#an immortal trapped in the body of a kid

[7arami]

Cryptic Radio Host Billy Batson

Billy would make the prefect cryptic radio host. Maybe he is from ancient Greece, cursed to be the Champion he is stuck in the body he had when he first transformed.

Billy has walked this Earth for millenniums, he was seen the rise and fall of empires. He has witnessed the mindless slaughter of man over and over again. He continues to watch as the world rots around him due to pollution. But he has also seen good, and has done his best to spread good. Even if that means being with left with the pain of watching the ones he loves die and knowing he will always be alone.

At some point Billy makes his own radio show, I think he would still be called Whiz Kid. It is on a frequency not many can reach, only pure luck will allow you find it. Billy's radio station is in the middle of nowhere, practically a wasteland. It is where he spends his time when he is not wondering or saving the world from impending doom.

Billy uses his shows to reveal things long forgotten. Historical conversations that hadn't been recorded or kept behind closed doors. He shares the Earth's secrets, unveils what lurks in the deepest depths of our seas, boasts of the mysteries within our universe. Most people think the Whiz Kid isn't real. But it's said if you do find it, the information told rattles the listeners to their core.

[theskyexists]

Ok looked at all the vampire f/f books listed on sappfic.com or whatever and. Thats not a lot comparatively and also I had an idea! Who wants to read the one scene i already wrote for it

[evilminji]

Okay but? We of the DPxDC? Are COMPLETELY Sleeping on DPXBNHA?

And not even for the Main Plot Shenanigans!

Just?? It has ALL of DC's super powers? But MORE OF THEM. And like 80% of the population has um! Danny can?? Finally achieve his DREAM of being???

JUST SOME DUDE™!

Yeah, he's in Japan. That's a bit of a learning curve. And YEAH, there was a cataclysmic war like a few centuries back that sorta... fucked everybody up. No one wants to talk about it. There may be mass graves and Never Forget memorials. But?

On the SURFACE!

This place seems utopian!

No ghost hunters! Advanced technology! Robust social services*!

Wait... what was that asterisk? What do you mean "corrupt shadowy government organizations"? What do you MEAN "Immortal Supervillians"? NO SPACE PROGRAM!?!? AaaaaAAAAAAAAAAH?!?!? I'M IN HELL!!! This is ACTUALLY THE BAD PLACE, THIS IS HELL, OH GOD NOOOOOOO-!!!!!!

Cause see?

There are SO MANY REASONS he'd end up there?

Think about it! Wish that he lived somewhere his weird biology wouldn't exclude him from becoming an astronaut? In Quirks having Bnha Japan EVERYBODY has weird biology! Y'ain't special! You could TOTALLY be an astronaut!..... if we HAD those! We do not. Shut down that program during the Quirk Wars and never really started it again. (And somewhere, Desiree LAUGHS)

Or MAYBE? Things are getting a little hot on the ground? Bit TOO spicy. The Family Fenton and Friends have fallen back, behind the barely holding shields. Not even the Mansons considerable political maneuvering could stop the inevitably of human fear and blind unthinking hatred. Money can't buy everything, in the end. There is only ONE(1) way out.

Through the Zone.

Plan: Strangers In A Strange World is a go.

They're all Limnal enough to fake it. Sam with her plants. Tucker with his technology and persuasion. Jazz with her limited empathy. Their parents with their... well, weirdness. And with a touch of ghostly assisted meddling? Well, they've always BEEN there! Haven't they?

And that's not to MENTION the random 4 year olds with no control! JUST coming into their powers! With all those big emotions in tiny bodies? Startling events and tantrums? Villian attacks? What could THEY possibly hope to do to control or guide that fresh new power? It does what it does and the rest of us are just along for the ride!

If Danny happens to be minding his business and gets accidentally kidnapped by a VERY distraught 4 year old? Well, that's hardly the KIDS fault, now is it? They're FOUR! That is basically a toddler! Tiny child! They are upset, confused, and didn't mean to do ANYTHING. He's a hero. And Heros don't blame little kids from accidents, no matter HOW stressed it makes them.

No, the curse like a sailor INSIDE their head. Like an ADULT.

Just? Imagine~☆

The slow transition from *starry eyed shoujo sparkles* "This is SO COOL~!" to "huh, that's... kinda weird. And Sus. Weird Sus. Maybe nothing... oh! A distraction!" To "okay, this KEEPS happening, that was shady. You all saw that right? You realize that's not NORMAL, right? That that's fucked up? Not cool?" To "oh god, oh God, OH GOD! I'm in HELL! This is actually HELL! I'm trapped in HELL!!! WHAT THE FUC-"

Like? This kid LOVES space. LOVES the stars. And this is one of the few Superhero Cannon that SPECIFICALLY MENTIONS that IN CANNON? Thanks to Quirks? As in Superpowers? That VERY THING got fuckin SCRAPPED. Gutted. Consigned to be a relic of the past so they could all focus on punching each other Real Good.

He would weep BLOOD. Chew the WALLS. The LEVEL of unhinged this child would unleash? Not as Danny Phantom... but as DANNY J. FENTON? Beautiful. Vaguely psychotic. Definitely doing the Fenton Name proud. God, the NOISE HE WOULD MAKE would be inhuman and yet somehow? Come entirely from his human half.

They👏 Would👏 Hear👏 BOSS👏 MUSIC👏

I don't even know if he'd CARE about the main characters. They'd be tangential at best. The man would be in a one man war with I-Island over their lack of space program and hoarding of scientific progress. Probably living out of an abandoned building or forgotten subway station. Just? The MOST bedraggled, feral genius to ever haunt Japan.

As opposed to the REFINED feral genius. Who is Nedzu.

I bet Danny stands outside his school at one AM waving his scientific papers at a camera and YELLS. Like a deranged lunatic. Mismatched slippers and a "haven't slept in a week" crazed glint in his eyes.

He's Nedzu's new best friend. They GET each other.

And, yes, Nedzu COULD let him in... but it's faster to just let him yell and read the papers through the camera. Who CARES if they both seem insane! Let's shout about advanced physics and engineering at 1 am! Over the speakers!!! Oh? You need to physically SHOW me the notes? Well I COULD unlock the gates... OR just wait for you to finish scrambling up the walls like a feral Racoon, to then throw yourself OVER them.

Either, Or.

I'm just SAYING! We are SLEEPING on this! There is so, SO much fun to be had! Danny breaks rules and minds! His outrage over injustice and the complete lack of SPACE! His protection instincts going BUCK FUCKIN WILD. The INDESCRIBABLE hate boner he would have for Mr. "Lemme just rip parts of your soul out so I can collect your powers like pokemon cards" AfO.

There? Is SO MUCH, guys. SO MUCH!

@hdgnj @the-witchhunter @babbling-babull @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @dcxdpdabbles @mutable-manifestation

[lululocomo]

More of Never-ending twilight AU!

Context: Macaque is brought back to life by Lady bone Demon and fully become her champion. His soul is trapped in his own body, only a spectator to what his body is doing. And his body only follow his lady orders, and doesn't remember anything about who Wukong is to him, or even about his kids. Wukong refuse to fight him, there is no way he would attack his mate, especially seeing after so long. It's been centuries since he last saw Macaque, and seeing him acting like this hurt. Everytime he try to talk to him, to remind him, but it doesn't work. So he flee, hoping to find a solution.

And the only thing he can think about is to kill LBD, not caring about the host she has taken over. If it mean he can get his mate back, he's ready for anything.

But Macaque soul is bond to LBD, so is she dies, so does he, only giving him a few second of clarity and control over his body before dying again.

Which will not happen. thanks to Redson and his understanding of artifact, he save Macaque before it's too late and put him in a sort of stasis. this give them all the time they need to break the link between the two souls. It take years until it's done and Macaque body is stable enought, but Macaque is brought back to life without being controled.

The family is broken, MK is a ghost that cannot be seen by gold vison, Macaque have some serious aftereffects after being dead and controlled by LBD, Meihua is no more and has entered the cycle of reincarnation, and Wukong is constantly afraid of losing someone again.

(btw in the spin-off, MK and Meihua never ate the peach of immortality)

first/ prev

ALSO!!!! @estellardreams IS WRITING A FIC FOR THIS AU SO CHECK IT OUT!!!

GO READ THE FANFIC HERE!

[aventurineswife]

You know those videos of Dads and their dad reflexes with their baby’s? Like how they catch their kids before they land on their heads? Can I request Aventurine, Sunday, Dr Ratio, Blade, and Jing Yuan doing that?

Not really part of the request but I like to think Yanqing made it his mission to be a “big brother” to his generals new baby and has had a moment where he was alone watching the baby and saved it from hitting their head poor guy probably panicked💀

Caught in the Moment

Tags: Aventurine, Sunday, Blade, Jing Yuan, Ratio, Domestic Fluff, Fatherhood, Protective Dads, Gentle Moments, Character Reflection, Calm Affection, Parenthood, Quiet Peace.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma (Blade), Mentions of immortality (Blade), Mild violence (mentions of near danger).

A/N: please, he probably had a heart attack! 😭🙏

It was a quiet evening at Aventurine's lavish home, the dim glow of luxurious lamps casting a soft hue over the room. He sat at the long, sleek table in the dining room, tapping a pen rhythmically against the polished wood as he mulled over some calculations. Despite the grandiose trappings of his surroundings, tonight wasn’t about strategy or high-stakes games—this was his time with the child.

Aventurine’s latest gamble was one he hadn't anticipated: fatherhood. And while he was known for his cunning and calm in the face of danger, he had no strategy for this—no game to play. His child was his greatest unknown, and they had a way of defying expectations.

Suddenly, from across the room, the unmistakable sound of small feet scurrying broke the silence. Before he could register the moment fully, there they were—his little one, gleefully running toward him. But, alas, the floor was slippery beneath their tiny shoes.

Aventurine’s heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, he pushed himself from the table, his expression an unreadable mask, though his body tensed as he tracked their trajectory. His child, still oblivious to the danger, began to stumble—hands reaching forward for balance, their tiny body tipping perilously.

His movements were lightning-quick. Without hesitation, he swept in and caught them mid-air, lifting them up just before they could crash into the floor. His arms cradled them with the same calculated precision he applied to business deals.

They giggled, unaware of the near disaster, while Aventurine couldn’t suppress a small, wistful smile. The adrenaline rush of the moment lingered for only a second, but it made him realize that, in this chaotic game of life, he’d finally found something worth playing for.

"Careful there," he said, his voice light and playful, masking the fleeting unease he felt inside. "You’ve got to pace yourself in this game."

The room was bathed in the soft glow of early evening, a tranquil calm that was almost otherworldly. Sunday stood by the window, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon as he reflected on his recent decisions. His mind, always occupied by existential ponderings, occasionally sought refuge in the simple joy of watching his child play.

They were playing by the couch, their little fingers gripping the soft carpet beneath them as they tried to stand, tottering on wobbly legs. Sunday smiled softly, his eyes flickering with pride. A part of him couldn’t help but admire the resilience they displayed—a quality he himself had struggled to find in his own past.

As they took another step, Sunday’s serene focus shifted into mild alarm when they lost their balance. Their body tipped forward, heading toward the edge of the coffee table.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sunday’s wings fluttered slightly—a subconscious reaction—and he moved forward, his tall figure flowing across the room in a series of graceful strides. He reached out just in time, his hands effortlessly catching them before they could collide with the table.

The little one blinked up at him, eyes wide in surprise, and he simply smiled softly, cradling them close to his chest. It was the kind of simple moment that his idealistic heart cherished—a moment that needed no words, just the soft comfort of protection.

“You’ve got to learn to balance in life,” he murmured gently, his voice like a soft breeze. “But don’t worry, I’m here to help you.”

For a brief moment, he felt the conflicting pull of his old idealism—his desire to shield them from harm, even if it meant navigating the murky waters of his own internal struggles. But for now, he let that quiet turmoil fade into the background, focusing only on the warmth of the child in his arms.

The laboratory-like atmosphere of Ratio’s home was filled with the soft hum of mechanical devices and the constant presence of books and research papers, creating an environment that was always abuzz with activity and intellect. Despite his usual air of self-assurance, today was different. Today, he had been tasked with looking after his child while he took a break from his intellectual pursuits.

Ratio was sitting at his desk, absently fiddling with his latest experiment, when a sudden shriek broke his concentration. Looking up, he saw his child—still too young to understand the consequences of their actions—leaning precariously over the edge of the nearby chair, trying to grab at something just out of reach.

Ratio’s heart rate quickened, but only for a moment. He had no time for hesitation. A flash of motion, and before the child could tumble from their position, he was there. His hand shot out, fingers grasping the back of their tiny shirt as he yanked them back into his arms.

"Impressive," he muttered under his breath, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he straightened them up in his arms. "Calculated risk taken... or perhaps not. Should’ve known better than to allow you to wander too close to danger."

The child, seemingly unperturbed by the near-miss, giggled and reached for his glasses, earning a soft chuckle from him. His reaction was a blend of calculated precision and the rare warmth he afforded only to those few who had earned it. He placed them back on the floor gently, adjusting his posture as he turned back to his work.

"Always be careful when testing boundaries," he murmured, his tone both pedagogical and affectionate. "Though, you’ll likely break a few rules before you understand the full implications."

The quiet flicker of pride—almost imperceptible in his usual cool demeanor—was enough to remind him that perhaps, just maybe, there was more to life than pure intellect and unrelenting pursuit of knowledge.

