge studios are also incredibly siloed. It’s something that impacts most industries, siloed teams lead to sluggish development and decision-making.

I think the games industry walks an incredibly fine line between being a creative endeavour and being a tech business. Process management methodologies honestly seem quite alien to the games industry, most of the time to its detriment.

It honestly wouldn’t be that hard to implement but Production as a discipline within games seems to be relegated to ‘staring at JIRA’ particularly in larger studios.

Could write forever about this to be honest.

Worth saying that indie studios also have their own issues. Almost everything is a scramble, and the search for publisher funding is a nightmare.

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snowy-vee · 1 month

Text

I SEE YOU

n/a: Just a draft, posting drafts, a short one <333 cute one. There won't be second part, just posting thingys.

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The bright lights hit your eyes making you brush them and get up slowly, gathering your things. The movie was amazing, you’ve watched it multiple of times but it was Ellie’s first time watching it and sice the local Cinema was putting it again you decided to take her and she loved it.

“How could I lived this long without watching that masterpiece? It was amazing!” She said with excitement grabbing your hand as you two left the place, you laughed looking at her big smile. You nod swaying your hand.

“I told you it was a great movie”

“Yeah but you were drooling when you talked about this Jake Sully, now I understand the hype, I mean betraying your whole race just to save a whole tribe and in the name of love? That’s passion right there”

“Hey! I didn’t said anything when you where impressed by Trudy ¿What was your favorite part?” You asked taking a sip of your drink before throwing it in the closest trash bin, It was mostly melted ice than soda by then.

“The fights, maybe? They were epic, also the last scene where they make us think he’s dead but Eywa saves him, I was going to cry, honestly”

You agreed taking your keys out of your bag, clicking it to open the door, suddenly Ellie push you close to her, turning you to face her. “¿What?”

She stares at you silently and your silly smile slowly drops for a weird one, she puts her right hand on your heart and your left hand on hers.

“I see you” Ellie whispers not breaking eye contact with you, Your eyes melting at that moment and you swoon pouting your lips. Her lips meet yours sweetly in a slow kiss, her hand leaving your chest and

“Should I connect my braid to your hair? So I can claim you as my forever?”

You both laugh joining foreheads, Ellie sighs letting you go “Let’s go home and we can talk about it, I’ll drive"

"Did you know there's a second movie?"

"For real? Now we have to watch it tonight!"

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impala-dreamer · 4 months

Text

Tourniquet - Chapter Four

A Supernatural Dean x Reader Series Told Backwards

~Y/N has been by Dean’s side through his worst days, always there if he needs her, forever just a call away. Love is impossible to fight and more impossible to live with. Just a side character in his epic life, Y/N would give anything just to give Dean a moment’s peace.~

Please see MASTERLIST for full info/warnings/chapter links.

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

The Things She Carried

She hadn’t seen him in years.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. God, she wanted to so badly. She wanted to run into his arms, bury her face in his chest and fall asleep. She wanted to wake up next to him, count each freckle in the golden light of dawn. She wanted it all, she wanted him.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to track him down, drive across the miles and land at his doorstep. She couldn’t imagine facing him after so long away, couldn’t bear the thought that he’d cast her away like some old trinket destined for the bin.

She couldn’t risk it. She was road-weary and drained to the point of constant pain. Every muscle ached; every bone felt hollow and brittle. She was exhausted in her soul. She was done.

Late at night she would lie awake and stare at whatever ceiling was overhead replaying her life, her choices good and bad.

Maybe things would be different if she had run away with him when they were kids. Maybe she should have crossed the little stream sooner, hidden with him in the tall grass until they could escape and disappear forever. Would life be so different? Would they be together? Alive? Would the world still be turning if not for the sacrifices he’d made?

What about the sacrifices she’d made? What about all the days she spent alone, holding herself as blood seeped through her fingers? All the times she dropped everything to be there for him, all the days she spent worrying, all the nights she spent giving him whatever he needed whenever he needed it. Would anyone even remember her when she was gone? Would he?

Fuck him. He ruined one of the most important moments in her life. He stole her chance to say goodbye. While she reeled from his kiss, tried to make sense of his affection, the only other man she had ever loved had died.

He died and she wasn’t there. He died knowing she wasn’t around.

Fuck him for that. Fuck him for sleepless nights on the phone calming him down, listening to every trial and tribulation of his life. Fuck him for miles spent rushing to his side to wrap her heart around his wounds, staunch the flow.

Fuck him for every kiss.

Fuck him for every touch.

For every fucking moment.

The boy with the green eyes.

Roswell, New Mexico, 2015.

A string of murders of suspicious nature led older residents to announce that the aliens had returned to take revenge on the naysayers and folks there only to make a buck on the sacred landing spot.

Y/N hadn’t been able to resist such a ridiculous scene and spent a week there investigating.

In the end, they were just regular old murders committed by a regular old crazy person. No demons, no ghosts, and certainly no aliens were to be found.

With nowhere else to be, she hung around the desert for a few more days, enjoying the sun and the dry air.

She almost didn’t answer the phone when it rang, but curiosity had brought her to New Mexico in the first place, so there was no reason to deny its hold.

Luckily, it wasn’t him.

It was Sam.

“Well, if it isn’t baby boy Winchester.” She laid back on the hood of her car and kicked up a knee.

“Hey, Y/N.”

He sounded terrible. Lack of sleep or too much stress, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t know Sam as well. Hadn’t studied him as closely, hadn’t learned every tick of speech, the meaning behind every subtle sigh.

Still, he didn’t sound great.

“What’s going on, Sam?”

He hesitated, swallowed hard, shifted the phone to his other ear. “I hate to ask you, I know you’re… Well, you’ve got your own thing going on, but-”

Her eyes closed, her stomach churned.

“Is he OK?” She couldn’t stop the tremble in her voice and she hated it.

Sam cleared his throat. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Shit.”

Last she’d heard through the grapevine, Dean had died, again, and come back as a demon. She didn’t get a call back then, so for Sam to ask for help now- it was bad.

“I think he’d, uh… really like to see you.”

The eleven-hour drive seemed endless, but it gave her time to think.

No matter what she did, he would always be a part of her. No matter how far she ran, tried to hide, he would always win out in the end. It was useless to fight it, stupid to even try.

Sam had given her directions to their place and Y/N stood outside of what looked to be an industrial hobbit hole.

She leaned on her car and stared at the hill. There was still time to turn tail and hit the highway. He’d never even know she had been there.

She fiddled with the chain around her neck, sucked on the metal pendant. It was warmed from her body heat though she always believed it got hotter when he was close.

“Damn it, Y/N/N, just go in…” She groaned and turned away, too scared to go inside. Scared or mad, she didn’t know which.

Just as she put one foot in the car, the big doors opened and Sam appeared.

He was tall and tired, with a shadow on his jaw and worry in his eyes. She wondered vaguely if she had ever seen Sam without that crease in his aura, if he’d ever been truly calm and happy.

“You gonna come in or-”

She sighed and shut the door. “How’d you know I was here?”

He shrugged and gave her a mischievous look. “I may have been tracking your phone.”