The night had settled over the Xianzhou Luofu, its vast corridors bathed in soft moonlight as Jing Yuan sat on the large velvet sofa in the living room. The quiet hum of his surroundings was a welcome change from the bustle of his duties as General. Tonight, however, was not about politics or strategy. It was time with his child.

They were seated on the plush carpet, playing with colorful blocks, the room filled with the gentle sound of their laughter. Jing Yuan's eyes flickered from his quiet reflection to the playful movements of the child, their small hands stacking the blocks with surprising focus.

Just as he was about to indulge in a rare moment of relaxation, the child, a little too eager in their exploration, began to stand, wobbling unsteadily as they took a tiny step forward. Jing Yuan’s eyes narrowed slightly, tracking every movement as they teetered dangerously close to the edge of a low table.

In an instant, his reflexes kicked in. He rose from his seat, his tall figure moving with an elegance that belied his usual languid demeanor. Without a sound, his hands shot out and caught the child just before they tumbled forward. The child, now cradled safely in his arms, blinked up at him, startled by the sudden movement.

"Careful," Jing Yuan said softly, his voice filled with a calm, knowing affection as he gently set them back on their feet. "It's easy to forget your balance, but it’s important to always be mindful of where you’re going."

The child giggled and reached for his arm, as though offering their own small form of reassurance. Jing Yuan smiled, his eyes softening in that rare moment of warmth, the fleeting sensation of peace that he had worked so hard to cultivate within the Xianzhou now extending to the quiet sanctuary of his home.

The dim light of Blade's home flickered, casting long shadows across the room where Blade sat, his arms folded across his chest. His usually cold, calculating demeanor was softened for the moment—he was at home, a place where the sharp edges of his mission seemed to dull just a little. His child, their presence almost a contradiction to his tortured past, was moving around the room, their tiny steps full of excitement and exploration.

His eyes followed them with a trace of something unspoken in his gaze. For all his power, his immortality, and his resolve to bring an end to his suffering, this—this quiet domestic moment with the child—was a reminder that there were things beyond his tragic existence.

But it didn’t last.

With a sudden, clumsy movement, the child, still unsteady on their feet, lost balance and began to fall towards the sharp edge of a table. Blade’s instincts kicked in—no hesitation, no thought of consequences. His hand shot out and, with uncanny precision, he caught the child in mid-air, their small form colliding gently against his chest. For a moment, the stillness was overwhelming. Blade’s heart didn’t beat, but in the silence, he felt something stir—a fleeting warmth that felt both foreign and familiar.

"Watch your step," Blade murmured, his voice low but laced with a tenderness he couldn’t quite hide. His gaze softened as the child looked up at him, a wide grin on their face as if nothing had happened.

The child wriggled out of his grasp, reaching for the toy they had been playing with earlier, completely unaware of how close they had come to danger. Blade stood for a moment, his gaze lingering on them, before a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips—an expression he rarely wore, but one that seemed to fit in this quiet, domestic world that somehow had found its way into his immortal existence.

"Even the smallest steps can be dangerous," he murmured, almost to himself. "But I’ll always be here to catch you."

And with that, Blade returned to his silent watch, torn between the eternal path he had chosen and the fragile peace that, for now, seemed to be the only thing worth holding onto.

[lordprettyflackotara]

6 inch heels || the proxies

smut minors DNI 18+ TW: stripper!dom!reader, exhibitionism, cucking lowkey, toby's a cute little virgin, creampie, masky and hoodie are assholes but get humbled so its okay

“Stop shaking kid you’re gonna be fine.”

Masky’s voice was rough as he inhaled his cigarette, glaring at the ‘smoking prohibited’ sign. Toby crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. “Y-You know I can’t help it,” He argued. He sat in between Hoodie and Masky, a small center stage in front of them. Toby was turning twenty two in human years, the brunette a few years away from being frozen in time. Proxies didn’t get much time off, if any. If they did it was heavily monitored and limited. Whether or not Masky would admit it though, he went out of his way to get Toby the ultimate birthday surprise. The Operator favored Toby over the others, the little ticking time bomb his not so subtle favorite. So Masky arranged a private dance with an experienced stripper, one that Ben had used before as well as Jeff. That way Toby wouldn’t be self conscious about his appearance if it were to escalate.

Masky was ninety percent sure the kid was a virgin, no matter what he told them. It wasn’t like Toby had unlimited options so Masky wasn’t judging, but he wanted to assist for the kids birthday. So here they sat, in the private room of a club. A body guard stood outside, one Ben paid lots of crypto to keep quiet about anything that happens inside of the velvet walls. Hoodie sat silently, his mind spinning with the sick things he’d rather do to you than just watch. But he would settle for now and let Toby have his moment. Toby sat anxiously, excitement and nervousness coursing through his veins. The three men were waiting patiently, their hungry gazes flickering to the door as it opened.

You were a seasoned stripper, to put it lightly. You had seen it all, heard it all, done it all. It was hard work, but staying loyal and quiet got you the best clientele. Ben Drowned was one of your favorite little pets, the blonde randomly sending you wads of cash for existing sometimes. So when he asked you for a favor, you knew you wouldn’t mind helping him out. You knew all sorts of weirdos lived out there, murderous immortals the least of your problems. Fluffing your hair you walked down the mysterious long hallway, the dim purple led lights the only lighting provided. You passed by many rooms, ignoring the sounds of moans and laughter. You took a deep breath as you nodded to your body guard, shoving off your fur coat and handing it to him for safe keeping. You despised leaving with a cum drenched coat. You opened the door, painting on a smile as you met the gaze of three hungry men. The longer you looked at them the more this was making sense, each of them more different than the last.

The one thing that was consistent though? The mask that hid their real faces. Your body guard closed the door behind you, trapping you with three mysterious buyers. "I heard it's somebodies birthday. Whose my lucky boy?" You asked. The one in the middle awkwardly squirmed in his seat. You grinned at the sight of his nervousness. "You must be Toby," You say, walking over to him. The clicking of your heels bounced off of the velvet walls, the three men mesmerized by you. "T-That I a-am," He sputtered. You found his stuttering adorable, causing you to lean over. You planted your hands on his knees, your breast falling out of your top as you leaned over him. "Tell me what you want me to do birthday boy," You purred seductively. Your touch seemed to make him visibly flustered, his hands shaky. "A d-d-dance would be nice," He concluded. You took a hint, noting his vibration seemed to be from your touch. You stepped onto the small stage, gripping the pole as you had many times before. You did a simple twirl, before doing the same chorography you had done dozens of time before. It was the perfect sequence. It showed just enough od your tits and ass without taking them fully out. "Cmon prude lose the panties," The hooded man grumbled, who you figured to be Hoodie. You shot him a nasty look, before returning your lustful gaze to Toby.

A cough interrupted the trance you and Toby were under, your gaze flickering over to him. He had already lit another cigarette, his mask off and beside him. Masky. You mentally scoffed at their rudeness, keeping in mind they named themselves Masky and Hoodie, they weren't all that. You played with the hems of your panties, relishing in the sight of Toby refraining from drooling. "Lose the top already," Masky huffed. Toby elbowed him, shooting him a dirty look. "D-Dude shut up," He argued. Masky rolled his eyes, taking another hit of his cigarette. "She's a stripper not an onlyfans model, we paid for tits, I wanna see some tits," He debated. The two began to bicker, arguing about respecting you. Hoodie sat their silently, his ominous gaze never straying from you.

"S-She's a p-p-person Masky!"

"Kid we paid for a service i'm just simply asking for the service."

In a swift motion you took a step down from the stage, placing your sharp six inch heel in between Masky's legs. It was mere centimeters away from his crotch, the proxies face paling at the sight. "Enough. Dipshit one and two, go over there," You ordered. You gestured your head to the right, signaling for them to move. Masky scoffed, rolling his eyes. You leaned over, grabbing the cigarette from his lips and placing it between your own. Confidently you leaned back, watching his lips part ever so slightly in surprise. "Now doggy," You barked. Masky tried to act like he wasn't intimidated, moving over to sit beside Hoodie. You inhaled the cigarette, plopping down beside Toby. "You want me to touch you baby?" You whispered, exhaling the smoke through your nose. Toby was mesmerized by you, your dominance only adding to your seductive aura. He nodded sheepishly, afraid to meet your gaze. You lifted his orange goggles off of his eyes, before tilting his chin upwards. "Words Tobias," You cooed. Toby swallowed, sputtering out consent. You grinned, your gaze briefly flickering over to the other two men. "You both have permission to watch and touch yourselves but if you interfere I won't hesitate to kick you out," You spat.

The proxies were not used to being bossed around by anyone besides their supernatural boss. You were ethereal, drop dead gorgeous, and your dominance only added to that. Masky's face turned a tint of pink, while Hoodie was suddenly thankful he hadn't removed his mask no matter how hot it was under there. You took one last hit of the cigarette before carelessly throwing it at the two proxies. You hadn't bothered to see where it had landed, your attention turning back to Toby. "Your friends are assholes, but I like you cutie," You purred. You maintained eye contact with his puppy dog eyes, pulling down his face mask. The gash in his cheek didn't bother you, considering you had seen Jeff before. You pressed your lips against his, Toby melting under your touch. He didn't have much experience kissing, but your lips were patient and kind, allowing him to catch up with you. You smelled delicious, your vanilla perfume flooding his nostrils. Gently you placed your hand on his knee, creeping upwards towards his thigh. "Can I taste you?" You purred. His pupils were blown with lust. "B-But aren't you tasting me r-r-right now?" Toby stuttered.

You grinned as you looked down at the noticeable tent that had formed in his pants. Toby realized what you meant, his face flushing red. "O-Oh. Y-y-yes please," He pleaded. You crawled down onto the floor, helping the brunette pull down his pants and boxers. You glanced over at the other two proxies, who were silently watching in awe. Their cocks were hard as well, begging to be let out of their pants. Toby's cock was hard and erect, the tip already leaking precum. You licked your lips as you licked up the underside of it. "I need you to be as loud as you can baby, let everyone know how good I make you feel," You ordered. Toby tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, watching as you fully placed his cock in your mouth. You lowered your head onto his shaft, before beginning to bob your head up and down. Toby's whimpers were so pathetic it was making you horny, your slick beginning to rub on your inner thighs. You kitten licked his tip, swirling your tongue around his slit playfully. HIs hand involuntarily found your hair, unsurely pulling at the locs. You could see Masky and Hoodie out of the corner of your eye, both of their cocks in their hands.

You took Toby deeper, feeding off of the sound of the brunettes moans. You forced your jaw to go slack, taking him to the base. Your nose brushed against his bush, the proxy beneath you trembling in pleasure. You could tell he was getting close to the edge, his cock starting to twitch in your mouth. You quickly pulled off of him, causing him to audibly whine. "Why?" Toby whispered, causing you to grin as you wiped the saliva off of your lips. You crawled on top of him, undoing your top and tossing it to Masky. You shot him a devious smirk before properly straddling Toby. "I wanna feel all of you baby," You purred, running your hands down his chest. You pulled your panties to the side, rubbing your slick up and down his aching cock. "You feel how wet you've made me?" You asked. Toby nodded, practically drooling as he looked down at your dripping cunt. "You've been so good for me. You deserve a reward, don't you birthday boy?" You asked teasingly. Toby babbled pleas of agreement, causing you to glance over at Hoodie and Masky. Both of them were edging themselves at this point, a cocky smile crossing your lips. "See boys? This is what you get when you're a good boy," You laughed, before lifting yourself and guiding Toby's cock inside of you.

You sank lower on his cock, tilting your head back in pleasure. He stretched your walls more then you had anticipated, your unholy sounds genuine. Anxiously Toby grabbed your hips, watching you sink lower and lower until you finally made it to the base. You both sighed in relief, your eyes meeting his. You propped yourself up on his shoulders, using him for support as you began to bounce on his cock. "Fucking hell Toby," You whined, the sound of his name falling off of your lips causing the brunette to lose all composure. His primal instincts kicked in, his hips fucking upwards to match your pace. "That's it baby, such a fast learner," You praised. You could hear Hoodie grunting, Masky biting his lip in an attempt to muffle his own sinful noises. Toby's cock brushed against your g spot perfectly, as if his cock was made for you. Your gummy walls were clinging to him, the brunette losing himself in the pleasure as he fucked you. "You f-f-feel so good," Toby sputtered. You grinned as you grabbed his face and forced him to look up at you. "So do you cutie," You purred.

You pressed your lips against his, both of you groaning into each others mouths as you rode his cock. Meanwhile Hoodie and Masky were panting messes, Masky's orgasm coming first. He rutted his hips up into his hand, obsessed with imagining you riding him instead of Toby. Hoodie was trying to hold on, watching as you slid your hand down to your clit. Drawing the slow circles gave that extra stimulation you needed, your moans growing louder. You nibbled on Toby's bottom lip, your eyes fluttering open. "Cum with me Toby. Cum deep inside of me birthday boy," You encouraged, your walls squeezing him tighter. Toby gripped your hips harder, fucking up into you one last time as he experienced pure euphoria. You cursed as you came right after him, his warm seed flooding your cunt. You both sat intertwined for a moment, panting in unison. You glanced over at Hoodie, who had yet to finish. Masky sat silently, his hand covered in white ropes. You slowly climbed off of Toby, shooting daggers at Hoodie. "You're lucky I feel like being nice," You hummed.