“What! Sam…”

He smiled and then pushed at the door, holding it open for her.

“You coming?”

“Well, it’d be stupid to run away now.”

She followed him into the hobbit hole and through another, heavier door. The first room was basically a dark hallway, four steps down from the outer doors and a few paces to the next. The walls were old concrete and the light was dim. She held no hope for nicer things to come.

She was very wrong.

Her little gasp echoed when she walked through the second door. The cave-like entry gave way to an expansive room that took her breath away. A wrought iron balcony met intricate stairs that wound down forever. The room below was set up with a large, map-covered table that glowed, antique computers and machines that looked as if they were sourced from a 1950’s horror movie.

Clasping the rail, Y/N leaned over a bit, trying to comprehend the size of everything but her head hurt. She looked back at Sam and shook her head, eyes wide with awe.

“You live here?”

Sam nodded and shrugged. He smiled at her wild wonder and stood beside her at the railing. “There’s more. It’s, uh- it’s a really big place.”

“Tell me you have a bowling alley or an arcade hiding somewhere in here.”

He laughed. “No, but we do have a tv. Well, I do. In my room.”

Y/N whistled, mockingly impressed. “Wow. Real rockin’ bachelor pad, Sam.”

He licked his lips and looked down at his hands. His knuckles were pale, fingers cold against the metal. “Yeah, well, we don’t get many visitors.”

She covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently. “Wanna show me the rest?”

The Men of Letters Bunker was just as impressive as he made it sound. They toured the halls while Sam explained how they came to be there, speaking candidly about his grandfather’s reappearance and how strange it was to finally have a real place to call home.

She listened to every word, now and then offering a kind word or an interested hum. Her mind was reeling at the enormity of the Bunker. She ran her fingers over the dips between the tiles on the walls, listened carefully to how Sam’s voice echoed off of the cathedral ceilings and back again. She counted their steps, tried to construct a map in her mind so that she could find her way back to the front door, but the path was full of turns and every corridor looked the same as the last. The numbers on the doors changed, however, but they weren’t in any order that she could define.

They stopped in front of door number eleven, and Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. His gaze narrowed on the gap between the door and the jam. The light inside was on, but he knew Dean wasn’t there.

“This is his room?” she asked, wanting to push her way inside but afraid to pry.

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

She placed her hand on the door and closed her eyes. She wanted to go in and wait for him, be laid out on the bed like some porn star when he walked in, but she knew better.

The kitchen was impressive in an old restaurant that had never been upgraded kinda way, but the pantry was pitiful. Thankfully, there were a few eggs in the fridge and a half of a loaf of white bread on the shelf. Sam left her to it and she got to work making an utter mess of the counter and stove.

She didn’t expect him back soon and he hadn’t expected to see her at all.

“Y/N?”

Her entire being tensed when she heard his voice and she took a breath, closed her eyes, and turned around. Spatula dripping in her hand, she screwed up a smile.

“Surprise.”

Every emotion imaginable flowed over his freckled face and Y/N waited for him to process before saying another word. Green eyes worked her over, lingering on the smudge on her cheek and the mess on her shirt.

Finally, he smiled.

“Nice surprise.”

Her body relaxed. “Is it?”

“Of course.”

Dean rushed forward, rounding the giant stainless steel island, and scooped her up into a hug.

Relief trickled down her spine and she wrapped her arms around him, pushed her face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like whiskey and sleepless nights.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” He whispered into her shoulder and held on a little tighter.

He was big and strong, solid and safe. She melted into him; listened for the comforting, steady beat of his heart.

The necklace burned into her chest and she smiled.

After a minute, she pushed at his shoulders but he refused to let her go.

“You’re gonna make me burn your toast!”

He stood up straight and held her arms. “Toast? You’re making a real big mess for toast.”

She squirmed out of his grip and turned back to the stove. “It’s French.”

They sat at the little table in the corner and drowned the snack in maple syrup and butter.

Y/N couldn’t stop staring at him. His face was thin; his beard slowly sneaking out of captivity. His eyes were dark, lined with red, and he held himself differently, as if every second was painful, as if he was having trouble sitting still.

He was staring just as hard, shocked that she was there after being gone for so long.

“Your hair’s different,” he said around a mouthful of French toast.

She cocked her head and ran a hand through her locks. “I guess,” she laughed. “It’s been a while since I cut it. Probably should.”

Dean shook his head gently. “Nah. I like it.”

It wasn’t even really a compliment but she took it as one. Her stomach flipped and she hated herself for enjoying such a tiny amount of attention. She was older now, wiser, stronger. She didn’t need his approval or his affection.

“Thanks.”

“This is…nice. Thank you for cooking.”

Y/N laughed and choked down a corner. “It’s terrible and you know it.”

Dean shrugged and took another forkful to his lips. “It ain’t that bad.” He shoveled it in and then cringed, plucked a crunchy bit from his tongue. “I… think there’s shell in this one.”

She grinned. “I’m surprised there’s not more, actually. You know I’m a shitty cook.”

He laughed. “Always have been.”

“It’s kinda my thing.”

A strange moment passed between them like an autumn breeze. The air was warm but the wind was too harsh, chilling their cheeks. Y/N looked away, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands up the sides. Dean swallowed and sat back; knife and fork in his fists beside the plate.

“So, how ya been?”

Y/N looked around, pretending to inspect the kitchen walls, but only trying to buy herself time to think up an answer.

“Oh, you know me, Dean. Another day, another highway, another monster to kill.”

He licked a drop of syrup from his lip. “Musta been busy.”

She nodded. “Yeah, pretty busy.”

“Too busy to answer a text? Pick up the phone now and then?”

Her guts churned. “Dean, it’s not like that…”

He slumped forward, set his forearms on the table. “Oh, it’s like that. You vanished, Y/N/N.”

His tone was biting and she shivered.

“Dean-”

“You just took off. No goodbye, nothing.”

Anger was brewing inside and her leg bounced uncontrollably under the table. “Dean.”

“We burned him. Without you.”

Something inside of her shattered. The words cut through her like a scythe; his tone burned like salt in the sliced flesh. She clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, and tried to push it all aside.

“You left,” he seethed, upper lip trembling and exposing his tiny canine teeth. She always thought they looked like fangs, always loved the way they scraped across her throat. “We burned him and you weren’t there. I- we needed you and you left. You ran away to God knows where and that was it. We needed you, Y/N. I… I needed you.”

With fists balled, she stood up, spun away from the table. She bit her tongue so hard she was sure her mouth would fill with blood.

Dean laughed sarcastically. “Yeah. Walk away again. That’s awesome.”

Her spine twitched. Nails dug into her palms.

She tasted blood.

“So fucking good at walking away when people need you.”

She snapped.

“Excuse me?”

Her spin around was so fast, her hands slammed onto the table so hard that Dean startled and dropped his utensils. Unconsciously, he sat back, putting as much distance between him and the lioness he’d just unleashed.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her words curled but there was no question. She was giving him a speck of a chance to apologize before she truly exploded. “Well… are you?”

Dean sucked his teeth, crossed his arms, sat forward. He met her gaze head on. His nostrils flared.

“You left,” he said again, slowly, venomously.