Confidently you sat on the stage in front of Hoodie, spreading your legs. It gave Hoodie the perfect view of your puffy red cunt. Toby's seed began to spill out of your abused pussy, dripping out of you. You smirked as Hoodie's eyes widened under his mask.

"Go on asshole, cum for me."

[wendichester]

Feeling angsty today, so I'm requesting a reader who's cursed to sacrifice their life to save another every time they are in danger. Reader resurrects every time they die, saving someone else from death and is basically somehow immortal, doesn't mean they don't feel pain.

Reader can't control said curse and finds themselves in dangerous situations at random. After they die, their body disappears back to where they were, before the said dangerous situation happens. (Like a checkpoint)

Couldn't figure out a possible reason why reader continues to self-sacrifice their life, so I hope you can find something that suits your taste

Found family with Dean and Sam type of relationship preferred! Thank you in advance<3

⋆˚꩜｡ checkpoint,

summary. you're cursed. is it immortality? is it some sick joke from the universe? no one has been able to even get close to a real answer. not even sam. but damn, if he'll ever stop trying. and damn, if dean will ever stop trying to take your place instead.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x reader (non-romantic) genre. angsty

wordcount. 705

notes / warnings. repetitive death (reader), mentions of physical pain/injury (non graphic), self-sacrifice, trauma, grief, survivor's guilt, sam and dean love you as brothers, found family.

It happens again in Ohio. A burning building. Screams. A trapped mother and her child on the third floor.

Dean shouts for you to wait.

You don’t.

And when the roof collapses—when the beam crashes down and crushes your ribs, your lungs, your heart—it’s over in a blink. A gasp. A flash of fire behind your eyes.

And then?

You’re back.

Back in the dingy motel room, four hours earlier. Back in the chair where you were lacing your boots. The burn marks on your hands are gone. The soot. The blood.

Sam stares at you like he’s seen a ghost.

Dean drops the flask he’s holding.

“…again?” he asks, voice hollow.

You nod. “There were kids.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. He looks away.

It’s not that you want to die. It’s just that you always do.

Sometimes it’s a car crash. Sometimes it’s a gunshot meant for Dean. Sometimes it’s Sam, bleeding out in a cornfield, and the next moment you’re lying there instead, blood soaking your shirt, vision going dark, his scream echoing.

And then you’re back.

Back to your “checkpoint.” Like some cruel cosmic save file. The world doesn’t reset—just you. And someone else lives because of it.

You used to try to stop it. Avoid danger. Stay quiet. Stay safe.

It didn’t matter.

The curse found a way.

Now?

Now you lean into it. Not because you're brave. Not because you're trying to be a hero. But because someone always dies when you don’t.

You’d rather it be you.

That night, Sam finds you on the hood of the Impala, legs curled up, hoodie too big. It’s quiet. Stars overhead. Cold wind licking at your cheeks.

He hands you a coffee and sits beside you.

“I looked again,” he says after a beat. “Tried every lead. Every old book. The thing you’ve got—it’s not a typical resurrection curse. It’s ancient. Pre-human. Almost like… punishment? But for what, we don’t know.”

You sip, eyes distant. “Maybe I was supposed to die once. Maybe I stole someone else’s place.”

He flinches. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Wouldn’t be the first time I did.”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he reaches out. Holds your hand.

Dean says nothing until three days later. You’re patching a tear in your jacket on the motel bed. He comes in, shuts the door, paces like he’s about to blow.

“I watched you burn,” he says finally, voice breaking. “I ran back into that damn building. You were under a beam. I couldn’t pull you out.”

You look up. Swallow hard.

“And then you were just back. Drinking gas station coffee like nothing happened.”

“It’s not nothing,” you say quietly.

He rounds on you. “Then act like it! Because I can’t—Sam can’t—we can’t keep losing you like this and pretending it’s normal.”

You stare at each other.

He exhales shakily. “You feel it, don’t you? Every time.”

You nod.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eye, then drops onto the bed beside you like he’s being crushed by something invisible.

“Every time I see you dead,” he murmurs, “it’s like losing a little sister all over again. I’m starting to flinch every time you leave the room.”

You want to say something. You really do.

But what’s left to say?

You’re cursed.

You die.

You come back.

And you don’t know why.

So you say the only thing that’s true:

“I don’t do it for me.”

He glances at you.

“I do it for you. For Sam. For the girl in the fire. The guy on the bridge. The hunter who never got a chance.” Your voice is raw now. “It happens whether I want it to or not, Dean. At least if I’m there on purpose, someone else gets to live.”

Silence.

Then, softly:

“You’re family, y’know that?”

You look at him.

“I don’t care if you’re cursed, immortal, undead, or possessed. You’re one of us. And if this thing keeps happening—” his voice thickens— “then we don’t let you do it alone. Ever again.”

You nod. Tears sting.

Found family. With all the grief. All the love. All the scars.

You die a thousand times.

But at least now?

You come back to them.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

Ehem it's me pink font, fnaf phase hit me hard so I have an idea Cassidy!reader being forgotten until the whole missing children hits the news, so I have an idea of her body being found but since then batfam see her literally everywhere, at first it's like a corner of the eye trick, and escalates to she's their sleep paralysis demon, but mostly haunts like Bruce bc turns out he's the one who took her to the pizzeria and left early, leading to her "going missing" but like haunts Alfred in like a I remember u, ur cool wanna see a trick, and busts a silly little dance move in the corner of his eye while waiting for him to rate it, she's just silly but still may hold a little bit of resentment to Alfie(P.S girldad!joker lives forever in my heart💕💕💕)(P.P.S love you, and ur writing, ur amazing and deserve everything good in life)

omg dw pink font your author nim also has a fnaf addiction lol and ty foe the kind words , i hope well for you and everyone else (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

━━━ now for those unfamiliar with fnaf lore , cassidy is one of the two spirits possessing golden freddy. in particulary its theorized cassidy is the child haunting the top part of the animatronic ( the other child haunting the bottom portion is still a debate but many belive it's crying child )

━━━ now due to how erractic and aggressive golden freddy is and the actions dine in fnaf 6 ( basically trapped william afton , the man who killed cassidy and stuffed in the body in the first place in an endless loop of hell where all his victims hunt him down) cassidy is theorized of all the kids to have the most gruesome death.

━━━ little is known about how cassidy died specifically but we know it had to have bewn painful and gruesome , maybe jason in AK knight game type torture because cassidy is known as a vengeful spirit.

━━━ if feel like casaidyreader simply got dropped off at freddy's pizza one evening because bruce had an important meeting to attend , alfred was too busy to see abt cassidyreader and the older kids were out and about. thus cassidyreader is left at freddy's pizza by themselves none th wiser.

━━━ in true fnaf fashion , due to neglectful fathers *cough* ( William Afton , Henry Emily , Edwin Murray and now Bruce Wayne) their kids pay the ultimate price of being essentially killed and stuffed into an animatronic ( theorized for david's death)

━━━ for cassidyreader , i can see william afton approaching them , pretending to be a friend and a father , and poor cassidyreader non the wiser thought the strange man in a bunny costume wanted to be their friend . the entire day cassidyreader felt so happy and special because someone liked them finally , someone was finally spending tim with them , listening to them and even hugging them !!

━━━ only for later that night to be taken to a backroom where they were brutally beaten to death . i feel like to make it even cruellee , william would hug them and cassidyreadee would hug him back - forgiving him because maybe he was juat mad or upset !! only for william to plunge a knife through them and stuff them into golden freddy.

━━━ later that same evening , dour more kids die and the same pattern followed , a yellow man in a bunny suit kills them and stuffs them into an animatronic.

━━━its unsure if at this time william knew about remnant ( essentially a liquidized version of one's soul , once used on a living person it can give them immortality , kind of like the lazarus pit )

━━━ it is theorized he did knew about it due to circus baby having a scooper room ( a tool that guts out an animatronic for remnant [later versions of this tool can inject remnant into the animatronic] ) but for this scenario and for added angst , we can say that william afton did use the scopper on them and swiftly after discarded them in a backroom.

━━━ of course next day , gotham headlines exploded with the news of ' five kids missing at freddy's pizzaria !!' and at first the wayne household was unmoved by the news , kids go missing all the time in gotham . it was only when alfred went up to cassidyreader's room to wake them for breakfast he met the room bare and untouched.

━━━ it was theee and then alfred began frantically calling bruce to infoem him about cassidyreader's absence and at first Bruxe didn't really care but when he realized he left you at sais freddy's pizzaria it dawned on him the horror of what's happened.

━━━ in true batman fashion , him , tim drake , damian , jason and nightwing went to the pizzaria to look for any sign of anything. ot was already tok latw because freddy's entertainment ( the company that owns freddy's pizzaria and circus baby) already did their own 'investigation' aka cover up so they found next to nothing.

━━━ they left after that and returned back to their usual patrol but what they hadn't know was in that very moment , in a far away , sealed off backroom was cassiyreader's corpse rotting away.

━━━ weeks pass and everything was normal until the hauntings started. things going missing , random noises that echo around , the room going cold . so many paranormal things started happening but the batfamily ignored it.

━━━ it only started to get worse , damian being shoved down a flight of stairs earning him stitches , steph's hair curler fryung her hair off , dick waking up to being aggressively pulled off the bed , tim's laptops dying or unexplainably blue screening amd sometimss he sweats he saw casaidyreader walking past the halls , jason is met with hearing eerie giggles often when he's down in the cave , in the mkddle of training sometimes cass finds herself being pushed to the floor , barbra finds eeeie notes scattered around hee desk and sometimes the wheels of her wheelchair jams up and lastly bruce hasn't had a wick of sleep because whenever he tries he hears loud knocking on the door when no one is there and worse off yet he can see apperitions of cassidreader stating down at him.

━━━ the only person who hasn't been so violently affected qas alfred - one evebing it was juat him in the kitchen baking away and in the corner of his eye he can see cassidyreader's ghostky figure just sitting in a stool , humming as they just sat there. before alfred could fully turn around - cassidyreader is gone.

━━━it all comes to a head one day when bruce has costantine , zatana and deadman himself to come in and figure out what was going on . deadman then confirms that an angry entity is actively haunting the wayne household - that they were angry , sad and in pain - too vengeful to go back to the afterlife , that something was theetering them here.

━━━ it then really dawns in everyone that you are truly dead , long gone and they didn't do anything to fix it . a regretful but mourning fathee known aa bruce wayne begs them a way to bring you back - a way to talk to you atleast. zatana says it impossible , they had no corpse of cassidyreader to throw back into the pit and brung you back like jason and since cassidyreader is out to make the family suffer , she doubts they want to communicate with them.

━━━so the man that bruce wayne is - builds a machine set to capture your soul and bring you back.

this is so ahhhhh im sorry

also die young reader 🤝 cassidyreader haunting bruce wayne and making him feel like shit

[cellarspider]

Rambles in Star Wars History: The extreme shenanigans that changed an Empire

Bioware games can absolutely fascinate me, in part because of their worldbuilding, and in part because of where the worldbuilding ends. I mean, I did a whole long series of posts on the grammar of Qunlat and I have at least a dozen essays worth of material of exegetical analysis of religion in Dragon Age kicking around in my brain, which I keep threatening to actually manifest.

But since I'm here with my worldbuilding hat on, I'm going to ramble about Star Wars: The Old Republic, focusing on some of the sometimes-hilarious drama that's implied by the plot, and the implications for how these shenanigans remade a major galactic society in the process. Involved will be a man who faked his death to get out of going to meetings, a wine uncle who might become emperor, a living scowl with dangerous shoulders, and other assorted animals.

Expect a lot of bonus rambles in the image alt-texts, which is where I store commentary and jokes that I can't fit into the flow of the main post.

———

Before I dig into the topic at hand, I have to set the scene for those who don't know the game, or have forgotten in the fourteen years since the game launched.

Spoilers in the post below for Act 1-3 of the Imperial Agent, Sith Warrior, and Inquisitor storylines, Act 1 of the Jedi Knight storyline, the post-Act 3 Battle of Ilum flashpoint, and for various expansions including Rise of the Emperor, Knights of the Fallen Empire, Onslaught, and Legacy of the Sith. Assume that all reference links to Wookieepedia contain major spoilers.

SWTOR is an MMO set 3600 years before the Skywalkers crashed through the ceiling tiles of the galaxy, though it's not to say anything was less chaotic back then, just different chaos.

(Pictured: Anakin Skywalker, circa 32 BBY-4 ABY)

In this time, the titular Old Republic is opposed by a Sith Empire, which is precisely as functional as one might expect. After a decades-long conflict that ended with a Sith victory but left both sides exhausted, a state of cold war began. The Jedi, their Grand Temple destroyed, left Republic space to settle on an ancestral world. The Republic, battered and reeling, tried to recover its stride through use of its superior size and resources, and producing a truly unhinged number of superweapons.

The Sith Empire, in some ways, tried to pretend everything was fine for quite a while. They had successfully forced the Republic into a favorable treaty to end the war. They'd gained territory, they had a lot of work to do there.

…But as things started to look more and more like war again, they were left with the uncomfortable realization that they had sorta kinda killed most of the Sith in the last war, and Imperial citizens in good standing weren't producing enough Force-sensitive kids fast enough to rebuild the losses. Might've had something to do with most of them being dead.