Y/N pulled in a deep breath but instead of calming her, it only added to the fire. “You didn’t ask me to stay, Dean.”

He shook his head, confused. “Huh?”

“You didn’t ask me to stay, Dean,” she said again, injecting as much slashing accusation into her voice as she could. “You never do. You expect me to show up whenever you want me, drop whatever I’m doing to come meet you somewhere so you can fuck your frustrations out on me then kick me out of bed in the morning. Do you know how many bruises I have from tripping over the curb when you drive away? How many nights I’ve stayed awake worrying about you? Praying for you? Not to mention all the nights I had to stay on the phone with you while you blubbered on about this and that, and your brother, and your angel, and your destiny. Do you know how much of my life I’ve spent waiting on a fucking phone call from you? How many days I’ve wasted just hoping you’d ask to see me? You can’t imagine it. You wouldn’t. Because you don’t care.”

Anger and guilt flooded his face. He swung his legs around from under the table and stood up, towering over her with a puffed chest and searing eyes.

“You think I don’t care about you?” He hunched his shoulders, leaning down to let it all sink in. “Is that really what you think?”

She took a step closer. She wouldn’t back down no matter his size or the angry fire pulsing off of him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Yeah, Dean,” she said sharply. “It is. Because it’s fucking true. You don’t give a shit about me, you never have. I’m just a goddamned Band-Aid for you. Something you put on when you’ve got a booboo and then rip off and toss away. And the one time I needed you. The one fucking time…”

Dean was seeing red; his blood was boiling and brightening his pallid face.

“When? When the fuck did you need me so badly!”

She grit her teeth, showed her fangs for once. “He was my father, Dean.”

He scoffed. “No. He wasn’t.”

“Fuck you for saying that! He was my father the same as, if not more so than he was yours and he died while I was in the dark wondering how I could help you. You! You fucked me up in that hospital room and then you left me alone to deal with it. And he died while I was in there! He died and I wasn’t there because I was dealing with you!”

Dean straightened, but he didn’t move to speak. He only absorbed her ire and let it burn inside of him.

“Always dealing with you! My whole goddamned life revolves around Dean Winchester! And you know what I got for all the care and time and worry I poured into you? Nothing. I get fucking nothing. I have never been so lost as when he died and you… You didn’t ask me to stay. Didn’t… didn’t check on me. The only calls I got were from you begging me to help with Sam and to meet you in Oswego for a fucking booty call. That’s all I am to you. I’m your fucking whore.”

He huffed, chewed his lip. “That is not true!”

She wouldn’t stop, couldn’t. The simple act of raising her voice, of confronting him after everything had opened a tap that she couldn’t close.

“And you spent a whole goddamned fucking year with her. A year! I didn’t even know if you were alive, dead, nothing. You promised to call me. You swore. And nothing. You went to her. You- did you even think of me? Did you even think, ‘oh, maybe I’ll go be with Y/N for a while’? Well? Did you?”

His eyes closed. “No, Y/N. I didn’t.”

“I have given you years of my life and you’ve just… Fuck, I don’t even know if you take me for granted or if you don’t even notice if I’m around or not. I honestly don’t know.”

She turned away, exhausted and aching.

She couldn’t see the way he rubbed at the curse on his arm, didn’t notice the rage glowing in his eyes. She didn’t feel the danger because she never felt it around him. She could scream all she wanted, but she knew Dean wouldn’t hurt her.

“If you hate me so goddamn much, why are you even here? Huh? What, did Sammy call you? Tell you I wasn’t doin’ so well?”

Each word snapped at her like kitchen shears and Y/N spun back around.

“Fuck you, Dean.”

As tears fell, she raised her right hand, ready to slap him hard; show him she wasn’t fooling around.

The Mark swelled on his arm and shot demonic power into his veins.

Dean grabbed her wrist before she made contact with his cheek and took two steps forward, forcing her backwards into the wall. He slammed her hand onto the plaster and followed suit with her left hand. She gasped, scared but daring him, and he sneered down at her.

“Don’t. Fucking. Ever. Hit me.”

The Mark glowed beside her head and she looked from it to him, stuck and devastated.

“Do you hear me!”

Strength pulsed through him and Dean lifted her away from the wall only to crush her back into it.

Her eyes blurred, her head ached; her ears rang.

“Dean-”

“You think you know anything about me? You don’t know what I’ve been through! You haven’t been around!”

His grip tightened on her wrists and she felt the bone in the right twist.

“Dean! You’re hurting me!”

It seemed he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t let the anger dim. His breath came out in heavy pants through tight lips and clenched teeth; his eyes were like lasers targeting her arteries and setting him up for the kill.

“Dean!”

Another tear trekked down her cheek and it caught his attention.

Dean blinked quickly, clearing his head, and then backed away. He dropped her hands and covered his face, turned his back on her.

Y/N couldn’t move.

Silence filled the room and their heads. Guilt ravaged their bodies.

Her knees gave out and she slid down the wall, slumped to the floor.

When she could finally speak, her voice was small and pathetic and she hated herself even more.

“I… I’m sorry, Dean.”

Calmer now, Dean turned to find her in a heap on the floor and sank down as well. “Don’t be sorry, Y/N/N. I… fuck. Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head and sat up straight, kicked her knees up to her chest.

He crawled to her, tried to lay a hand on her knee, but she flinched away.

“Shit,” he hissed. “I’m so sorry.”

Y/N let out a hard breath and let her shoulders fall. She trusted him. She didn’t trust that thing on his arm.

She nodded toward it. “Is it really bad?”

He rolled up his sleeve and showed off his brand. Curious and horrified, she unfurled herself and leaned in, running a careful finger across the Mark. The flesh was hot, the skin raised and rough. She covered it with her hand and looked up into his face.

“I can’t take it much more,” he whispered. “It’s gonna take over and I don’t wanna go back there.”

Her heart hurt. “You don’t have to let it take you. You’re strong. You’re so fucking strong, Dean. So brave. So good.”

He smiled softly and bent over; kissed her hand.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

She sniffed back the tears and reached for him.

“I coulda just kept my mouth shut,” she confessed.

Dean lay his head on her shoulder and tugged her close. “No. You shouldn’t have to. I’ll be better, I promise.”

“You don’t have to be better, Dean.” She turned inwards and pressed her lips to his ear. “You just have to be you.”

His arms closed a little tighter, he breathed a little slower.

“I really don’t deserve you, you know that?”

She sighed and rubbed at the nape of his neck.

“Shut up, Dean.”

Tourniquet Tags:

@prettyinplaid94 @winharry @muhahaha303 @cookiechipdough @ladysparkles78

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70 @lyarr24 @nancymcl @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @sexyvixen7 @the-wounded-healer05

#spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean/reader #dean/you #angst #series #tourniquet

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vkooksupremacy · 9 months

Text

Let's leave together, forever

Sung Hanbin x Male Reader

To watch the person you loved trapped in an arranged marriage is torture. And that's exactly what Y/N felt. With tear filled eyes and trembling hands, he helped his now ex boyfriend straighten his tie.

He could feel Hanbin's n's eyes on him the entire time, but refused to meet them. The hurt was too much to bear.