The Empire, of course, is an absolute clusterfuck of a society. Slaves toil to maintain its power. Children of a slave and a citizen will be citizens themselves—unless they're "aliens", a category that includes everyone that isn't a human or a Sith pureblood, the original Sith species.

Being a citizen isn't great either: The Force-blind face mandatory conscription into the military, and can never rise to the highest echelons of society. Above them, the Sith act as a semi-hereditary aristocracy of evil space-wizards that serve an immortal, eldritch Emperor, their living god who has also kiiiind of gone AWOL for reasons only a few of them understand. He's torn between doing his job or staring at a living paperweight, and the paperweight has been winning. He also recently got trapped by an evil hole in the ground, it's complicated.

With the Emperor incommunicado, the duties of the state fall to the Dark Council, a ruling body of up to twelve Dark Lords of the Sith. Each have their own sphere of governmental influence, which are, one can only assume, very dark as well.

Presumably, the Dark Council had something to do with the inevitable yet still surprising solution to their space wizard deficit: over a thousand years of laws were suddenly overturned. Slaves, aliens, and prisoners were not only permitted to become Sith, it was now mandatory that they report for induction into training programs if they possessed any hint of Force-sensitivity.

This is how one of the eight protagonists of the MMO gets their start: if you play the Sith Inquisitor plotline, you begin as a former slave who has survived basic training and made it to the Sith Academy, where your teacher dearly wants to kill you. Your first mission: survive school.

I'm sure this is very relatable to quite a lot of you.

Now that I've got my PhD with only a few gray hairs, I'm looking back at this premise and thinking: This would completely upend the social framework of the Empire. You'd have every established Sith Lord in the Empire scrambling to kill these threats to their power, or harness them against their enemies, or both.

This is actually canon, but canon never touches on the broader, systemic implications of what the new Sith would do, and who they were before—Sure, the overseers of the training programs seem to be doing their damnedest to kill and undermine the newbies while maintaining plausible deniability, but enough of them survive to reshape the Empire. We know that. You play as one of them.

How in the fuck did the Dark Council ever manage to get this policy implemented in the first place? Obviously they did somehow, but the specifics are never mentioned.

But the specifics have the possibility to be hilarious.

The Dark Council itself is composed of Sith who either killed their way to the top, or inherited their seat from their Sith master—who they probably murdered. Turnover on most Council seats is incredibly high. The Spheres of Ancient Knowledge, Technology, and Military Offense each have three different Councilors within a single year, for example.

This also means that whoever ends up in charge of a Sphere might be entirely unsuited for it. Who heads up the Sphere of Expansion and Diplomacy? The least diplomatic guy on the Council, naturally. He goes by Darth Ravage, which fits in well enough with the three different Darths whose names mean 'death' (Thanaton, Mortis, and Rictus). The player can even end up as Darth Nox--'Darth Night'. You get the title by killing one of the Darth Deaths.

So, which of these barely-domesticated evil goths probably voted to allow 'inferior' beings to become Sith, overturning a fundamental tenet of imperial sith philosophy? Probably not the guy in charge of Sith Philosophy! We never see him, but he seems to have been a traditionalist. On the other hand, Darth "Murder has no rules" Ravage might not be huge on tradition, so we can mark him down as a "maybe". But he doesn't seem to be an instigator for something like this.

But on the subject of instigators: Darth Jadus.

Darth Jadus is an experience. While many of the other Council members make it quite clear they're angry enough to chew on the furniture, Jadus unnerves all of them by being utterly calm and composed, as long as you don't count how intensely fervent and irrational he sounds when he starts talking about the Dark Side. He's unhinged in a distressingly hinged-seeming way.

Heading up the Sphere of Intelligence, Jadus is a noted iconoclast on the Dark Council, using his authority to open Imperial Intelligence positions to aliens. He chooses slaves and Force-blind citizens to be his advisors and agents, ignoring the traditional power structures of the Sith. He prefers his literal cult following of fanatical adherents instead, who see him as a visionary savior, a terrifying inevitability, or both.

This means he seems to have basically no interest in elevating other Sith. In fact, he hates the way the rest of them run the Empire. Making more of them might potentially be against his interests.

Or at least it would be, if he didn't have some long-running secret plans that he wants to keep the other Dark Council members from catching wind of. Advocating for slaves, aliens and convicts to become Sith would superficially fall in line with his philosophy, and just raising the idea in public could cause such social chaos that his true plans would benefit from it. Jadus is also the most genre-savvy sith in the entire game: he seems to almost be aware at points that he's neither the protagonist nor main antagonist, and thus his evil plans involve not messing with either of them. When he jostles up against the main plot and realizes he has no plausible means to derail it, he responds by leaving the plot entirely.

Given the tactical chaos and uncomfortably fourth wall-touching strategies Jadus makes use of, let's mark him down as a "yes".

But Jadus is an unpopular one on the Council. He's creepy. Sith HATE feeling creeped out. That's supposed to happen to other people, dammit, not them! And with his disinterest in politics and his deep interest in foisting his manifesto on everyone, he's not the most effective Dark Councilor.

He might be able to pull in a few—Darth Decimus, head of Military Strategy, seems to have been quite willing to exploit any advantage he might be able to squeeze out of a situation. Fun side note, his voice actor also played the First Order officer who was just so done with Hux at the beginning of The Last Jedi.

[Video Description: A compilation of Mark Lewis Jones as Captain Moden Canady from The Last Jedi, with the video quality partially encrunchified by YouTube. This includes all of his shots from the film, from arrival of the Seige Dreadnought Fulminatrix, to the extremely annoyed look he gives the fireball that kills him. Sound supervisor Matt Wood was apparently pretty sure "FIRE ON THE BASE!" was going to be used as an EDM drop, and I can confirm, I've heard it out in the wild.]

Who else have we got rattling around in this Council, who might have extremely ridiculous reasons to vote yes? Well, we have Darth Vengean, head of Military Offense, was all about the Offense. Who needs defense? That nerd Darth Marr? HA! No, Vengean wanted to restart the war with the Republic. More bodies for the war machine would probably be fine with him.

Speaking of that nerd Darth Marr, Darth Marr.

Apparently he designed this armor himself. Solid effort, my man.

Marr is in his sixties by the time the game happens. He's one of the longest-surviving Dark Councilors, and he sounds so tired of his coworkers in every scene he's in. Heading up the Defense of the Empire, Marr also is the de facto leader of the Dark Council, by dint of being the only adult in the room.

Much like Jadus, he distances himself from the backstabbery and rivalries among the Council members. Unlike Jadus, he 100% means it, and has been focused on not making the Empire explode. He eventually ends up as the unofficial leader of the Empire until he gets one-shotted so hard it makes his ghost chill out a bit. He keeps the spikes, though.

So, if there's anyone on the Council who might vote for this on purely practical grounds, and has the power to push others into agreeing with him, because so help him if they don't stop holding duels in the conference room he's going to turn this Empire around—

Nobody listens to him on that, by the way. Both the Sith main plots involve duels in the conference room.

In fact, one of those duels is egged on by our last suspect. Marr might be a contender for longest-running Dark Councilor, but there is another candidate: Darth Vowrawn, who seems to be having a much better time being on the Council than Marr. I suspect the only reason why he doesn't have a bucket of popcorn with him in the Council chambers is because somebody made a rule that he had to stop doing that.

Vowrawn is a surprisingly cheerful old bastard who seems to have turned his hobby into his job. He shows up 'fashionably late' to someone else's attempted coup, after lamenting he can't sell tickets to the clusterfuck that's about to commence. In the expansions to the game, he can outmaneuver and outlive all of the competition and end up becoming the Emperor, at the age of 87.

Vowrawn is also indifferent to against the Empire's policies--he supports the ascension of a Zabrak to the Dark Council, and takes one as an apprentice as well. Beyond that, Vowrawn would have to support this move, because he's instrumental in any large project like this, both politically and practically. While the others I've mentioned all have roles explicitly to do with the aggressive expansion or protection of the Empire, Vowrawn heads the Sphere of Production and Logistics. In essence, he's the one who can decide whether all these other bozos get to eat or not.

If Vowrawn didn't accept this change, then it would have failed. So, he's a definite "yes" by default.

Speaking of bastards who are still active well into their eighties, we have one last major figure who isn't on the Council that likely advocated for this: Darth Malgus.

[Video Description: The "Deceived" trailer, set ten years before the game. God, I love this thing. This was the first trailer I saw for the game, and it got me, it really did. The Sith are just as ridiculous as they should be, combined with choreography that feels a lot more crunchy than lightsaber combat had been before, with distinct combat styles for the two main fighters. It's quick, it's impactful, and it's got a memorable conclusion. Love it.]

Malgus is as anti-racist and anti-classist as Jadus is, but without the insane transcendental Dark Side philosophy. Instead, he has an insane philosophy of bettering the Empire through eternal war, which he believes everyone should have an equal ability to participate in. He is what would happen if a Warhammer 40k character had an inside voice.

[Video Description: The "Disorder" cinematic trailer, set before the Legacy of the Sith expansion. Malgus is 75 here. Man's held together by spite and screws and whatever nutrients you can absorb by being thrown through walls. He's fully given up on the Sith Order at this point and is trying to do his own thing, and he makes it look rad. The choreography has only gotten better, goddamn. Why did it take me three goddamn years to watch this. IT'S REALLY GOOD.]

Malgus is a big deal in the military, with a lot of support from both the Force-blind soldiers and earning the loyalty of a surprising cross-section of Sith. We know this, because he nearly hijacks the Empire at one point in the early expansions. He'd be into this idea, and he probably advocated for it. While he'd have the most direct interaction with the military-related Councilors we already have in the "yes" column, he also has a history of annoying the bejeezus out of other Sith on "his" turf, so who knows! He may have been more persuasive to the others we haven't dug into.

And we can't really dig into all of them at the depth we have with some. Despite how bogglingly huge SWTOR is and the two thousand four hundred and ninety-five named characters and "Additional Voices" credits in IMDb, we never meet some of the Dark Councilors. If you don't play all the eight main storylines, you won't see all of them in the game. I'll admit, I've never seen Darth Hadra, because I've never gotten that far in a Republic-aligned storyline! The Sith you encounter in their stories can often be more one-note, because they're purely there as antagonists rather than people you are legally required to hang out with, and thus have more opportunity to pester mercilessly.

[Video Description: A clip from my own Warrior run-through, featuring my big lad Rejalgar, his coolest friend Vette, and his boss, Darth Baras, who is presently having a screaming tantrum, which Rejalgar makes worse with the most delightfully straight-faced "Is there a problem here?". The Warrior plotline lets you play things sincerely evil, sincerely noble, or sincerely hilarious. Do you want to see Jedi bluescreen when a Sith just straight-up refuses to be violent? Do you want to sidestep a boss fight by offering a family a government pension, something your boss commends as being very devious and evil? Do you want to break up a fight between gangs by threatening to eat them? Come play the Sith Warrior storyline, and be the chaos you want to see in the galaxy!]

[Video Description, from a clip I uploaded to YT specifically for this post after I found out you can only upload one video per tumblr post wtf: A clip from my Inquisitor run-through, featuring my extremely shirtless lad, Sericus, playing coy and a little airheaded when called up by his Sith master, Darth Zash. Back in the day, Purebloods weren't supposed to be played as canon for this storyline, but there were tweaks later made to dialog that provided a canon explanation for how someone with visible Sith ancestry could end up in this situation. The storyline, however, unfortunately does not fully account for a character whose ideal job description is 'villain's beautiful and deceptively intelligent consort, the true power behind the throne'. It assumes you're playing a character who wants to go conquer and/or do mad wizard-science. Bonus points for eventually letting you marry your eight foot tall razor-faced cannibal thrall though, that's very fun.]

Why don't we see all of the Dark Council? Well, because they're ultimately not important to the story as a group. Events keep you locked tightly under the purview of just one or two of them on the Sith side of things, before the post-game and expansion plots launch you into the experience of being a major player in Imperial affairs, and Imperial affairs launch themselves at you in return.

Everyone realizes the Emperor wants to eat them. Then he dies, except he doesn't. Malgus takes over the Empire for a few weeks. Marr takes over, but half the Council is dead and the rest are still in orientation and are probably also dead, because their would-be successors assassinated them. The Emperor, only mildly inconvenienced by also being dead, eats a planet. Then things go completely off the deep end, and the Dark Council is no longer your concern at all.

It's economical storytelling to not belabor the rest of the Councilors, and playing through as an ex-slave Inquisitor, you continue to face enough challenges directly linked to your background that the resistance feels systemic, even if you don't actually see all that many others who are facing the same issues.

But I think there's a lot of potential for some really wild storytelling in there. Your character receives some level of basic training before they reach the Sith Academy, along with a whole batch of ex-slaves. What did that entail? How was it organized? What happens when folks from abolitionist movements start being trained as sith, gaining all the attendant legal authority over the life and death of others?

And what about the prisoners who were released for training? While one canon option is to play a character who was facing immediate execution for participation in violent anti-Imperial resistance, at least a fair chunk of Force-sensitive prisoners were probably serving longer sentences. What happens when prison gangs start gaining a foothold in the Sith Academy, where they're too dysfunctional to even form Mean Girl cliques? What happens when some of their members become full Sith? How many of them might have Hutt backing, or even funding from the Republic Secret Intelligence Service?