"I won't say yes." The words took Y/N off guard. He looked into Hanbin's eyes, and they held a sincerity that Y/N couldn't bear. "I'll go to the altar, but I won't marry her.

"Bin-"

"Run away with me, live our lives somewhere else." Hanbin begged, with unshed tears glossing his eyes too. "I talked to my uncle and aunt in Germany. We'll start a new life there."

"Of course." Y/N squeezed Hanbin's hand one last time and departed the room. Hanbin, too, left the room, to wait at the altar. Their friends were now all in on the plan, ready to stop anyone from stopping the two.

Eunha, Hanbin's bride, was only too happy to agree to this marriage. She'd harbored feelings for Hanbin since forever, but he only had eyes for Y/N. Eunha was determined to make Hanbin cut ties with Y/N after the wedding.

"Speak now, or forever rhild your peace."

"I object!" Gasps came from everyone as they stared at Hanbin, unable to fathom it. "I was forced into this marriage. Even if the bride willingly entered it, I will not."

"I'd rather leave this country than spend my life without the one person I love. Lee Y/N." Y/N's outstretched hand met Hanbin's, and together they ran. Ran all the way out of the church, their friends not far behind, laughing happily.

"That was epic!" Yujin cried, as he and Taerae ran circles around the others. "Did you see Eunha's face?"

"Oh that was epic alright." There was a twinkle in Hanbin's eye. "Come on boys, we've got a life to start in Germany."

____________________

"Hello?"

"Sung Hanbin how dar you!" His mother shrieked. "We were going to strike it rich! And you- you and your little boyfriend just had to ruin it!"

"I will never marry someone I don't love." Hanbin said calmly. "And if that means never seeing you again, so be it. Y/N's my one and only. Accept it or leave my life."

"See how you like it then." Hanbin's mother hung up.

Y/N let out a snort and Hanbin began to laugh too. There was nothing funny about the situation really.

"Why are you guys laughing?" Ricky asked, walking in with two bags of food.

"Mrs Sung." Y/N sniggered. "She told Hanbin to see how he likes not talking to her, when he hasn't spoken to her since the 'wedding'."

#zb1 x male reader #zerobaseone x male reader #sung hanbin x male reader #zb1 x reader #kpop x male reader #kpop x reader #zerobaseone x reader

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variousincorrectxreader · 1 year

Text

quick word vomit.

my favorite genshin characters reacting to your death.

includes: Sucrose, Amber, Zhongli and Lumine.

Warnings: character death (reader), slight spoilers in Sucrose's part, blood in both Amber and Lumines part, reader is sick in Zhongli's part.

Sucrose

She was completely unaware that you had left without taking proper first aid, she was simply too distracted to do her usual check up on you. Oh how she wishes she did so now.

"dont worry! Sweets. I'll be back before you know it. Its just a simple supply run after all."

and you had left, leaving with a peck on the cheek and a murmured I love you that she barely caught, too focussed on her strange experiments to reply. You had run into a horde of monsters blocking the road. A very unlucky random encounter. Only you and two others were fully equipped to fight, and fight you did... you fought well, but you had sustained heavy injuries, and you had no way of healing them. How stupid you felt, how guilty you felt. Because now you were leaving Sucrose behind, just like her so called friends. your vision went dark, dot by dot, the yelling of your comrades fading away into nothing.

Sucrose was just finishing yet another experiment when a knock on the door was heard. 'Strange,' she thought. Normally you would just barge in, recounting your epic tale of the day. Well whatever. She was just happy to see you, excited to show you her findings. So why did her stomach twist uncomfortably as she approached the door?

Instead of your smiling face, smudged with dirt and who knows what, she was met with two grim faces. Both looked as if they had been through hell. Sucrose's heart dropped as she saw what they were holding in their hands. Her world faded away, tuning out the condolences given by your teammates as her focus zoomed onto the familiar weapon and- Your vision. Dull and devoid of color.

in that moment, Sucrose felt her entire world break, her usual anxiety around unknown people crumbling away as she snatched the vision out of their hands, sinking to her knees and sobbing her eyes out, tears fogging up her glasses.

You had left her alone.

———

Amber

The Outrider was there, with you when you died, having been assigned a mission around the edge of Mondstadt, responding to reports of treasure hoarders passing through constantly. Her mind frequently wanders to that fateful day, wishing she was able to protect you better... wishing to have been stronger. You had gotten shot. Twice, an arrow wedged painfully in the side of your ribcage and another buried in your chest. Warm blood was coating your lovers hands, drenching your shirt and sticking to Ambers body. Her brown eyes were staring fearfully into your own

"H-hey, sleepyhead... stay awake, alright! That way w-we can... go eat some sticky honey roast with P-paimon and the t-traveler..."

she knows its useless, you know its useless... you've been bleeding for too long, the wounds too deep to heal properly. But she still tries to cling onto hope. And all you do is smile, your breaths shallow. And in your last moments you comfort her, youre dying and yet... shes the one seeking your comfort instead of her giving it to you. She feels so worthless right now. As she watches your vision and the light in your eyes flicker, she pulls you close. Rocking you as if you were falling asleep. Your last words being a testament of your love for her.

and as your grip on her hand loosens, she knows you have gone somewhere she cant follow, not even if she ran with all her might, or crossed the most dangerous chasms with her wind glider. Youre gone, and she will forever blame herself.

———

Zhongli

The Geo Archon is grateful for the time he has with you, so many good memories of laughing and telling stories while drinking wine.

But he cannot stop himself from despising the fact that you, are a mere mortal. While he, he is a God with much more time on Teyvat that you could ever dream of.

especially when you are brought into the Funeral parlor he is currently employed at. Was this why Hu Tao was acting weird? Zhongli was no fool, he knew you were sick. He knew that your lifespan was short, even more so than the average mortal life. Bu he didnt expect you to just flicker out so fast. Zhongli is used to seeing the people he cares for dying, for he has been around to see the rise and fall of many things, including Liyue itself. But it still hurts just as much as it did a thousand years ago, to lose someone so important to him.

you left him letters, the first one he found in your shared home, on his bedside table. Along with the Vision he himself had given to you, The letter had been an apology, for not telling him that your health had gotten worse. You also said that there were more, more letters hidden in places the two of you shared fond memories. He finds them all quite quickly, his eyes watering as he looks over each one, lovingly written

'I love you,' these three words ended each letter, and in response, after reading each one. He would say "I miss you." Even hundreds of years after you are gone. ———

Lumine (Traveler)

Lumine couldnt feel anything. The only thing she could see is the blood, dripping from your gashes as you tried to stumble into Mondstadt. Presumably to the cathedral. She didnt care about the stains she couldnt care about anything as she ran with all her might, carrying you in her arms. She had sent Paimon go on ahead, to tell Barbara of your condition.

Right now, everything is dangerous. Anything could hurt you. It doesnt help that the blood loss has made you delirious, blurting out a sudden confession.

"shhh, save it for l-later."

its ironic, the words she wants to hear the most during a time she doesnt want to hear them. She tells you to hush, to save your strength for while Barbara heals you, knowing the Deaconess can only do so much. And yet you dont stop. You keep listing reasons why you have fallen for her. her determination, her skill, her voice, and her eyes. Oh how you love her eyes.

suddenly, before she realizes it, she has carried you halfway to the cathedral, and she can see Barbara rushing towards the two of you, fear clouding her ocean eyes. She begins to heal you, but she is being realistic. You have lost a lot of blood, the trail thick throughout the city of freedom. She tells Lumine there is a slim chance of survival, but she takes it. A slim chance is better than no chance at all. and she watches as the medics take you away, unaware that she was fighting them off until Paimon yelled at her to calm down. Before you are out of sight, she screams out. Desperately;

"I love you too! So... p-please survive so we can go on a date!"

your smile has a sense of finality that she despises, oh how she hates how youve accepted your fate. She wouldnt be able to accept your death. So how are you? After she has cleaned herself of the crimson staining her body, she makes her way to the cathedral, Paimon trailing behind, equally as worried. Its strange seeing the pixie so serious about something.

and the waiting game begins. Lumine was never patient, and this moment was no different. She was restless as she waits for an update on your condition.

when Barbara finally comes out, Lumine stands up, rushing over, seeking an answer.

the one she gets shakes her to her core. She has just lost another important person in her life. Barbara speaks up, her voice shaky. "They... they wanted you to have this..." your vision, lacking the beautiful glow that reminded her of your eyes. She didnt take it, despite you wanting her to have it, she couldnt. Seeing it broke her even more.

She's lost her brother, and now she's lost you. You've finally gone somewhere she cant follow And when she reaches for you again, you won't be there.

"w-we were supposed to go on a date..."

#Zhongli x reader #Lumine x reader #sucrose x reader #amber x reader #genshin impact #female reader #gn reader #male reader #Genshin x reader #genshin x reader angst #Angst #genshin angst #Genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #x reader

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chanshoesunite · 1 year

Text

Imagine playing the Pepero game with Chan

“You know what we should definitely play tonight? The Pepero game”, Chan announces to the room, his eyes slyly drifting to YN. Everyone groans good-naturedly.

“Oh, come on, boys, we haven’t played it in forever! Are you scared I will beat you all again with my epic skills?”, Chan boasts, pokes Jisung in the chest and takes Changbin in a headlock. “You tell ‘em, love”, YN encourages her boyfriend indulgently. “You are so transparent, hyung”, Jeongin smirks, “we all know you just want to make out with YN!” ”Whaaaat”, Chan’s voice pitches up with incredulity, draping his arms around YN, “I could just do that whenever I want!”

“Yeah, but you are sadist that wants to make us all suffer through your PDA”, Minho deadpans. YN laughs, and Chan darts his looks from Minho to her: “I resent that accusation. Why are you laughing, baby!” “It’s funny cus it’s true”, she says wisely, stroking down Chan’s arms in a calming gesture.

Chan’s face scrunches up adorably. He taps YN on the nose: “No, it must be because Minho is jealous”, he slowly untangles himself from her and takes an innocent step towards his friend, “if you are jealous, you could just ask for your own kisses – but you barely allow me my hugs!”

That last bit he shouts while chasing Minho around the table. “Just let me love you!”, Chan coos. Minho swears, the others laugh and YN grins at these dorks. After two rounds of running, Minho stops and puts his hands out, bracing against the onslaught of brawn and affection.

“Stop! Fine! We shall play the Pepero game! Just get away from me.” Chan immediately stops making grabby hands at Minho. “I knew you’d come around!” “What’s the prize for the winners?”, interjects Felix. “How about the losers have to buy them dinner?”, says Changbin.

“Great plan, Chan and YN always find the best restaurants anyway”, quips Han. “Hey, hey, what? Why should the losers automatically be me and YN?” “Oh yeah, hyung, sure you will focus on winning, suuuure you will!” “You just watch us!” “I’d really rather stare at my washing machine for an hour than watch you two smooch.”

“Alright, alright, focus”, Seungmin says before Chan can start whining more. YN squeezes him tightly and Chan dutifully snaps his mouth shut. “I’m getting the Pepero and I’ll watch the time. You decide on teams.”

Seungmin leaves the room, and the others start playing gawi-bawi-bo to figure out the pairs. Chan stands aside, his hand on YN’s hip, grinning like the cat who got the cream. He gently strokes her as she leans into him. They watch the boys shouting at each other. Then Seungmin brings back a pack of Pepero. Shaking it, he says: “Teams are decided? Ah”, he looks at the pair of Changbin and Hyunjin, “Well, I know who I am putting my money on. OK, get on with it, sit opposite each other.”

YN is sitting in front of Chan, a Pepero between her teeth. Her eyes glitter with amusement as Chan gets ready, holding her lightly by her shoulders. His warm hands feel good on her. The boys around her are shouting rambunctiously, deciding on strategies, but she concentrates on Chan’s mischievous face.

“OK, ready? 3 – 2 – 1 – start!”

More shouting goes up around them, but YN is entirely focused on the gentle way Chan tilts her head to get the best access to her Pepero. He keeps biting off pieces, far too slow to win, but the excitement she senses is worth it. His eyes are half-closed and his enjoyment is crystal-clear. YN is captivated by the sight, content in the grasp he has on her.

When she can tell his lips are nearly touching hers, she flips the Pepero into her mouth and leans into him. Their lips touch in a sweet kiss and she can feel Chan’s chuckle vibrating through his strong chest. He pulls YN closer, one hand splayed along her neck, his thumb stroking her jaw. With a soft sigh, she opens her lips, allowing their tongues to dance.

“Oh my god, I told you he would do this! Awful!” “Hyung setting a new record in holding his breath.” “Hajimaaa, you guys!”, Jisung has dropped to the floor, dramatically pounding on the ground.

Ignoring the teasing voices of the boys, Chan lifts YN into his lap, giving her one last, delicious kiss. YN’s hands are on his shoulder and neck, enjoying the solidity of his muscles. Chan squeezes her bum tightly, their upper bodies flush against each other. She tilts her head back, her face an invitation for one last caress that he cannot resist. He leans in again, giving her a few pecks down her throat. Finally, he relents to the screaming around him.

“Did we lose?”, he asks innocently. “Duh, obviously, you fools!” “You don’t even have a Pepero to show for all the time you wasted!”

With a cheeky smile, YN says: “I think I can safely say, no matter what happened, we are the real winners here.”

#bang chan x reader #bangchan x reader #bangchan fluff #author tortoise #tortoise here: i just thought this would be a cute story!?! do you like the photoedit? i made it myself too nd i am actually proud of it tb #bangchan pepero #kissing bangchan #bangchan drabble #bang chan drabble

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magpie-writes · 1 year

Text

Venus in Furs

Pairing: Helaena Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Aemond Targaryen

Rating: E

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Targcest, semi-public sex, bondage, pain kink, explicit smut

A/N: Venus in Furs is a poly Helaemond au. We have no idea how many chapters it'll end up being, but the story will progress as the relationship does. Sometimes a chapter might be a little kinky drabble, other times it might be an epic 10k beast. This story has just become such a vulnerable little happy place for @acrossthesestars and myself and we hope you enjoy it! Tags will be updated as the chapters go on.

alex masterlist | emma masterlist | ao3

Part One - Seven Hells P.1 | Part Two - Seven Hells P.2 | Part Three

The sky above was clear, stars managing to peek out even from the thick veil of the city lights. It was loud, music blaring from cars and drunk revelers pouring out from the mouths of the surrounding bars and clubs. My heels clicked on the sidewalk, the noise echoing loud over all the others and my hands curled into fists within my coat pockets.