These are the sorts of things the Sith themselves are terrified of. This earns a very sarcastic thoughts and prayers to them, of course. Yet it truly is wild to think about the decision-making process that went into this massive societal shift that the game treats as simply a piece of inciting incident for two plotlines out of eight: Twelve unhinged people sat down in some extremely high-backed chairs one day and voted to give everyone equal access to lightning.

I love Star Wars, it's just the funniest shit imaginable sometimes.

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH04 – case study: identifying gojo satoru's type

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step four in ditching the world's most persistent nerd: do not let him steal your food, do not let him drink from your straw like he owns it, and absolutely do not let him flip your own trap back on you until you're suddenly the one planning a date.

monday morning, and the world remembers exactly who you are.

the moment your heels click against the pavement, heads turn, conversations stall, and admiration thickens in the air like expensive perfume. they watch—of course they do. how could they not? in a city of polished legacies and wealth-drenched surnames, you are a spectacle, a masterpiece in motion. black silk drapes over your body, dipping scandalously at the back, every step deliberate, every glance stolen in your wake a testament to your control. the gold chain of your bag glints under the morning sun, nails skimming over the cool metal as you exhale—bored, detached, untouchable.

and yet, a hand—too rough, too desperate—for your own liking, ruins the perfection.

“please, baby—just one more night, i swear—”

a grip on your wrist. tight, pleading. naoya zenin, heir to an empire that means nothing to you. his breath is uneven, his jaw tight, that arrogance you once found mildly entertaining now crumbling into something pathetic. you barely remember him—was it months ago? weeks? a forgettable night, an indulgence with an expiration date. but naoya, poor fool, still thinks your attention is something he can buy back.

“don’t do this,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower as if he has the right to be intimate. “tell me what i did wrong. i can fix it.”

your sigh is soft, practiced. slow enough to be cutting. with an elegant tilt of your head, you look down at him, gaze laced with something almost pitying. naoya zen’in, who has never been denied, never been left wanting, now stands before you as nothing more than another name to forget.

“naoya.” his name falls from your lips like an afterthought, like you are already done with him. “stand up. you’re embarrassing yourself.”

but he doesn’t.

instead—he drops to his knees.

gasps ripple through the crowd, scandal blooming like wildfire in hushed voices. a zen’in heir, kneeling? in public? unheard of. his peers—other heirs, legacies wrapped in old money and colder expectations—watch with thinly veiled amusement, a few pulling out their phones, eager to immortalize his disgrace. but naoya doesn’t care, doesn’t see the way his reputation fractures with every second he lingers on the ground.

“please,” he tries again, his voice raw with something close to desperation.

and you—oh, you laugh.

a soft thing, delicate yet cruel, wrapping around him like silk before tightening into a noose.

“oh, sweetheart…” your voice dips, low and syrupy, cutting through the stunned silence like the clean edge of a knife. “you can’t fix being forgettable.”

the air shifts.

someone chokes on their drink. others whisper, murmur, revel in the spectacle of naoya zen’in being reduced to nothing in the span of a breath. he flinches, something ugly flashing behind his eyes, but it doesn’t matter. your wrist slips effortlessly from his grasp, heels clicking as you turn away, leaving him kneeling in his disgrace.

this is where you belong—wanted, envied, feared.

the crowd still hums with the aftermath of naoya’s disgrace, whispers laced with admiration and well-hidden fear. you don’t need to look back to know the scene you’ve left behind—naoya, still kneeling, his pride shattered in broad daylight. you don’t spare him another thought. this is your domain, your world, where attention bends at your will, where men crumble with a glance, a word, a perfectly timed smirk. your victory is absolute.

except one person, the only person who should be reacting, doesn’t even look up from his phone.

gojo satoru sits on the bench a few feet away, posture relaxed, scrolling through whatever holds his interest more than you. his glasses catch the light as he idly taps at the screen, face unreadable, completely disengaged from the spectacle. no flinch, no barely concealed admiration, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. he doesn’t glance up. he doesn’t care.

and that?

that makes your teeth grind, your jaw tighten, something hot curling in your stomach. because for all the eyes on you, for all the reverence in the air, he remains unmoved, unaffected, untouched. and somehow, that pisses you off more than anything.

lunch is exactly how it should be.

your table is a constellation of the university’s elite—wealth, beauty, and power seated in effortless poise, as if this gathering were inevitable. the girls at your side embody perfection in different flavors, each a masterpiece of influence. shoko lounges, long fingers idly stirring an untouched kale salad, amusement curling at the edges of her lips as she absorbs the latest gossip. heir to a medical empire, a legacy carved in scalpels and sterile white halls, yet she prefers her nights drowned in neon lights and laughter thick with alcohol. mei mei, the quiet storm, never glances up from her phone, her world a battlefield of investments and acquisitions, real power plays that make her father’s advisors shift in their seats. utahime, delicate and deadly, chews exactly one cherry tomato and a single plain almond with the calculated grace of someone who can slip past any barrier, velvet rope or otherwise, without so much as a second glance.

and the men? they hover.

their attention drapes over your table like expensive silk, their gazes flickering between you and the girls beside you, waiting—hoping—for something as simple as a look, a word, a fleeting acknowledgment. every laugh you let slip makes them lean closer, every shift of your wrist brushing against your glass sends ripples through their restraint. they hang on to the edges of your presence like moths circling the glow of a flame, waiting for the inevitable moment they get too close. this is control. this is power. and you let it linger, basking in the unspoken reverence, the silent competition for a moment of your favor.

until gojo satoru stands up from his table.

you don’t need to look. you feel it.

a ripple in the air, subtle yet undeniable, as the world around you shifts focus. because it’s never just you watching him—it’s everyone else. conversations falter, stolen glances turn to blatant stares, admirers pause mid-breath as the inevitability of his presence overtakes the room. he doesn’t need to command attention; it bends toward him naturally, effortlessly, as if even gravity itself is subject to his whims. and the worst part? he doesn’t care. doesn’t chase it, doesn’t acknowledge it—just exists in it, a force of nature too accustomed to its own magnitude to be impressed.

but what’s worse? he’s walking toward you.

a breath of tension hovers over the cafeteria, unspoken yet deafening. the men around your table stiffen, pride twisting into something wary, something reluctant. the girls exchange glances, subtle but pointed, as if calculating the implications of this approach. gojo satoru does not come to you. he does not seek, he does not chase, he does not follow. and yet, here he is, weaving through the crowd with infuriating ease, steps unhurried, gaze sharp behind the glint of his glasses.

why is he here?

before you can even question him—he swaps the trays.

no hesitation, no explanation. just takes yours, sets his own down in front of you, and steals your croissant like it was never yours to begin with. the motion is so fluid, so casual, that for a second, you almost think you imagined it. but then he has the audacity to inspect it, like he’s judging the nutritional value of your choices, and something tight coils in your chest. around you, the air shifts—utahime’s fork pauses midair, shoko lowers her coffee like she’s bracing for impact, and mei mei hums, mildly entertained. the men around your table stiffen, their expressions flickering between confusion and outrage, because they don’t understand what just happened.

but you do.

“eat real food.” satoru says smoothly, tapping his fingers against the edge of his tray.

he doesn’t sit. instead, he leans against the table, weight shifted onto one foot, perfectly composed. like he’s just passing through. like he hasn’t just disrupted the delicate balance of power at your table. your world operates on control, on effortless admiration and quiet desperation, on men who trip over themselves for a single moment of your time. but satoru? satoru doesn’t just take—he decides. and this time, he’s decided that your daily diet of a croissant and iced coffee is unacceptable.

you blink. “did you just steal my croissant?”

“i traded it.” he corrects, lifting your iced latte and taking a sip—like it’s his.

pause.

your iced latte. your straw.

utahime’s eyes widen, shoko’s brows shoot up, and mei mei exhales an amused chuckle. someone further down the table chokes, and from the corner of your eye, you catch a girl whispering a scandalized, “indirect kiss?!” the men around you bristle, their thinly veiled adoration now edged with frustration, because not only did gojo satoru approached your table uninvited—he just touched something that was yours. the fact that you let him—or rather, haven’t ripped his throat out yet—only fuels their disbelief.

but you? you are seething.

not because it means anything. because it doesn’t. not because you care. because you don’t. but because of the pure, unfiltered audacity.

your fingers tighten around the fork, nails pressing into your palm, but your expression remains pristine, carefully schooled into something neutral. your gaze flicks over him, assessing, cataloging every infuriating detail—the smug curve of his lips, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the absolute nerve of him to act like this is normal. “that’s not what trading means.”

satoru, completely unbothered, takes another slow sip, like he’s savoring it. finally, he slides into the seat beside you, effortless, natural, like this was inevitable. his presence shifts the air again, disrupts the ecosystem of your table, sends a ripple of tension through the men still hovering. you know it. he knows it. but his gaze—sharp, assessing, cutting through the layers of performance—lingers just a second too long on you before he finally speaks.

“it is now.”

you exhale, slow and measured, fingers flexing against the table, resisting the very real urge to stab him with your fork. this is fine. totally fine. except—the cafeteria is still buzzing, the weight of too many stares pressing against your skin. naoya looks like he’s about to combust, the men around you are barely restraining their irritation, and the balance of power has tilted so effortlessly in satoru’s favor that you don’t even know how it happened.

satoru just smirks, fingers still tapping against your latte, fully aware that he’s just put himself at the center of your world—and isn’t planning to leave.

and while you’re still processing the sheer audacity of what just happened. satoru, completely unaffected began to speak.

“by the way, we got feedback from our professor about our introduction. we need to go over it later. you have no classes after lunch, right?” his tone is infuriatingly casual, as if this is a normal conversation, as if he didn’t just hijack your meal, steal your drink, and make himself comfortable at your table. he taps his fingers against your latte like he has every right to it, sipping lazily, his entire demeanor oozing ease. you barely hear him, too focused on the way his lips press against the straw, the way your name is still written neatly on the cup—small details that shouldn’t matter, that don’t matter, except they do. because no one does this to you. no one dares.

but satoru gojo is not just anyone.

your friends are watching.

because they have seen you work miracles. they have watched you break men with a smile, unravel them with the tilt of your head, reduce them to nervous, stammering fools with a single touch. they have witnessed ceos, heirs, trust fund babies practically trip over themselves for a shred of your attention, for the privilege of being acknowledged by you. and yet—satoru is still standing. still smirking. still entirely composed.

shoko’s nails tap against the table, slow and deliberate, as she exhales through her nose. utahime crosses her arms, frowning, unimpressed with the way this situation is unfolding. mei mei takes a slow sip of her drink, not looking up, but you know her well enough to recognize the calculated amusement in her stillness. the men at your table are watching too, stiff, visibly unsettled, because for the first time, you are not the one in control. and the worst part? satoru knows it.

“…gojo,” you deadpan, expression unreadable. “do you even like coffee?”

he hums, unfazed, taking another sip—mocking, infuriating. “i like messing with you.”

yor nails dig into your palm, but your expression does not waver. you cannot—will not—spend another few hours being academically held hostage at his condo, forced to endure his insufferable presence under the guise of productivity. you need an out, a way to tilt the power back in your favor, to make it clear that he does not get to do this. but your friends? they need a win.

so, you do what you do best. you deflect.

lean in. tilt your head. let your voice slip into something smooth, teasing, dangerous. a distraction, a trap—one you’ve set a hundred times before, one that always works. but beneath it, a thread of unease coils tight in your chest, a what if you refuse to acknowledge. because satoru is not like the others. he doesn’t stutter, doesn’t falter, doesn’t trip over himself to impress you. and after the way he’s effortlessly brushed off your advances before—gliding past them with practiced ease, like he’s untouchable—you know you need something bigger, something that will finally make him react.

so you go for the last resort.

“gojo,” you purr, voice light, teasing, perfectly crafted. “why do you always have time for me? shouldn’t a man like you be busy with… oh, i don’t know… a girlfriend?”

there. checkmate.

because for all his effortless charm, for all the attention he gets, gojo satoru has never publicly dated anyone. no rumors, no scandals, no fleeting relationships for the gossip circles to tear apart. which means, logically, this should throw him off. this should make him hesitate. this should, finally, be the moment where you have the upper hand.

your girls relax, smug, expectant. because this is it. this is where he’ll fold. where he’ll stammer, avert his eyes, get thrown off his game—like every other man before him. shoko takes a slow sip of coffee, already anticipating his fumble. utahime leans back in her seat, satisfied. mei mei, ever unreadable, watches with mild interest. the men at your table straighten, subtly hopeful, waiting for satoru’s inevitable failure.

but his lips simply quirk.

not flustered. interested. amused. a slow, deliberate shift, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like he’s savoring this, like he’s already decided how this is going to play out. the movement is lazy, almost imperceptible, but you catch the flicker of something sharp behind the glint of his glasses. pale blue eyes, keen and calculating, linger on you for a second too long—watching. waiting. you know that look. the same one he wears when he’s two moves ahead, when he knows he’s already won but wants to drag it out just to see you squirm.