'Don't lose your nerve,' I thought. 'You aren't allowed to chicken out.'

A sharp gust of near freezing wind ruffled my coat, blowing up beneath the short skirt of the black dress I wore under it, and I bit down on my cheek to keep from yelping nervously at the shock as I neared the building I had been looking for.

Seven Hells was a privately owned club, the red brick facade blending into all the others on the block. The only clue that I had arrived at the right place was the small gilded placard by the door that simply read "7" in an ornate script. My chilled fingers wrapped around a thick brass knocker in the shape of a dragon's head, rapping it gently against the wood. The door swung open and a handsome bouncer stared me down, the moment stretching on forever. He was older, with a close cropped silver beard, a bald head, and a thousand yard stare.

"Password," he asked, his voice rich and deep.

"Oh don't bother with all that, Harrold," a soft voice chirped from behind him. "She's with me. Isn't that right, Lady Grey?"

The door opened a crack wider, revealing a cloud of moon pale hair and the Cheshire Cat grin beneath it.

“Honestly, you express a tea preference one time.” Rolling my eyes despite the amused smile tugging at my lips, I stepped up onto the landing, close enough for the club’s warm air to twine invitingly around my bare legs, beckoning me inside. With an apologetic shrug to the stoic giant before me, I gave the password Helaena Targaryen texted me earlier that evening.

“Dreamfyre.”

He granted me a nod, as if in appreciation of a fellow rule-follower, and threw the door wide.

“Welcome to Seven Hells.”

If I'd thought the grandeur of our Neo-Gothic university campus was extravagant, with its ivy-clad walls, peaked windows, and rolling quads beneath venerable oak trees, the sumptuousness of this club delighted in proving me wrong. Stepping down into its shadowy interior, I couldn’t help gaping at the luxury surrounding me. Sleek, black leather couches sprawled along the edges of the cavernous room, all subtly tilted towards a low stage, the obvious focal point of the room. No one graced it, not this early in the evening, but a St. Andrew’s cross stood waiting in the wings, eager for its first victim. It was the most obvious nod towards the club’s hedonistic character but the more I looked, the more secrets I uncovered.

Steel hardpoints graced walls and furniture, looking like so much industrial hardware until I realized their presence went beyond simple aesthetics. Mirrors littered the walls, affording endless views for performers and pleasure seekers alike. Stacks of silken cord lined low-running shelves, all in easy reach. It was an opulent, unguarded promise of sensuality.

A dare.

A shiver of anticipation licked up my spine, despite the warmth winding sinuously around my legs, caressing my chilled skin and urging me eagerly to shed my heavy wool coat.

“Come on. I can’t wait to show you everything.” Helaena seized my hand excitedly while I was still unwinding the glittering gray scarf from around my neck. I shoved it into the pocket of my coat as Harrold quietly lifted the garment from my arms before withdrawing to his post by the door.

My eyes weren't sure where to land. A pretty brunette winked at me from behind the bar and heat crawled up my throat at the gesture. My gaze darted from the couches to the stage to the people who had just started to trickle into the space before landing on the pale hand that grasped my own.

Helaena was divine, a gods damned painting, a water nymph come to life. Her white-blonde hair hung in soft waves around her shoulders, her plump body sheathed in a tight powder blue dress, the hem hitting her mid thigh. When she turned back to wink at me, the light caught in the glitter she had painted over her eyelids, her pink mouth curling up at the edges.

"I love first timers." Her voice was soft, but I still heard every word.

I raised a brow. "Do you bring people here often?"

She squeezed my hand. "No," was all she said as she dragged me to the bar.

The energy of the club settled around us as I followed my new friend, all simmering possibility and the driving beat of music emanating from hidden speakers. When I slid onto one of the plush velvet barstools, Helaena perched alongside me, never letting go of my hand even as she raised her other to catch the bartender’s gaze.

“Two of the Wild Gin Brambles please, Talya”

My eyes widened in surprise as she named the exact cocktail I would have ordered from the specials menu. Despite the crowd of people surrounding the bar, jockeying to place their orders, no one looked surprised when, in mere moments, the bartender slid two glasses towards the pair of us.

“How did you guess?”

Helaena only smiled her enigmatic smile and raised her own drink to clink against mine.

Her violet eyes tracked every movement as I raised the sweating glass to my lips and took my first sip. Flavor bloomed on my tongue, tart and sweet, strong but clear, the blackberry syrup coating my mouth even as the gin traced a cool burn down my throat.

“That is delicious,” I said, having to raise my voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the other revelers.

“Let me try.”

Rather than lifting her own glass, Helaena leaned in and kissed me.

Startled, my lips parted on a gasp, but when I moved to cup the other woman’s cheek, she deepened the kiss. Her tongue slid against mine, a swift, gentle taste, and then she pulled back, her gaze searching.

“What did you think?” My voice was deeper, roughened with the desire already surging in my blood.

“Delicious,” she confirmed. Her starry eyes roved over my curves and I could swear they came to rest on the hollow of my throat. I wondered if she could see the eager jump of my pulse.

Helaena grinned when she recognized her stare was bordering on overwhelming, glancing down into the depths of her drink and taking a sip. I looked up, willing away the heat that had settled almost uncomfortably in my cheeks. My gaze settled on the mirror, a flash of silver catching my attention. From across the room, mismatched eyes pinned me like a butterfly to glass. The set of his full mouth was almost stern, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. My heart hammered against my ribs but when I blinked, he was gone.

A wide smile broke over Helaena's face. Whatever had grabbed her attention lit her up from the inside out, a soft warm glow settling beneath her skin like a beacon. I turned and couldn't stop the soft "oh" that fell from my lips.

If Helaena was divine, then Aemond Targaryen was damned. He was her soul's twin and yet her opposite, hard and lean where she was soft and curved. He prowled toward the pair of us with all the violent grace of a predator stalking prey, the top half of his long white hair pulled away from his face, the rest hanging down his back like a curtain. He wore all black, a button down shirt tucked into fitted slacks. His face was hard, unreadable except for the flame in his left eye, the same shade of violet as his sister's. In place of his right eye, lost in some accident at the hand of his nephew, if rumor was to be believed, sat a sapphire, the facets swallowing up the low red lights of the club's interior. Helaena squealed and clapped her hands at his arrival, reaching for him. Aemond took her hand, pulling her close and bringing it to his mouth, his lips soft against her skin as he hummed in greeting.

"I'm surprised she came," he said by way of acknowledgement, his gaze falling finally on me.

Heat bristled up my spine, righteous indignation at being referred to as if I was of no importance.

"Play nice or Lady Grey won't come at all and where's the fun in that?" Helaena replied, poking at Aemond's middle.