“what, are you applying?” his voice is smooth, effortless, like the answer genuinely doesn’t matter to him. like this is just fun.

your breath hitches. so, so small, a sharp inhale barely masked by the background hum of the cafeteria—so subtle that no one else catches it. no one except him.

his head tilts slightly, gaze dipping lower, amused. his fingers, still wrapped around your stolen latte, tap against the cup in a slow, rhythmic pattern, as if counting down the exact number of seconds it will take for you to recover. you feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin, feel the way the air between you shifts, charged and dangerous.

he’s waiting. for you to slip first.

your table freezes.

shoko actually chokes, coughing into her hand. utahime’s fork clatters against her plate. mei mei hesitates mid-sip, something flickering behind her sharp gaze. the men surrounding you look betrayed. because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. satoru isn’t supposed to keep up. he’s supposed to stumble. he’s supposed to break.

but instead, he wins.

still, you don’t miss a beat. your expression remains perfectly schooled, your lips curling like you expected this, like you aren’t mildly panicking beneath the surface. “that depends,” you counter smoothly, voice light, playful. “are you hiring?”

there. you’re back in control.

your girls exhale, tension dissolving, the balance tipping in your favor once more. you’ve realigned the narrative, settled back into your element. a beat passes. satoru hums, adjusting his glasses, pale blue eyes flickering behind the lenses—assessing. considering.

“sure.”

you freeze.

your fingers curl against your lap, nails digging into your palm as you keep your expression pristine. not even a flicker of hesitation. but inside? your thoughts are a blur of static.

“…wait, what?” you blurt out, incredulous.

he tilts his head, completely unbothered, lifting your latte to his lips once more. “you wanted an out,” he says, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. another sip, another stolen moment of control. “so now you have a date. hope you pick a good place.”

your stomach drops.

this was not the plan.

shoko stares at you like you’ve personally wronged her. utahime’s mouth is actually open. mei mei is already calculating the implications of this disaster. the men around your table are reeling, the balance of power shifted so violently that they don’t know how to recover.

satoru simply turns to leave—far too satisfied with himself.

his stride is slow, unhurried, completely at ease as if he hadn’t just shattered the natural order of your world with a few simple words. he doesn’t even glance back, doesn’t check to see the damage he’s left behind, because he knows. he knows the cafeteria is still buzzing, voices hushed yet urgent, disbelief thick in the air.

“did she just—”

“—with gojo satoru?”

“—what just happened??”

your admirers? devastated.

naoya, still licking his wounds from earlier, looks like he wants to throw something. his jaw tightens, fingers curling into a fist, tension radiating off him in waves, but even he doesn’t dare speak. the men who once hung onto your every word are stiff, their carefully maintained composure cracking under the weight of what they just witnessed. because it wasn’t just that gojo satoru didn’t fall for you—it’s that he played you. and worst of all? he won.

your girls, however? silent.

calculating. reeling. this is wrong. this is not how this was supposed to go. they have seen you reduce men to nothing with a smile, leave them speechless, fumbling, desperate. you should be the one walking away victorious, leaving him dazed and ruined in your wake. but satoru? satoru strolled in, stole your drink, stole your time, stole a whole damn date—and left completely unscathed.

your fingers curl into your lap, nails pressing against your palm as you glare at his retreating figure. his glasses catch the light as he raises your latte to his lips, taking one final slow sip, knowing damn well you’re watching. your jaw clenches, blood simmering beneath your skin, irritation winding tight in your chest. this is not over. not by a long shot.

and so, with pure, unfiltered spite, you take an aggressive bite of the lunch he forced onto you. and the  moment satoru exits the door, your girls close in like a board of directors preparing for crisis control.

they move fast—shoko nudging her coffee aside, utahime crossing her legs, mei mei setting her phone down with a deliberate click against the table. their attention is singular, sharp, trained on you as if you’re the breaking news headline of the hour. the air tightens, charged with a purpose too serious for something as ridiculous as gojo satoru just agreed to a date. they gather like a corporate crisis team—efficient, ruthless, ready to dissect every second of the disaster that just unfolded. but before the debrief can begin, before the first strike can be made, a more pressing matter demands their attention.

shoko straightens, lashes lowering, voice syrupy sweet. “gentlemen.”

every man within a five-meter radius stiffens.

the shift is immediate—conversations falter, movements still, a collective tension settling over the table like a held breath. you don’t have to look to know what’s coming. shoko only ever uses that tone when she’s about to drop a guillotine, and right now, her smile is all sharp edges and impending doom.

“we need you to leave.”

a pause. then—mutters, exchanged glances. confusion. indignation. hesitation.

“excuse me?” naoya scoffs first, ever the entitled one. his shoulders square, head tilting as if that might make him any less disposable. “i was here first—”

“cute,” utahime cuts in, tone sharp as the gleam of her manicured nails, casually popping a cherry tomato into her mouth. “but irrelevant.”

mei mei leans back, swirling her sugar-free oat latte, gaze barely flicking up. “it’s a ladies-only meeting. private.”

naoya glares. “we’re literally having lunch—”

“not anymore,” shoko chirps, lashes fluttering, voice light, effortless. “you can relocate. for her sake, of course.”

and at that—all eyes flicker to you.

the tension shifts. the resistance falters. because of course it does.

these men—heirs to empires, sons of political giants—wield more power than most people could dream of. but you? you are a different kind of untouchable. your presence alone shifts dynamics, commands rooms without effort, without force, without needing to demand anything at all. and when your chin tilts just slightly, when your eyes lower in disinterest, when your fingers tap idly against the table—they listen.

begrudgingly. bitterly. but they listen.

“fine.” one mutters, pushing back his chair.

“whatever.” another sighs, grabbing his untouched drink.

one by one, they leave. chairs scrape against the floor, conversations shift, the last remnants of male indignation hanging in the air like a bitter aftertaste. naoya lingers for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s considering some final act of defiance, but even he knows when he’s outnumbered. with a sharp exhale and a glare that could curdle milk, he turns on his heel and stalks off, tension rolling off him in waves. the cafeteria hums around you, but at your table? silence—heavy, expectant.

shoko clasps her hands together, satisfied. “excellent.”

she turns back, eyes gleaming, posture shifting as she slides effortlessly into the seat beside you. her gaze is sharp, cutting straight through your carefully maintained composure. “now—” she leans in, elbows resting against the table, voice a conspiratorial hush. “what the hell was that?”

utahime follows, practically vibrating with barely contained energy. “you have been keeping secrets. start talking.”

you sigh—long, dramatic, exhausted, like this entire conversation is beneath you. your fingers trail idly against the rim of your tray, gaze lowering just enough to feign disinterest. “it’s nothing.”

chaos. disbelief. outright rejection of your statement.

“NOTHING??” utahime gapes, gripping her fork like she’s about to stab something. “he just drank from your straw. in front of everyone.”

“naoya looked like he was going to cry,” shoko adds, deeply amused.

mei mei, ever the voice of calm devastation, swirls her latte, voice dripping with indulgent amusement. “sweetheart,” she muses, watching you over the rim of her cup, “do you understand what just happened? men would literally commit fraud for a chance to buy you a drink, and gojo just—”

you cut her off with a sharp flick of your wrist. “enough.”

a beat of silence. they all lean in further.

you exhale, slow and measured, like you’re about to gift them the rarest of treasures—your honesty. fingers tapping idly against the table, gaze flicking toward the exit where satoru disappeared moments ago.

finally, you meet their expectant stares, shoulders rolling back.

“fine.” you exhale, exasperated. “i’ll tell you.”

the entire table is locked in.

they lean forward as one, like sharks scenting blood in the water, their gazes sharp, expectant, ravenous for information. tension thrums between you, an unspoken understanding that whatever you say next will change everything. and so, with great reluctance, with an exhale meant to feign nonchalance but edged with something far too weighted—you finally tell them about your history with gojo satoru.

shoko is losing her mind.

“you mean to tell me—” she inhales sharply, hands slamming onto the table, rattling plates and silverware as she glares daggers at you “—that you have been fighting for your life against that man for years and you NEVER mentioned it?!”

utahime gasps, hands flying to her mouth as the realization clicks all at once. “you two have history?”

and then, chaos.

“this makes so much sense—”

“oh my god, that explains the way he looked at you like he knows—”

“wait, wait, wait—why does it feel like he’s been winning?”

you bristle. “he is not winning.”

the silence that follows is too long. too heavy.

mei mei squints, utterly unreadable, but her voice is smooth, calm—calculated. “are you sure?”

because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

satoru has been slipping through your fingers for years. since kindergarten, when he chose a math book over playing with you. since high school, when he sat at the top of the class, untouched, while you spiraled through the mess of your family, your reputation, your life. and now—now, at university, he still walks through your world like he owns it, like he belongs there, like you were the one who had to catch up.

he doesn’t fall. he doesn’t trip. he doesn’t crumble beneath the weight of your charm like every other man does.

and today?

he stole your drink.

he stole your time.

he stole a whole damn date.

and he walked away completely unscathed.

your jaw tightens, lips pressing into a thin line. you know what they’re thinking. you know the weight of their stares, the way your friends—your witnesses—are trying to figure out if you have been losing this entire time. you straighten, shoulders rolling back, chin tilting higher as you meet their gazes with an expression pristine enough to rival polished glass.

“he is not winning,” you repeat, slower this time, voice smooth, unwavering. the words land, heavy, thick with certainty. but beneath the table, your fingers curl into the fabric of your skirt, grip just a little too tight.

shoko’s nails tap against the table, slow and deliberate, each click a metronome to the quiet tension curling between the four of you. her expression is thoughtful, the kind of slow-burning intrigue that means nothing good. finally, after what feels like an eternity, she exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly before delivering her next words with the weight of a courtroom ruling. “okay. important question.”

your eyes narrow. “what.”

shoko leans in, deadly serious, as if she’s about to discuss classified information, voice dipping into a conspiratorial hush. “do you think he might be into vanilla girls?”

the table goes silent.

even utahime stops pretending to be full off one cherry tomato.

you blink, caught between exasperation and the slow horror of realizing exactly where this conversation is going. your fork stills against your plate, the air thick with anticipation as three pairs of eyes zero in on you. “...yeah, actually,” you say after a beat, flipping the utensil between your fingers before spearing a piece of grilled chicken. “that would make sense.”

a collective gasp.

shoko physically recoils like you’ve committed some great betrayal. “you’re just going to agree?”

“i mean, think about it.” you gesture vaguely, the glint of your bracelet catching in the light as you settle back against your chair. “he’s rich. disgustingly smart. irritatingly responsible. maybe he does like his women a little… soft.”

mei mei hums, finally acknowledging the conversation, swirling her spoon in the same small pool of yogurt she’s been nursing for the past thirty minutes. “subtle.”

utahime, deadpan, chews her almond with the weight of someone chewing through a revelation. “you mean boring?”

your frown is immediate. “i didn’t say boring.”

shoko raises a brow. “what did you say, then?”

your mouth opens, but the words stick, because the truth is, you don’t actually have a good answer. you stab at your plate again, suddenly annoyed with the way their collective amusement lingers between you like a loaded gun. “i said… non-threatening.”

they all exchange glances.

“so, boring.” utahime concludes.

you exhale, pushing a grilled tomato across your plate with the edge of your fork. “okay, but like,” you start, irritation curling at the back of your throat, “am i wrong?”

the silence that follows is too long.

utahime, after a painstaking moment of slicing her cucumber into even smaller pieces, exhales sharply. “...no,” she admits, her voice tinged with reluctant horror.

“unfortunately, no,” shoko echoes, sipping her black coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to life.

“probably not,” mei mei adds, frowning at her yogurt like it personally offended her.

you lean back in your chair, arms crossed, resisting the urge to click your tongue again. “see?” your fork twirls idly between your fingers before tapping against your plate. “i knew something was off. my usual strategy should’ve worked by now.” the words come out sharper than intended, irritation settling deep in your chest. “but if he’s immune, it’s because i’m not his type.”

and for some reason? that pisses you off.

shoko hums, contemplative, her nails drumming lazily against her coffee cup. “it also means—” she pauses, then tilts her head. “you’re not a threat.”

you blink.

“excuse me??”

shoko shrugs. “think about it. men like him? powerful, old-money, from some ridiculous bloodline? they don’t go for girls like us.”

there’s something so casual about the way she says it, but it sends something unpleasant curling at the base of your spine.

“girls like us?” you laugh, but there’s an edge to it, sharp enough to draw blood.

shoko, unbothered, lifts a shoulder in a loose shrug. “relax, i’m not saying we’re undateable. i’m saying they marry vanilla girls.” her voice lilts, mocking, as she counts off on her fingers. “the perfect, soft-spoken, high-society wives. the ones who smile and wave at charity galas. the ones who bake cookies and apologize for existing.”

“the ones who will never cause a scandal,” mei mei adds, swirling her spoon in her yogurt like she’s mixing something far more bitter.

utahime gestures dramatically with her fork. “the ones who know how to be a trophy wife.”

you scoff, flicking your hair back, an automatic response. “my last name is just as heavy as his.”

the table pauses.

“okay, true,” utahime concedes, wiping condensation off her untouched green juice, her tone begrudging. “but you act like you don’t give a fuck about it.”

you don’t. or—you want to believe you don’t. you’ve spent years rolling your eyes at your parents’ business dinners, at the delicate, soft-spoken women with their perfectly practiced smiles, at the unspoken rules of the elite social scene. but you know them. you understand them, the way chess players understand the board, the way predators understand prey. your indifference isn’t ignorance—it’s strategy.

“but that doesn’t mean i don’t know how to play the game,” you say smoothly, twirling your fork between your fingers before spearing a stray cherry tomato.

shoko sighs, finally abandoning her coffee with a resigned shake of her head. “yeah, but do the gojos know that?”

your jaw locks. irritation flares in your chest, curling tight at the edges, because—okay. fine. maybe you aren’t the type to whisper apologies at business dinners, to bat your lashes and smile politely while some old-money heir with fragile masculinity talks down to you about investments. but that doesn’t mean you’re less. it doesn’t mean you don’t belong in the same rooms, the same circles, the same league.

but there is no way that gojo satoru, as impish as he could be, would be the type to marry a girl simply because she is conveniently meek.

...right?

before the thought can settle, utahime snaps her fingers, the sharp sound cutting through the air like a declaration.

“i got it.”

all eyes shift to her, curiosity piqued, waiting. she doesn’t make them wait long, smirking as she pulls out her phone with the ease of someone holding a loaded gun. “if you’re gonna test it, you need the right setting,” she announces, thumbs flying over the screen. “and i know just the place.”

the phone slides across the table with a quiet clink, the screen glowing with an image of a cozy, quiet café.

neutral tones, warm lighting, private rooms meant for undisturbed concentration—exactly the kind of place a certain nerd would gravitate toward. utahime rests her chin on her palm, grinning like she’s just handed over a winning lottery ticket. “perfect for studying,” she says innocently. “or, in your case, proving your theory.”

your eyes narrow. “why does this sound suspiciously like you’ve used it before?”

utahime shrugs, all nonchalance, all carefully curated innocence. “just saying,” she drawls, inspecting her nails, “brought the nerd i was sucking up to in there—folded in fifteen minutes. let me suck him off, let me cheat off him. i passed prelims with high scores, remember??”

mei mei chokes on her plain yogurt, slapping a hand against her chest like she’s been personally betrayed. the reaction is so visceral, so immediate, that it sends a ripple effect across the table. shoko gasps, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, her coffee cup freezing midway to her lips as if the sheer audacity of utahime’s words has momentarily suspended time itself. the moment could be framed in slow motion, complete with dramatic background music. you don’t even blink.

“utahime.”

utahime, utterly shameless, only grins wider, the picture of unrepentant mischief. “relax. i’m just saying—it’s tested. proven to work on nerds.”

you exhale, long and slow, tapping your nails against your plate before crossing one leg over the other. the weight of the situation settles, thick and undeniable, pressing against the edges of your mind. you don’t like to lose. you don’t like unanswered questions. and most of all, you don’t like the fact that this ridiculous theory is starting to sound a little too plausible.

“fine.”

mei mei perks up immediately, leaning forward with a newfound, almost predatory curiosity. “test it how?”

a slow, dangerous smirk curves on your lips, the kind that sends a quiet shiver down the table. “on our date, of course.”

the reaction is instantaneous.

shoko recoils as if you’ve committed a crime against her very soul. “you’re going to act vanilla???”

you shrug, twirling your fork between your fingers, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “just for the night. just to see if he reacts. if he does, even if just a small tic, we’ll know.”

before anyone can say another word, your phone vibrates, the quiet buzz slicing through the tension like a finishing move. with a smug little tilt of her head, utahime turns the screen toward you, the message is already typed out, the address neatly displayed, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along.

you click your tongue, equal parts annoyed and resigned, copy the address, and paste it into a message for satoru.

six pm. don’t be late.

utahime leans back, victorious, arms crossed, satisfaction practically radiating off her. “and now we wait.”

a few seconds later—read.

the pit of your stomach tightens, but you ignore it. this is a terrible idea. this is also the only possible course of actionable.

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

PREY

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights. 

—

There’s blood on your hands again. 

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

Howls.

Howls.

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

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

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

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

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

It never works.

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

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who had you killed this time?

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

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

“Get the dogs on it!” 

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

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

The hounds are afraid of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re going to make it hurt.

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

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

Death would be better than this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something…off.

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

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

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

It could never be easy, could it?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing you do is vomit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 

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

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?” 

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

The blood and the bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had he talked to you?

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

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

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

—

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

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

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just blink, mouth slightly open. 

“Where…am I?” 

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

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

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

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

They’d been re-applied recently, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The furs are warm. 

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

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

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

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

There are runes written on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 

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

Why were you still alive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

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

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

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long nothingness ensues. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

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

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

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

No livestock.

No bodies. 

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

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

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

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

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

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

Comparable things, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money?” You frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The full moon was tomorrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question makes you double-take.

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

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

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

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

“I kept sheep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hands had been kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

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

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

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

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 

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

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 

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

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 

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

Your eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m waiting. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was real. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 

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

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

There is companionship in broken things.

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

Find me. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

A white beast prowls the forest. 

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

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

Find me.

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

I’m waiting.

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

Leather.

Whiskey.

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

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

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

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

You were being summoned. 

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

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

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

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

Like pure white spikes. 

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

I’ll find you.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain would wash away the tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tracks end here.

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

A low snarl sets his hair on end. 

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

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

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost watches, and he waits. 

He can’t do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t get a good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 

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

He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

“What did I—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

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

“Better, Little Wolf?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t like you could protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGS:

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

[tuftastuff]

the inherit body horror of to be hero x - or when your life becomes a prison and the only way to freedom is death

Three episodes that we already got showed us how horrorish the trust system is. People's cognition of you affects not only your abilities, but how you look as well. It controls your *whole body*. You lose autonomy of your whole body. It's not just yours now - it's the body that's controlled by the masses.

FirmMan was not able to sleep properly, kneel, or do such a simple thing as using the toilet. How many things he had to give up on? He's a hero, yet he wouldn't even be able to help a kid that tripped over. To pick up something that he accidently dropped. His whole body was just reduced to standing. How frustrating that must be? How depressing? You can't even dress properly, you just need to be standing, you are reduced to nothing but a symbolic statue.

Moon also lost her freedom. The powers that were supposed to let her be free - she's got teleportation! She should be able to go wherever she desires! - became something that infinitely traps her with Nice. She can't leave not only because of her contract. Her power makes her trapped with him.

And Nice and Ling Lin. Body moving in a way that HAS to be perfect. All the time. Everything around you has to be perfect. Simple slouch is unacceptable. A drop of water that's not symmetrical? Gone. Always stuck in the endless loop of pursuing perfection. But the world isn't perfect! The world is messy and asymmetrical and chaotic, and so are bodies. How many bodily functions did they lose because of that? How frustrating it must be to always have the need to correct everything and you can't just stop it. You can't control it. You have to strive for perfection all the time.

And yet - their minds are still free. Moon doesn't fall in love with Nice, even though fans want them togheter. And, based on the episode two I think it's safe to say that Nice doesn't love her either - he's connected emotionally to Wreck, even though in the public eye they are enemies. FirmMan still had his basic needs and was aware, that he can't meet them. He suffered mentally because of that. It took a toll on him. And Lin Ling - the public believes that he is Nice. But he isn't and he knows he isn't and deep inside he's still Lin Ling. He needs to get it out, it's weighing on him.

They are trapped inside their own bodies. Their powers become their prisons. They can't leave on their own, they can't change it, they are stuck, with no knowledge for how long will it last. How devastating it must be, to not have the control over your own bodily autonomy? They are just puppets, with free minds. That's the true body horror.

And that is also why I think Nice committed suicide. I think it was a conscious, deliberate decision. There is one thing that was not taken from him (and all of the heroes, I'm assuming) and it's death.

You see, death has a symbolic meaning of freedom. Not only in literature, but in real life too many people think of death as the ultimate freedom. You might be dead, but you will be *free*. And that is the price that some are willing to pay.

Nices death was his escape from his prison - his own body. It was the only thing that they haven't yet taken from him. And he didn't even know how long did he have. What if the public started believing that he was immortal? That he was indestructible? He would be stuck eternally in this existential horror. His death was him desperately trying to be free. And he achieved that. His fall was actually awful. It wasn't a pretty death. He fell into the wall and only then on the ground; it was messy, it was traumatizing and it was, in every way, an opposite of perfection. He made his choice and he was finally free.

And, because of that, nor Moon nor FirmMan have to die in order to be free. For them freedom would also only come in the form of death. We see that in episode two, when Moon "dies" and thanks to that achieves her freedom (see, how death is linked to freedom further than only nices suicide). The haunting connection that Nice and Lin Ling have shapes how the future of heroes that interact with Lin Ling looks. Nice dies. But nor Moon nor FirmMan have to die, to achieve their freedom. Their freedom is achieved through Lin Ling. In a way Nices passing/passing his identity broke the cycle. Because while Lin Ling was not in the position to save Nice, he can make sure, and does (consciously or not), that it never happenes again.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I saw the wording ‘baby Venus vampire trap Stan’ and they meant teen! Stan but imagine if it’s the whole deaging no memory Stan who is also now a Venus vampire trap. This kid being like “Uncle sixer, vampires aren’t real!!” While Ford is hyperventilating in the background

Hey, not only is this funny I could make this so much worse :)

Stan gets stalked by a vampire with a taste for kids but Stan gets away by biting them. Just like teen Stan this vamp is too proud and too stubborn to let one kid get the best of them and stalks and hunts Stan over and over, only for Stan to get away every time via biting, filling him up with vamp blood and making him sick. Stan and Ford are convinced he's turning into a vampire, except because he hasn't actually been turned none of the tests come up as positive for vampirism and they sadly come to the conclusion that vampires aren't real :/

Then Stan gets rushed to the hospital because he collapses or something at school (no way are his parents taking him after all), the vampire takes advantage of the panic of the situation to finally drain Stan, and he dies on the way to the hospital. Some vamp doctor realizes what happened, fakes Stan's death, and kidnaps him before he wakes up so he doesn't turn the hospital/his family into a blood bath. If the doctor was altruistic or just wanted a easy vamp kid doesn't matter, because Venus Vampire Trap Stan wakes up wherever their nest was set up, drains all the adult vampires dry and disappears into the night, lost and confused, miles away from home and with no one looking for him and no real way to get back to Glass Shard Beach (can't trust the cops after all). Becomes a homeless immortal kid eating all the messed up vampires jumping homeless kids at night, barely scraping by as vampires aren't as widespread yet and just trying to get home (Not realizing how much time has passed. Time goes slow if your hungry or something, right? Its only been maybe a month, maybe a year? How many winters? It seems likes its been a lot but no... he's still a kid... it can't have been that long. He must just be so lost he's going super far north where its always cold then super far south where its always hot! That makes sense!)

Meanwhile Fords hit with the devastating news that Stan died in the hospital. Whatever he had was so awful they won't let anyone see the body, and now he's all alone in the world. No friends, no protection, grades slipping from depression. Eventually he manages to move on through shutting himself down and going through life emotionally closed off. Project still gets sabotaged, still meets Bill, is so lonely and desperate for validation he falls for Bill's manipulation, gets tricked, unleashes vamp apocalypse. Starts hunting vampires, makes friends, builds a vampire hunting organization. Its up and running for maybe a year, when it happens.

Doing a regular hunt, trying to find the vampires set up in some town or another, sees some kid kicking a can out far too late and rushes to help when he gets jumped. Circles around the alley to see the kid, claws digging into the vamps shoulder and teeth deep in their neck, eyes gold and clearly draining them. They make eye contact and the kid freaks, letting go and babbling about how he was just minding his own business, and this creep attacked him, and- and-

And Ford is frozen, because even if its been twenty years and the kids covered in dirt, hair tangled and clothes patchy and torn, he knows Stan always and forever. Thats Stan, the same age he was when he 'died' and oh god.

Stan did die. He died twenty years ago long before Ford could have done anything to protect him. He died terrified and alone in a hospital and was snatched away, and-

Doesn't think vampires are real? What?

Stan tries to use Fords shock to skedaddle away, then yells as Ford snatches him, drops as Ford drugs him, then wakes up in a vampire proof cell surrounded by a bunch of wackos who think vampires are real and a weirdo who keeps trying to tell Stan he's Sixer. This guy can't be Sixer, because Sixer is at home, and they're twins? So Sixer is a kid old man guy, you can't fool Stan with these kinds of outrageous lies. Ford and him proved vampires weren't real ages ago after all. Will graciously admit that they're related, but Fords his uncle at best, not his brother.

So now Fords looking after his immortal vampire baby twin brother who's also a new species of vampire thats barely survived the last twenty years.

Fun bonus!

Stan's an eternal ambiguously nine to twelve year old. His metabolism when he died was crazy due to being a kid who was growing, and even if he's now dead an no longer growing, his body still has that metabolism. He's constantly hungry and needs to feed all the time (he survived the last twenty years through the venus vampire trap ability to sense vampire thoughts. He can't really read minds, but he can sense activity and subconsciously always heads towards it, one of the reasons he never made it home. He was also very sickly the last two decades). Which means when Ford locks him up in a panic Stan's lookin a little better than he has in the last few years he's still a kid who can't travel fast to get his meals, so he drops way faster than adult Stan and goes into hibernation, slowly starving to death while he waits for prey to show up.

Which still happens :) and then Ford get the even more horrifying sight of tiny kid Stan ripping into full grown adult vampires and absolutely drenching himself in blood. If adult Stan is terrifying, tiny Stan is a horror movie, he's hissing, he's lunging at vampires and tackling them to the ground, tiny hands clutching their heads and digging into them.

Then he gets full for the first time in twenty years and passes out mid drain, snoring into a vampire throat and still clutching them like a baby with a bottle, hisses everytime someone (Ford) tries to pull him loose. They have to stake the vampire and then Stan's doing that tired kid whining thing and Fords just. Holding him. Covered in blood while Stan's tiny claws clutch his coat and he sticks his tongue out at Fords neck like its broccoli. Then goes back to snoring. He's sleepy after all.