Something tensed in my gut at that easy, playful gesture. A reminder of how these two belonged to each other, pale and strange as binary stars and just as entangled. How could I ever hope to join their orbit?

As if sensing that momentary flicker of doubt, Aemond raised one perfectly sculpted brow with all the cool poise of a marble god as if to ask “How indeed?” I bristled, drawing myself up to my full height, my spine set like steel. Damn him and his smug self-assurance. Helaena had approached me after all, invited me to join them in their pleasure den I’d only heard whispered about on campus, with all the dark, half-veiled insinuations that accompanied such an invitation.

“You tell him, Hel.” I slid my arms around her waist, glaring a challenge of my own at Aemond over her shoulder. “She was just wondering if there might be any dancing on tap for the evening, or is that too frivolous for the Eyes Wide Shut crowd?”

Aemond’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, I’m sure we could manage something.”

In the end, all it took was an imperious nod and his sharp gaze to some nearby staff member, and then the music shifted, turning to a low, throbbing beat that pulsed through the crowd. People moved as if summoned to the dance floor, a tangled knot of writhing bodies and reaching limbs. Aemond sketched a half-mocking, half charmingly outdated bow and extended a hand to me.

“Would she like to dance?” This time, the slyly intentional word choice felt less like a slight and more like an almost-apology, an unspoken admission of having chosen his words poorly. For the first time, I noticed how stiff his posture was. Maybe I wasn’t the only one unsure of how to navigate this evening.

I inclined my own head, amused despite myself, and said “She would.”

It was easy enough to follow him to the dance floor, Helaena close at his heels. Aemond spun me once before drawing me close, his hand finding the small of my back. "Dance, then," he said in an amused tone, his gaze raking over my body. I narrowed my eyes as he just stood there, trying to get a feel for whatever game he was playing. It was Helaena who rescued me, her hands finding mine and pulling me further from the edge of the dance floor.

She moved with a liquid sort of grace, the sort that left one utterly entranced. It was impossible not to move toward her, caught in her orbit as if she were the brightest star in the dark sky. Her lavender eyes were bright enough to light up the dance floor as her hands settled on my hips, turning my back to her front before pulling me flush against her. She smelled like violets and lilies and something earthier, something you would find in the forest after it rained. I wondered if later I would be covered in the body glitter she'd dusted all over herself, her skin shimmering in the glow.

"Can I touch you?" She asked, her voice low against my ear.

There was literally nothing I wanted more in that moment.

I nodded and she ran a hand up my throat to grasp at my jaw, tilting my head back until she could catch my mouth with her own. She tasted like gin and sweet lip gloss, strawberry maybe. My hips followed whatever sinuous rhythm she set as she curled her tongue around mine. I felt her smile against my lips and couldn't stop myself from mirroring the gesture. With one hand I reached back, carding my fingers through the moonlight strands at the nape of her neck.

One song melted into two and then three and I learned for a fact what I had already had an idea of: Helaena Targaryen was entirely captivating. She radiated a dreaminess, a sort of unexplainable out there feeling that I couldn't put my finger on but I knew I wanted to sink into. There was also an edge. She had teeth and claws and made a conscious choice to keep them sheathed. At some point I had turned back to face her and she smiled wide again, as if she had never considered not being so open, so real. Then her eyes drifted away, lighting up again when they landed on her brother. I looked too, because I couldn't help it. Aemond had taken up a perch on one of the large leather chairs, more of a loveseat, really. When our eyes met he raised his left hand and beckoned us forward with a crooked finger. Helaena drifted toward him as if pulled by gravity, her hand reaching back for mine and pulling me along after her.

I mirrored her movements, lowering myself onto Aemond’s outstretched right thigh while she claimed his left. When I did, his gaze snapped to mine, startled. The intensity there, the banked violet fire, ripped through me like a summer storm, leaving heat and electricity crackling in its wake. Before I could shift my weight or draw back, before I could even form an apology for overreaching, he caught me around the waist to keep me still. Slowly, deliberately, curiously, he flexed his muscled thigh beneath my legs, shifting it just enough to drag against me and make me gasp. Pleasure kindled in his hawklike stare and I smiled, heat rising in my cheeks.

We’d surprised each other.

Helaena tipped her head back and laughed, her carefree delight so infectious even her brother’s lips quirked into something like a smile. Pure, wild joy beat like wings within my chest when her lavender gaze met mine at the same time that Aemond rested a hand on my thigh. As if some hidden key had turned, the tumblers falling into place, everything slid open, the night suddenly wide open and brimming with potential. Something was happening and we were part of it. We were all of it.

The music fell away. All I could hear was the breath catching in Helaena’s throat when I leaned in and kissed her. The hiss Aemond sucked between his teeth when his sister’s hand slid up to cup my breast. I looked around, expecting shock or censure, but while the warmth of her palm moving over my dress made my heart race as if the world was ending, no one else seemed to even notice. Even so, I pulled back, heat flashing up my throat to settle in my cheeks. Aemond's hand tightened where it rested against my thigh and I turned to face him, my eyes downcast. He raised a hand, his forefinger catching me under the chin until I met his eye.

"There's no need to be shy, Grey." The nickname sounded different in his mouth, sharper somehow, then when Helaena said it. "You're free to take what you want here, without judgment."

My gaze darted between his mismatched eyes and his lips. "What do you want?" My voice was small.

He hummed, a low noise in the back of his throat, before using his hand to tug me farther up his thigh, my hands flattening against his chest as I fell forward. His shirt was warm beneath my palms, soft and obviously expensive. And then he kissed me. It wasn't tentative or gentle. It felt as if he would devour me. Where Helaena took her time, sensuous and explorative, Aemond went straight for the kill, licking into my mouth when it opened on a whine, pulling my bottom lips between his teeth. He broke the kiss and looked up at me, his high cheekbones dusted with pink, and pursed his lips, as if he was hiding a grin. I couldn't help it and smiled back.

Helaena ran a hand up my thigh, squeezing just enough to get my attention and jerking her chin toward the stage in front of us. "The show is starting," she whispered. There was a peculiar happiness in her eyes, a sort of feeling I wasn't sure I'd ever experienced. She leaned back into Aemond's chest, his hand circling her waist to rest over her belly. The way they fell into each other was mesmerizing and I wondered if I'd ever felt that sort of easy acceptance before, the sort of muscle memory that had me sinking into someone else's softest parts.

I turned away, suddenly feeling much too raw, and looked toward the stage as the lights lowered, a single spotlight shining bright in the middle. Lying prone on the ground was a slight brunette, her hair tied up in a bun. She wore a rose pink dress, the fabric sheer enough to see the dusky outline of her nipples, her arms laying relaxed over her head. As she slowly woke, blinking away the sleep, the light softened, mimicking the dawn, and soft music played through the hidden speakers. Fingertips drew mindless designs over the bare skin of my thigh and the feeling left me burning as they drew over my hip and up, up, up my back to massage the nape of my neck. The feeling was near sinful, my eyes closing as Aemond worked out the tension. When I risked a downward glance, I found his eyes on the stage, his face infuriatingly neutral. I raised my hand, placing it back against his chest, playing at the top button of his shirt as I glanced back toward the stage.