Now not only does Ford have to look after tiny vampire Stan and get slammed with the fact that he didn't save him (couldn't have saved him. Stan died years ago and there's nothing Ford could have done to stop it. He wasn't smart enough to know the signs, not strong enough to stop them from taking Stan to the hospital, not stubborn enough to demand to see a body. Not enough.), he also needs to constantly feed Stan and his not growing but ever hungry stomach or get his heart broken at Stan's comments about not feeling good and being hungry. On top of that he's trying to convince Stan that it really has been twenty years, but, just like teen Stan, kid Stan's sanity is hanging by the thread of 'someday I'll get home and see Sixer and Ma and everyone will cheer and Pa will finally be happy to see me' and Ford can't break that fragile hope.

On a lighter note Bill has graciously gotten over the existence of Fords vampire kid and lets Ford know that he's not one to turn a guy down just because they have a kid. It actually makes Ford a little hotter, gives him those hunky dad vibes. Bill's sorta into it actually. Alright he can fit this mini Ford into their perfect ideal vampire life. He'll be the cool step dad to Fords son, give him all the cool presents to distract Stan from the fact that his two cool dads are making out. Ford tells him maybe to think over how willing he is to get over it, and to stay away from his brother. They aren't making out, please die. Stan doesn't know who this creepy teen is but why would he want to get with an old man like Uncle Stanford. Doesn't Bill know that he's ancient? Like, so old he was probably around when dinosaurs still lived.

Ford is still not thirty and very offended at that remark. Bill screams that Stan will never understand the appeal of older men because he's stuck being pint sized forever, and shut up! Stan yells that if anyone looked at a man as old as Uncle Stanford and wanted to marry him they'd need to get their eyes checked, and he's not that hot normally? Very room temperature most of the time, except for whenever Stan gets sick. Then he's super hot, and its gross.

Its an endless loop that Emma-May uses to kill the rest of the vampires watching and Fiddleford face palms over.

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

So we have Yuu’s pseudo-parents(Crewel and the fab five) having insane lore, but what about Yuu herself having quite the backstory before she even got transmigrated to Twisted Wonderland. We love to see a seemingly innocent girl actually being involved in the wildest incidents a kid has ever gone through.

Yuu drinking too much energy drinks one time to stay awake for an exam only discover that she made it halfway to school on foot (she lived an hour away from school by bus).

These are just some examples off the top off my head.

Yuu starting a revolution about the dumb dress code in her old school that resulted in her classmates tying up the principal in his chair and a statue getting toppled over

Yuu accidentally falling out of a ferris wheel, but somehow surviving.

Yuu having a secret sibling somewhere who she secretly writes letters to.

Yuu accidentally blowing up a bridge for a science experiment.

Yuu and her friends being chased by maniac at night.

And finally…

“Yeah, I guess that happens to you when you use dragon meat to resurrect your best friend”

Hades is like, “You WHAT?!”

Someone else is like, “I thought she can’t use magic.”

The best part is that nobody can tell if she’s lying because they’re either in denial believe that Yuu wouldn’t lie about something like that. She tells her stories with the utmost sincerity and casualness. Not even Maleficent or Chernabog can detect any lies, so it must be true.

Idk I just love the idea of Yuu being a wild child when she was younger then mellowing out enough with her experience to boot just so she has the fortitude to handle even more wild children at NRC.

OH MY GOD YES THAT WOULD BE AWESOME!

Like the kids could be trapped somewhere and Yuu would be like "Don't worry guys, I've broken out of prison before so this should be a piece of-"

"YOU WHAT?!"

Or, alternatively:

Yuu: This reminds me of that time I was in jail

Mickey: You mean like in Monopoly, right?

Yuu:

Mickey: (sweating) you mean like in Monopoly, right???

I bet Pete would think twice about messing with the club when chaotic!Yuu is around because his schemes always bite him in the back. Twofold.

In fact, all villains know that Yuu is not someone you want to mess with. I know that girl always has makeshift weapons on her. And a very comprehensive/convoluted plan on how to commit murder and hide the body (+ as well as any alibis) with like fifty back up plans and a few dozen contingency plans for those back up plans.

She and the scientist characters like the BH6 gang, Jumba, Yzma, Prof Von Drake etc are always off causing trouble so there's a rule in the club (that Yuu always breaks anyway) that she's not allowed to be left alone with them

I can see her helping one of the magical characters with a spell or whatever and her nodding along like "yeah, I got this. So which animal are we sacrificing?”

"what?"

"what?"

I can see her wanting to test out different potions but Crewel and the fab five are stopping her and she's like "but I've drank poison before :( it's really no big deal :("

Oh you bet that there are like ten places her and her friends are banned from back in her world

Hades is so done with everything because he's just gotten used to this magicless mortal girl that trespasses into the underworld because Pain and Panic wanted to play just dance with her

So I'm into Epic the musical and now I'm just thinking about *SPOILERS FOR THE VENGEANCE SAGA* Yuu just casually dropping that one time she stabbed an immortal being into compliance as the entire club just stares at her in awe/horror.

The Fab Five whenever chaotic!Yuu is being chaotic:

Thanks for the ask ♡

[diz-eaze]

sorry if this is stupid, but what do you think would happen if reader pulled a hexenzirkel and became a deadbeat parent on Albedo and "their" kid?

referring to the parent trap post

anon i apologize if you haven't finished the 5.6 quest, but this will contain spoilers ! <3

; yandere, 5.6 spoilers.

before getting into the nitty gritty, with added context on how exactly synthetic humans are created, we know now that it isn't an easy feat. albedo was the only living synthetic human as his predecessors were discarded for being deemed a failure, and the official, second synthetic human created would be the now-turned-human durin.

it can't be said for certain if creating durin was also the same procedure that rhine did to create albedo. however, i do believe that since rhine is a much more skilled alchemist and has a penchant for creation prior to albedo (a la OG dragon durin), he was created in a different method. durin was turned into a synthetic human through various combinations - the remains of an immortal from mare jivari, the embryo that rhine herself uses for her creations, a soul contributed by simulanka durin, and the beating heart of the OG dragon durin. in order to gain access to these materials, meticulous planning needed to be done, and he had to pass through a trial conducted by the hexenzirkel witches... !

with all of that combined, in my head, human durin was in a way used as a prototype to ensure that his transmutation of life goes well with no complications happening along the way. so that his second attempt goes much smoother.

this line really stuck with me. there's two (2) living synthetic humans in the world now, and in my delusional mind, both albedo and human durin crave more synthetic human kin. this is where (y/n) and albedo's obsession with them is brought to the table <3 in albedo's second attempt, he goes through the painstaking process of gathering materials needed for the transmutation once again: the embryo by rhine, flesh from that immortal, and a strand of your hair. he's not quite at the level of his master yet, wherein he can grant life from thin air. instead, he needs a basis for your child's soul, which is a much-needed component for the creation. a sacrifice, if you will.

albedo doesn't kill if it's unwarranted; that's been established in the quest. he killed the primordial albedo because it acted against him first in an attempt to eliminate him. he's also morally gray, so when finding your synthetic child's soul vessel, he preys upon the vulnerable, orphans. those without a home. he promises a young child to grant them a home under one condition: that child will undergo a process of rebirth - they will don a new face, body, and name, but the soul will be the same. not that it matters, the child will forget their previous life once rebirthed in a much younger body, one of an infant.

he goes through so much, and puts in a lot of work (maybe even with the help of human durin at times) in the creation of your child. it's a labor of his love in itself. he's now created two successful synthetic humans, he's a great farmer. and he doubts he'll stop at just two.

this is family, too. him, you, durin, and the newest addition: a synthetic infant baby.

so when you up and go without a second thought, not even bothering to look back after he introduced you to your brand new, little family... attempting to abandon them, even... he's a bit peeved, he'll admit. perhaps he had been too lenient on you since you managed to have these lucrative ideas inside your head, so it's only right for him to correct it. he's not a violent person, far from it, in fact.

but conditioning does not happen when one only enforces positive behavior; a form of punishment is needed. and isolation sounds like an adequate one.

also alice's line about albedo being just like his mother,,,, oh. dilfbedo realness??? guys.

[bambooswordwielder]

Dying in pain because I was re-reading the SVSSS extras and I came upon this (note this is part 1 due to tumblr allowing only 10 images per post – will release part 2 when I am physically ready to read SVSSS extras again)

One of the saddest things about Shen Jiu's backstory is the fact he doesn't immediately assume Yue Qingyuan abandoned him. It would've been sad enough if he just accepted that Yue Qingyuan would leave him at the first opportunity that arises, but instead Shen Jiu has faith in him. Faith that Yue Qingyuan would never abandon him. He thinks of different reasons why Yue Qingyuan hadn't yet returned. 'Maybe he's injured, maybe he's been trapped, or maybe he's dead even!'

Shen Jiu even resigns himself to finding Yue Qingyuan's 'dead' body and burying him himself, regardless of the fact that he might be getting into more danger. It's only after Shen Jiu had long since escaped the Qiu Household and was under the control of the Wu Yanzi, the demonic Cultivator who taught him, and they meet Yue Qingyuan at the Immortal Alliance Conference did Shen Jiu realise that Yue Qingyuan 'abandoned' him.

We see this in the dialogue that leads up to Shen Jiu accepting that Yue Qingyuan is 'Qi-Ge's' new name.

Before this scene, all the dialogue had listed Yue Qingyuan as 'Qi-Ge' or as 'Yue Qi'. (Qi-Ge when they were on the streets and Yue Qi also when they were on the steets and in the examples shown below)

The scene from earlier where Shen jiu accepts that his 'Yue Qi' is gone makes this all the more heartbreaking.

He asks Yue Qingyuan why he never returned. Simple and straightforward — the most straightforward, dare I say understanding, that Shen Jiu has been to anyone at this point. He simply asks him why he didn't come back, why he went missing for so long, why he's now dressed up as if he were a noble young master and the current Qiong Ding Head Disciple. He's willing to wait for an answer, willing to hear and try and understand. Would he have understood and accepted any excuses, no one truly knows, but Shen Jiu was willing to at least try.

When Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth and only a empty apology in the form of 'I let you down...' comes out, not even a reason or an excuse, Shen Jiu realises something.

He is talking to Yue Qingyuan.

He no longer considers Yue Qingyuan his Qi-Ge. To him, Yue Qingyuan is just like the other spoiled young masters that used to belittle him on the streets, the same stuck up fool born with a golden spoon in his mouth that was born too lucky to understand his pains.

After this scene and after Shen Jiu joins Cang Qiong, I can't find any scene where Yue Qingyuan is referred to as Yue Qi by Shen Jiu ever again.

Shen Jiu realises that he would have preferred Yue Qi, his Qi-Ge, was dead.

Shen Jiu genuinely cared and trusted Yue Qingyuan (or Yue Qi to be more accurate). In the scene where the other street kids where being attacked by Qiu Jianluo, Shen Jiu is laughing and states that they deserved it, clearly taking joy in their misfortune, but the moment Yue Qi gets involved, Shen Jiu becomes concerned.

He chases after Yue Qi, chases after him as the other goes to save another boy who Shen Jiu only moments ago had been laughing at for 'getting what he deserved'. This was also the very same boy who Shen Jiu had been fighting with for his begging spot.

Shen Jiu clearly does not show any level of care for the other street kids, yet he shows an exception foe Yue Qi. He willingly chases Yue Qi when the boy goes to save a boy Shen Jiu hates. He willingly waits for Yue Qi to return despite being tortured for so long with no hope in sight. He willingly gives Yue Qi the opportunity to give him an excuse for why he never came back and seemingly abandoned him so he could join the 'elites' on Cang Qiong and become its future Sect Leader.

People say that Yue Qingyuan shows favouritism to Shen Jiu, but I dare say that Shen Jiu shows an equal amount of favouritism to Yue Qi.

If anyone else dared to do something similar to Shen Jiu, Shen Jiu absolutely would've murdered them at first sight. Yet Shen Jiu has allowed Yue Qi all of this.

Shen Jiu doesn't accept any of Yue Qingyuan's attempts at an empty apology, because he's tired of getting hurt. Hurt from giving Yue Qi chances and giving him time, and recieving nothing but empty guilt filled apologies.

Apologies that feel more like lies to help sooth some guilt that Yue Qingyuan has for his past than actual remorse for betraying Shen Jiu. Yue Qingyuan believes that his actual reason would only be insulting to Shen Jiu, but if he had just broken for a mere moment and told Shen Jiu even a glimpse of the truth, then I guarantee you that Shen Jiu's intelligence would lead to him figuring everything out in one hour most.

However, Yue Qingyuan does not break his formal mask of distance politeness, does not cry and tell Shen Jiu he was quite literally unable to leave and save him, does not tell him about how Yue Qingyuan thought the other had died.

Shen Jiu simply wishes the corpse of his dead friend would stop apologising for something he never explains and would simply leave him alone.

Yet, Yue Qingyuan (Yue Qi) is a wound that will never stop bleeding.

He wants Yue Qingyuan to leave him behind again — this time he demands it of Yue Qingyuan.

However, Yue Qingyuan promised himself he would never abandon Shen jiu again.

The Two Soulmates Who Fate Itself Separated.