From the shadows of the audience on the far side, a hulking shape melted through the crowd, lumbering up the two wide steps before crouching behind a makeshift barrier, watching the young woman on stage sit up and stretch. Helaena reached forward from her perch and placed her hand on my knee, her skin warm against mine, grounding me in the moment as the man in the mask began creeping closer toward the girl on stage. A Beast on the way to claim his Beauty, I realized with a thrill.

“Is it always fairytale-based?” I whispered the question into Helaena’s ear, so close my lips brushed against her delicate skin.

“No,” she shook her head, answering in the same respectful hush. “They do all sorts of things - exhibitions, demonstrations. But this seemed more… you.”

Before I could ask what she meant, Aemond’s broad hand tightened around my neck.

“Pay attention,” he commanded in a low, firm voice behind my ear, turning my head back to face the stage. From Helaena’s guilty start and the way she also turned her attention back to the scene unfolding before us, I guessed he’d given her a similar reminder. Normally I would have bristled against his domineering tone, but it sent a shiver down my spine instead, making me feel as deliciously helpless as the beauty the beast prowled towards. As if he knew, Aemond trailed the tips of his fingers down my neck and between my shoulder blades.

The task of watching the stage while he teased me like this felt Herculean, but I managed to keep my eyes on the performers, watching as the girl on stage finally registered the presence of the beast. Her brown eyes blew wide as he loomed over her and the two engaged in what could only be considered a dance. Their chemistry was a wild thing, crackling between them as they pushed and pulled, as she ran and he gave chase. The Beast reached for her, catching the pale pink ribbon that held her hair tied up, and it cascaded down her back just as he caught her, pulling her against his chest.

As his lips found her neck and his hands drew her skirt farther up her thighs, Aemond's fingers dipped below the hem of my dress. The touch itself wasn't indecent, was hardly anything more than innocent, but every nerve ending in my body lit up. He shifted his thigh beneath me, riding my dress higher, just as the beast shed the girl of her dress, her body now bare beneath the spotlight, and I fought the urge to reach back and pinch him for teasing me. But I was riveted by the performance as the actress finally gave in to the beast, succumbing to him and letting him lay her out over the stage, her back arched as he wedged himself between her thighs and devoured her.

Aemond's hand slid further beneath my dress and I couldn't stop the hitch of my breath. I knew, logically, that no one was watching us, too engaged by what was happening on stage, or what they were up to in their own seats, but my cheeks still heated at the idea, at the clandestine nature of letting this practical stranger slide his skilled fingers beneath the damp fabric of my underwear. I bit back a moan as he did just that, parting my folds, teasing at the wetness he found there. I wanted to roll my hips, to chase the pleasure his touch promised. But I stayed still, afraid to call any attention to us.

In front of me, the Beast lay on his back, the girl, his Beauty, now straddling his hips, her face flushed from her earlier release on his tongue. She rode him, claimed him just as earnestly as he had claimed her, taking her agency and making him hers. They moaned in tandem, not the sort of practiced sounds I had heard in porn or made with partners I was more than eager to get out from under, but something more feral, more honest. As the Beast reached forward to clutch at her breasts, Aemond pinched lightly at my thigh, a hint to open my legs wider. I gave in, just an inch, and was rewarded with a lazy circle against my clit. All I wanted was to drop my weight back against him, to spread my thighs farther and see what his wicked touch could wring from me. But even as I saw other patrons doing exactly that, I knew I couldn't, knew I wouldn't.

This entire night had been totally unlike me. Taking Helaena up on the invitation had left me filled with nerves. We'd spoken often enough at school and I desperately wanted to call her my friend. She was impossible not to adore, and denying her anything felt wrong. We'd flirted and when I finally gathered the courage to ask her for her number, she'd slapped me right in the face with an invite to the most exclusive club in town. How could I say no? Especially when she mentioned the more mysterious of her brothers would be there too.

The Beast had planted his feet on the stage, his hands gripping bruises against his Beauty, driving himself up into her. Her face bunched with pleasure as she fell forward, her hands landing on his chest to brace herself as he fucked her roughly. I felt my pulse quicken, my lungs constricting as Aemond slid a finger inside me, and then another. I couldn't stop myself, arching my back slightly to grind down against his hand. His fingers were long, slender and graceful. They felt divine inside of me and I knew it wouldn't be long until he worked me up and over that peak, the muscles of my thighs already twitching with it.

Suddenly Beauty came with a low groan, the blood rushing up her neck to settle in her cheeks as the Beast beneath her roared his own end, their bodies going rigid. She had thrown her hands above her head in a jubilant gesture as the Beast spilled inside her, as if unafraid for anyone, everyone, to see her pleasure. Then the music died and for a moment the room was silent except for the sound of ragged breathing. I couldn't figure out where one breath started and the next began, which was mine or Helaena's or even Aemond's. The spotlight went dark and the melancholy instrumental music that had accompanied the performance melted back into the low, heavy bass from earlier.

Aemond's hand was out from under my dress before the lights returned to normal. I hissed at the loss of him, canting forward as if seeking him out. The neediness of the gesture left me feeling more than a little pathetic, especially as he growled, "on your feet." But his voice was strained, rough even, and that gave me more than enough satisfaction. I blinked up at him, my mind hazy and buzzing after being yanked so abruptly from what had promised to be a wild sort of release. Helaena stood first and offered me a hand, pulling me up on shaking baby deer legs. She just smiled like she knew and reached up to tug at the ends of my hair.

The crowd blurred around us as we moved past the stage, past the bar, and deeper into the club. I looked down, startled, when the click of my heels against the polished wood floors turned muffled, my footsteps suddenly cushioned by plush carpeting. We were in a hallway, the walls paneled in rich, dark wood, an expanse of wealth relieved only by a series of doors, each one different from the last. One a rich, blood red with golden accents, another gunmetal stark but littered with peepholes, the third a shockingly clear plate glass. I caught a glimpse of twining limbs and chains within and finally realized where we were headed.

“Why a private room? I thought the whole point of this place was taking what we wanted and no one caring?”

“I don’t like anyone seeing what’s mine.” Aemond turned to me, one arm around his sister’s waist. My heart thundered as his gaze pinned me to the emerald green door we’d stopped in front of. Helaena leant back against him, a look of feline contentment on her features as she gazed at me through hooded eyes.

“What did you want when you came here, Lady Grey?” It wasn’t so much a question as a gentle prompting, an invitation to voice the desire that had drawn me to them like a moth to a bonfire ever since that first time I’d seen them on campus. They’d looked so out of place they might as well have been another species. Two fae royals slumming it with mortals for their own amusement, sampling whatever pleasures they wished to indulge in, and tempting the rest of us with wicked delights if only we’d be bold enough to seek them.

I ached to be bold.

“You,” I breathed. “Both of you.”

“Yes, that was it.” Helaena tipped her head up to meet Aemond’s gaze and said “See?”

“Hm.”

Before I could worry that I was failing some unspoken test he leaned in with that sleek, predatory grace and twisted the door knob by my hip.

“After you,” he purred.

Part Two

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